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“I believe this is Mr. Right number four. Or maybe five. Oh, and this Mr. Right is from Miami, so she’ll be moving there at the end of the month, and can I please go over to her apartment this week and start packing up her stuff?”
“Wow,” Paige said again. What else was there to say?
“Anyway, that’s Josh crying again. I’ll talk to you later.”
Paige returned to the family room, about to settle into another episode ofCSI: Miamiwhen she decided, what the hell? If Chloe’s mother could elope to Las Vegas with a man she’d just met, if herownmother was having such enthusiastic sex it had landed her in the ER, then what washerproblem? What was she waiting for? So what if she looked pathetic because it was Saturday night and she didn’t have a date? Hadn’t he told her to call him anytime?
And wasn’tright nowthe perfect time to call the man calling himself Mr. Right Now?
She checked the number he’d left her, took a deep breath, then placed the call.
It rang twice before being picked up.
“Well, hello there,” he said, his voice low.
Paige felt a sudden charge of electricity. He sounded almost as good as he looked. “Hi,” she said. “Is this…Mr. Right Now?” A self-conscious chuckle escaped her mouth before she could stop it. She was grateful when he laughed along with her.
“It is. Is this…Wildflower?”
“It is.”
“Well, Wildflower. I’m so glad you called.”
“Are you still in Florida? Is this a bad time?”
“No. It’s perfect. I just got back into town about an hour ago.”
“How’s your mother?”
“Much better. Thanks for asking. How are you?”
She could hear the smile in his voice. “Me? I’m fine.” She hesitated briefly. “I was thinking maybe you were right, that it’s time we give this another try.”
“No maybes about it. At least on my end. How about Wednesday?”
“Wednesday is good.”
“Great. Are you familiar with Anthony’s Bar, over on Boylston? I know it’s usually crowded and it can get pretty noisy, but—”
“Anthony’s is great.”
“Say six o’clock?”
“Six is good.”
“No more last-minute cancellations?”
“I’ll be there at six on the button.”
“No!” Paige heard someone shout. “Don’t…” There followed muffled sounds she couldn’t quite make out, almost as if someone was fighting.
“What was that?” she asked.
“What was what?” His voice was light, untroubled. “Oh. Probably just the TV. Some guy getting the shit kicked out of him. Excuse the language.”
She wondered if he was watching the same episode ofCSI: Miamithat she was, but didn’t ask. “Are you going to tell me your real name?” she asked instead.
“I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours,” came the sly reply. “Although I gotta say, I kind of like Wildflower.”
