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Rory turned to find Destiny Storm, the owner of Moonbeams on Mariposa Street, wafting toward her like a peacock in a shiny turquoise caftan with her curly black hair piled on top of her head.
A strong believer in fates, furies, and One True Love, Destiny had decided the love lives of the Prescott sisters were in dire need of an upgrade. Now that both Callie and Aria were living in committed bliss, Destiny had recently turned her attention to the “tragically single” Rory.
Because Destiny was Aria’s close friend, and because she did like the other woman, Rory had agreed to let Destiny set her up on a casual date or two. She hadn’t been on a date in ages, and it would be good practice for when she moved to San Jose.
If she didn’t want to end up submerged in work 24/7 again, then she’d have to actively seek out a new social circle. That would not be an easy task in the frequently smarmy and chauvinistic world of the tech industry.
Considering how badly her career had bombed the last time she’d been in the Bay Area, she needed to ease her way back into dealing with men in general. Little Jerk with the winkey-face had reminded her of the type of pig she’d have to occasionally contend with in the workplace. Maybe a date in Bliss Cove would remind her that romance and her career were two separate things entirely.
Destiny leaned one elbow on the bar, her eyes bright with anticipation. “I want you to come in for a reading so I can better assess your energies, but I have a strong intuition about you and Max Weatherford.”
“Didn’t we already talk about this? I can’t even keep a houseplant alive. I’m pretty sure I’m not compatible with a man who doctors pets for a living.”
“Ah, you don’t know the power of opposites.” Destiny raised a knowing eyebrow. “You and Max can learn a lot from each other. I gave him your number, so you should expect a text from him soon. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a date of my own.”
With a wink, she fluffed out her hair and sauntered over to a table where Joe, the owner of Metalworks Hardware, was pulling out a chair.
Rory shrugged and turned back to her phone. A date with a good-looking man, even if he did enjoy being around animals, wouldn’t be a hardship.
No short-term leases.
The text popped up in response to yet another one of her queries about available apartments. With a groan, she dropped the phone on the bartop.
“That’s why I don’t have a phone.” Grant set a plate of golden-brown, crispy goodness in front of her. “Gives you nothing but misery.”
“You know what gives you nothing but misery?” Rory plucked off a piece of onion and bit into it. “Being born a hundred years too late.”
He shrugged. “I’m not miserable.”
“Please. Anyone who owns a singing fish has issues.”
“If we’re talking about issues,” he said, “what’s with the scotch and the groaning?”
“None of your…wait a second.” She lifted her head, hope flaring. “The cottage in the back. Is anyone renting it?”
“The one behind the house?” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder and shook his head. “I don’t rent it out.”
She blinked. “What do you mean? Someone’s always been able to rent the Mousehole cottage.”
“Not since I bought the place.”
“Why not?”
“I live alone.” He started polishing highball glasses and setting them on a shelf.
“The cottage is a totally separate building.”
“It’s close enough that someone would be around.”
“And you don’t want anyonearound.”
“I prefer it that way, yes.”
Ignoring a strange dissatisfaction with his response, Rory tore off another onion slice. “Would you reconsider for two months?”
“No, but why do you ask?”
“Because I accepted a job with Synergy Corporation in San Jose.” Rory wiped her greasy fingers on a napkin.
