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She pulled her phone out of her pocket, brought up her housemate Debbie Cook. She and Debbie were the moms of their Craftsman, planning meals, paying bills, keeping the place immaculate, while the boys, Rick and David, gallivanted off to the gay bars on Capitol Hill and seemed to be competing for who could have the most hookups…and, sadly, STIs. Still, they were funny and warm and neither was ever, ever boring.
Still, she was grateful for Debbie and their feminine bond.
She was glad when Debbie picked up. Miranda could picture her flicking her long, dark hair over one shoulder as she put the phone up to her ear and said, “Hello, Ugly.”
“Hey, Brainless,” Miranda came back in an old ritual for them. “Do you have plans for Friday night?”
Chapter Nine
CONNOR HAD LEARNEDhis lesson—be careful; take it slow; exercise caution. Well, technically, that was three, but who was counting?
Tonight’s dinner with Trey would be simply that—a dinner. It wouldn’t be a date. It wouldn’t be a meeting of friends. It would be exactly what it was—a test. While Connor abhorred the idea of testing the people in his life, he didn’t feel any remorse about this one.
He needed to find out if Trey Goodall was worth seeing again. Honestly, he wasn’t at all sure. But he admired the man for getting in touch with him again and being honest about his own shortcomings. Connor liked that Trey didn’t try to deflect blame or make excuses. He’d owned up to the fact that he’d been wrong and apologized. That admission went a long way toward Connor’s decision to give Trey what he asked for—a second chance.
Connor appreciated that there were many times in his own life, for which if he hadn’t been given a second chance, he might not have all the good stuff he could lay claim to these days.
But tonight’s buzz word wascasual. They would enjoy food and talk. And this time, Connor would insist on knowing more about Trey. So much remained unanswered—where did he live, what had his past relationships been like, where had he gone to school, where did he work? What kind of law did he practice? On a more philosophical plane, what were his dreams and aspirations?
He wanted to see if Trey would deflect answers or if he could be honest and forthcoming. Connor hated that wanting to know these things made their meeting more of an interview than a date, but he needed to know, or he couldn’t go on with this guy, no matter how handsome he was. He was too old these days to forgive much in pursuit of a pretty face.
He’d just finished his shower and threw on a pair of old jeans, a T-shirt and, over that, a faded button-date Oxford shirt in pale blue. A pair of black Chuck Taylors and he was good to go. He slid on his glasses and peered at himself in the mirror.
He wished he liked what he saw more. The truth was, Steve’s leaving last November had aged him. If he’d written such a fact in a book, he would have chastised himself for stretching credibility beyond the breaking point. But the fact remained that there were lines around his mouth and eyes that hadn’t been there last summer. His hairline seemed to have receded a bit, exposing more of his forehead. Never mind the pounds he’d gained through comfort carb-loading when he was feeling at his lowest. Why did brown sugar cinnamon Pop-Tarts have to be the balm that best soothed his wounded heart?
Put a positive spin on it. He tried to peer into the mirror with different, more objective eyes, attempting to see—and appreciate—the thick, dark hair, the pale allure of his irises, his broad shoulders, and the strength his height and bone structure conveyed. It was a half-hearted effort, at best.
He turned from the mirror, picked up his phone, and called an Uber. Seattle traffic, especially on a Friday night, would be brutal and just going the two or three miles from his house to the restaurant could conceivably take an hour, so he was allowing himself plenty of time. He’d always believed in the old chestnut that one should arrive early in all situations. To arrive on time was to arrive late.
He checked his wrist for his watch and his pockets for keys and comb and set off.
HE GOT TOMonsoon fifteen minutes before their reservation. Trey was nowhere in sight, but itwasstill early. Connor, still unsure of himself, especially after having been so recently dumped, dreaded being stood up.
You’re being ridiculous. Not everyone is as punctual—or as anal—as you. He’ll be here.
The waitress, a lovely dark-haired young woman, who reminded him of the late film star Natalie Wood in her youth, seated him and asked if he’d like a drink while he waited for his friend to arrive.
Friend. It seemed an odd word. His relationship with Trey Goodall remained undefined. “Yeah. Do you have rye?”
Nodding, she smiled.
“Just bring me a double rye with ginger beer and lime, easy ice.”
“You got it. I’ll be right back with your drink. Have a look at the menu and maybe you’ll want to order an app or two. The grilled octopus is amazing. And the oysters were just caught this morning on Whidbey Island.” She set two menus on the table and walked away.
He waited. And waited. He consumed a plate of steamed veggie dumplings with a tamarind dipping sauce all on his own. He had another rye and ginger.
Their reservation had been for seven and now it was half past. Connor checked his watch for the twentieth time, hoping futilely that the analog hands would tell him a story different from the one where the good-natured, forgiving guy gets stood up. He tried to pretend he wasn’t getting sympathetic glances from nearby tables. What would be more embarrassing? Continuing to sit here, maybe eating dinner alone, or just cutting his losses and getting up and leaving now?
At almost a quarter to eight, Trey finally showed up. Connor watched him enter the restaurant, grinning and chatting for a moment with the hostess. She laughed at something he said. He looked great, but Connor expected that. He was dressed better this time, looking a little more in line with what someone might expect from an urban professional. Dark black jeans, a white button-down, and a simple black sport coat made him look clean, polished, and sexy. Connor’s gaze wasn’t the only one focused on Trey.
He made eye contact with Connor as he crossed the crowded restaurant. In his features, Connor could already read contrition and the apology he knew was on its way. He wasn’t all that inclined to accept it—the storm clouds of anger and disappointment had begun to gather while he waited.
He didn’t smile back, but sipped his drink.
Trey pulled out the chair across and slid into it. “You must think I’m a complete ass.”
Connor cocked his head. He wasn’t going to reply honestly to that one. He wasn’t sure, really, how to answer—at least not truthfully. “Not complete.” Connor smiled. “I’ll wait to hear what your excuse is.”
