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I shoot him a do not go to dirty land in front of Gram nostril flare and mime zipping my lips.
Gram rolls her eyes. “As if I don’t know how that works. Proceed.”
Harrison leans back in his chair. “All I’m saying is if a man like that took me out for drinks and beguiled me with his wit and sensual prowess, and then the next morning said he wanted to explain why he hadn’t mentioned he worked at Lerner and Lowe Publishing…” He pauses to pin me with his stare. “I’d listen to every word then say fine, handsome, let’s go get a sandwich.”
Gram pats his hand. “You always were a good listener, Harrison.”
I whip my gaze to her. “Gram! This is a big deal! This is a betrayal. He tricked me.”
“Gigi, think about it. What sort of person is so nefarious that he scouts out the baker across the street, follows her to an obscure party, where he just happens to share her odd, niche interests—”
I start to insist that Rubik’s Cube isn’t all that niche, or odd, but she presses on.
“Then treats her to drinks and wonderful conversation, and ends the night with generous, mutually enjoyable sex? Just to scope out the competition? Isn’t that a little…elaborate? And how common is sweet shoppe espionage, really?”
I start to protest, but that’s the thing about Gram–she’s always been my moral compass. She has a keen sense of people and what makes them tick. She’s calm, thoughtful, and exceedingly rational.
“It sounds like—perhaps—he was so enchanted by you that he wanted to enjoy your wit and charm and save the shoptalk for later. Consider that?” she asks gently.
Rationally.
Calmly.
And that does sound…nice.
“What’s the worst thing that could happen if you give him another chance?” Harrison chimes in, then silently mouths, More orgasms?
Hmmm…would that be the worst?
Or the best?
Annoyance slithers through me for a few more minutes, but once my coffee cup is drained, my frustration has vanished too.
Maybe I did overreact. Maybe I assumed the worst without just cause. Maybe the last few years of dating The Bachelors from the Weirdo Lagoon has colored my world view.
Might I have given up on West too soon?
“You’re right,” I grumble. “I should talk to him. At least give him a chance to explain.”
“Excellent choice,” Gram says.
Harrison taps my cell phone on the table beside my empty cup. “Do it now. Send him a text before he thinks you’re cray cray.”
“Which he very well might,” Gram adds.
They may have a point.
The longer I think on it, the more sweet shoppe espionage does seem a little out there.
I grab my phone, about to tap out an olive branch message when I spot another email from the competition organizers.
The subject line reads Good News, Contestants.
Yay! Good news! This email is clearly a sign. I’m being calm and thoughtful, and the universe is rewarding me.
I take a moment to practice my ritual—reminding myself of the lovely things in life. I have great friends and the best family in the world, so much so that it hardly matters that I’m not close to my parents.
And I have Sweetie Pies, and my darling and I have a lot to accomplish together.
Maybe, just maybe, I can have it all—including another date with West.
“Fine, West is probably not kale,” I say to my brother as Gram takes the plates to the kitchen. “He’s more like a whiskey sweet potato pie with cinnamon and nutmeg.”
“Yum. Find out if West has a brother who likes poker and exceptionally good-looking book editors.”
“I’ll make no such inquiry,” I say with a smile as I swipe open the email and begin to read. “But I will text him, right after I—”
I break off with a gasp and drop my phone like it’s hot.
I see red—fire engine red as smoke billows from my eyes.
“What is it?” Harrison asks, concerned. “Did the promo code I sent for fifty percent off at Twice Around expire before you could use it?”
“Worse! West is out to get me.” I tap a frantic nail on the phone. “He’s in the competition! West Byron is in the Mr. or Mrs. Sweet Stuff contest. His name is right under mine!” I shove the screen in my brother’s face. His eyes widen, confirming that this is bad news. Very bad indeed. “That’s it. No second chances,” I hiss. “This man is my nemesis. I will despise him for all eternity. Even if I’m not very good at it at first.”
Surely, there must be a guidebook somewhere. A do-it-yourself handbook on how to detest a man who gave you a quartet of Os.
Once I leave Gram’s place, waving goodbye to Joan, who thoroughly ignores me, as cats do, I text Rosie, my writer friend, on my way to the subway.
Gigi: Idea for a new short story. Man gives a woman four Os. Next day, she learns he’s her nemesis. What happens next?
