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Mason and Gabriella lock eyes, having a conversation between the two of them. I know Mason well enough to read what he’s saying—‘You see what I’m dealing with here? Help me.’
Seemingly forgetting that the mission was to talk me into going out, Gabriella spins in her chair, fingertips going to her keyboard and her back straight like things are dead-serious now. “Name? Any identifying information?” she demands, sounding more boss-like than usual.
“What?” I ask, looking from her to Mason.
“Cole,” Mason answers for me. Yeah, I definitely told him too damn much. “She’s got a picture too.”
“Perfect.”
“What’re you doing?” I look over Gabriella’s shoulder as she clicks away on the computer. She’s already done a search for ‘Cole + Bridgeport’ which gives hundreds of returns. I blanch. “No, you don’t have to do all that. It’s fine.”
“Janey, I’m a single mother in her forties who’s been back in the dating cesspool for years. I have a PhD in tracking down men, their wives, their kids, their mugshots and records, and various other things. You have to be a detective these days to keep yourself safe because these men are all out here being so creative with the truth, and I’m looking for a forever, not a for-never. And so are you.”
Well, she’s right about that. If my options are cat-motherhood or a relationship, I want the relationship to be long-term and worth it.
“He’s an investigator,” I add. “I don’t think you’ll find anything, though, because he said he researched me and complimented me on my online presence. Said it was locked down and clean and that the only ones better were his and his assistant’s.”
That was definitely the wrong thing to say.
Gabriella’s brows climb her forehead, and her eyes go wide in displeasure. “That means he’s married,” she tells me gently. But then her temper flares up in my defense. “Probably has four kids with three different baby mommas, a job that he ‘travels’ for, and is likely a felon. That’s basically like a guy telling you he’s an FBI agent, and ‘he could tell you things, but then he’d have to kill you’.” Fired up, she turns to Mason and accuses, “Why do guys think that’s funny? We’re out in these streets, fighting for our literal lives, and they joke like that? No sir, no thank you. Automatic block and report.”
And I’m reminded all over again about why I’m not going for drinks with Mason. The dating scene is awful and I want no part of it.
I’m going home, reading a book, and maybe looking up shelter cats to happily start my spinster collection. Because I’m enough—me, myself, and I.
CHAPTER 15
JANEY
And that’s what my life becomes. Day after day, go to work, smile, gab with everyone, go home, and bury myself in my books.
At least, until the day Gabriella tells me she found something. Which is how I find myself pacing back and forth in front of a nondescript building on the edge of downtown Bridgeport. I watch my reflection in the mirrored windows.
“Go in. What’s the worst that could happen?” I tell my reflection. Of course, I’ve got a reply. I’ve always got a reply. “He’s married like Gabriella warned and his gorgeous wife is inside with their adorable mini-Coles crawling around on the floor. My ovaries explode, my heart breaks, and I say something stupid like ‘I can’t stop thinking about your stupid half-smile because you made me come more times in twelve hours than I have in the entirety of the last year.’”
A man who is walking by overhears me and says, “Well, hi there.”
Embarrassed, I wave but keep my pacing loop of indecision, and he drifts off, leaving the crazy lady, even if she is spouting out sexual nonsense on a busy sidewalk in the middle of the afternoon.
He’s not married. Gabriella is pretty sure of that. In fact, she eventually agreed that Cole’s online presence looks as clean as he said it did but warned that I should still be cautious.
“Maybe he’ll be glad to see me?” I suggest to myself.
Still, I should’ve called. That would be the reasonable thing to do considering he gave me his phone number. But I’m not doing reasonable anymore. Part of the New Janey regime is that I’m making big moves. If it’ll make me happy, I do it.
Which is why I’m here.
Cole made me happy. In the ugliest of moments, when the worst thing I could’ve imagined happened, he supported me and made me smile. And I want to tell him so.
I approach the door, noting the engraving on the frosted glass, BS Consulting. I giggle a little, wondering if it actually means bullshit. That’s the kind of thing Cole would do, especially when he’s handing clients’ bullshit all day, every day.
Inside, I enter a large room that’s almost empty. Immediately in front of me is a white modular desk, where a pretty blonde woman sits with a welcoming smile. To the right is a grouping of four chairs and a coffee table. It’s sparse, modern, and vaguely expensive-looking for being nearly bare. Like an art gallery.
