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Prologue
Tilly
Donotsaybunionagain. Do not say bunion again.
The pasta primavera on my plate smells incredible. Beautiful strands of linguini and perfectly cooked broccoli with sun-dried tomatoes sit uneaten before me. The scent of garlic wafts up my nose as I twirl my fork in my carefully prepared dinner. The first few bites were heavenly, better than sex, but then Gerald, my date, started talking. Now my appetite has fled, and as I look longingly toward the front door, I wish I could leave as easily.
Why do I let myself get pulled into these situations?
“Well, what do you think Tilly?” Gerald’s nasal voice asks.
“I think you should do what you feel is best. I don’t know much about foot ailments,” I declare, plastering a smile on my face.
“Yes, of course I will; but if it was your foot, would you have the surgery or just wait?” he persists; clearly not understanding that this is a pretty gross topic for a first date.
“Ummm, I’m not really sure. What did you say you do again? Tell me about your passions.” I quip, trying to steer our conversation to less smelly topics. Eww.
“Oh, I work in finance and I don’t have time for anything else. It’s just me and my bunion. Or maybe not—if I get the surgery. Should I go for a second opinion?” He continues on, not waiting for an answer as he lists the pros and cons.
Where the hell does my mother keep finding these men? And why do I keep letting her set me up? If I ask her to stop, or refuse, she won’t push—but I never do, always hoping that this next time will be the right guy. The man who'll make my heart race, and fill me with butterflies and passion.
It’s certainly not going to be Gerald and his troublesome feet. He has the personality of dry toast, or worse—cold, buttered toast. Yuck.
My brain wanders to my bakery menu. My grandparents recently retired and gifted me the New Moon Bakery, and now I get to experiment. A flare of excitement races down my spine—cinnamon roll muffins! Humm, but how to create that perfect gooey center… it would still need the ideal icing flavor…
“Tilly, are you done?” Gerald asks, his brows furrowed. My brain returns to reality and I notice our server standing by the table, waiting to take my dinner away.
“Oh, yes, it was delicious. Can I have it boxed?” The waitress smiles with sympathy in her eyes as they flick toward my date. She grabs my plate and checks to see if we want dessert.
“That sounds interesting. Should we look at a menu?” Gerald asks.
“I couldn’t possibly. My stomach is way too full.” I reply with a sheepish shrug.
“No problem, just the check,” he grins. Looking me over, “Tilly wants to keep her perfect shape I bet.”
His gaze locks on my chest, and a shudder of revulsion works its way through me.Nope. Never going to happen, foot man.
“What do you think of cinnamon roll muffins?” I blurt, needing to say something as we wait.
“That sounds gross, honestly. Too sweet for breakfast. You should start your day with healthy nourishment, like oatmeal or toast.”
Sighing, I nod, pretending to agree as the server bustles over. After paying, I grab my coat and we head out the door into the night.
“Here, let me help you,” Gerald says, gallantly taking the black material from my fingers and holding it out to me. My arms slide into the warm sleeves, and I wrap it around my body to fend off the chill.
“Well, goodnight, thank you for the delicious dinner,” I say politely, as I turn toward him. Gerald steps closer, pulling me in for a hug. Cologne overpowers my senses and, without warning, his mouth comes down against mine. His cold, wet lips have me choking back a gag and bile rises in my throat as his arms tighten like tentacles around me. I stiffen, and for once he gets the message, immediately letting go and retreating.
“How about I come home with you for a nightcap?” he asks.
“I’m so sorry. It’s just a bit too soon,” I say.
“I can respect that. Make me work for it, huh? No problem—would you like a ride?”
“I think I’ll walk. It’s only up the road and I wouldn’t mind stretching my legs.” I reply, glad he took it so well.
“Alright, let's go on a second date next week? It’s the New Moon, we could head to Lustre Lake…” he trails off.
“Maybe! I’ll check my schedule and let you know,” I say with false cheer, beginning to stride away. “Goodnight!”Never in a million years, bunion boy.
