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“Always a bad idea to hook up at work. I hope you stuck to your guns.”
She rolls her eyes. “I didn’t. He seemed so sweet and …” She trails off, picking at a piece of lettuce. “I don’t know. Anyway, it doesn’t matter because he broke up with me overSnapchat.”
“What?” I put down my burger.
“Right?” She waves her hands to emphasize her words. “First of all, I wouldn’t have said there was anything to break up, but with a Snapchat message? Like we’re fifteen?”
I have to ask. “Did he use one of those filters? Like a puppy or an elf?”
She chokes on her laughter and the way her nose scrunches up is adorable. She shakes her head. “No filter, but can you imagine?” She presses her fingers to her chin, looking up thoughtfully. “You know, there must be a market for this.” Her eyes are sparkling when she looks at me. “Like a filter where it’s a present and the instructions are for you to open your mouth, and when you do, the top falls off and a sad face emoji flies out with twinkling lights that spell ‘it’s over’.”
I snort, totally captivated by her energy. “Or a tiny little boxer that punches you to dumpsville,” I say.
She giggles. “See, it’s clearly an under-served market.”
I lean across the table. “You realize that guy is an idiot, right?”
“Why, because he broke up with me by a message that disappears?”
“No, I mean because if a woman like you gives a guy the slightest encouragement, he should thank his lucky stars and do everything in his power to make sure he deserves it.”
Serena’s eyes lock with mine, heat arcing between us. “Thanks, stranger. That’s really sweet.”
She nods at my beer. “More than enough payback for sharing the table.” She waves her hand. “So, what do you do? Therapist? Professional boyfriend?”
The waitress stops to ask if we’re finished, and Serena nods, pushing her empty plate to one side. The waitress leaves our bills in the center, and I grab them before Serena can pick hers up.
“What’s a professional boyfriend?” I ask, while the waitress hurries off to get the machine.
Serena shrugs. “Just a movie I saw. Women hire this guy to be their date for weddings, holiday dinners, whatever, and he was really sweet and made them realize they didn’t need a guy to feel good about themselves.”
“Ah. I thought you were asking if I was a male escort in a polite way.”
She giggles again. “Are you?”
I lower my chin and wiggle my eyebrows. “Would you like me to be?”
“That’s terrible,” she says, but not before I saw the flash of flirty interest in her eyes. She motions for her bill. “I can pay for mine.”
“Strangers in airports, and all that,” I echo her words from earlier. “Please let me repay your kindness by getting your meal.”
“You don’t have to but thank you.”
I pay and we gather up our things, walking back to the gate. “Where are you headed?” I ask.
She pauses a second. “Toronto. And you?”
“Toronto.” It’s always easier than explaining where Sugar Maple Shore is in the context of cottage country. Plus, while I’m happy to be with the Titanium, there’s a pang when I think about my new team name. Toronto will always feel like home. We grab two seats together, the gate more crowded than when I left.
“Business or pleasure?”
“Family,” I respond.
“So, neither,” she says, and I laugh.
“Well, both actually. My family owns a bakery and I’m going home for the holidays.” The team psychologist always tells us to reframe negativity and saying I’m headed home for Christmas sounds more positive than I’m being sidelined due to an injury, and I’m worried it’s the start of the end of my career if it doesn’t heal, oh, and somehow, I’m an unwilling wedding planner to boot.
“A bakery? That sounds wonderful.”
