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My mind drifts to last night.
How he stood there on that path and acted like he had his feet planted in paradise.
What’s wrong with him, anyway? Can’t he see he’s on a dead-end road, and if he doesn’t change his ways soon, he’s going to be in big trouble?
Mitch is right. I feel sure of that. His son’s up to no good, holed away in this little mountain town. Parker can’t even live in the metal box he calls a house, for some mysterious reason that, now that I think about it, might have to do with rats. Yes, there are probably rats in his trailer, and that’s why he can’t sleep there.
I feel bad for him. I really do.
He’s falling into bad habits and he’d be better off in Wayland, running Manning Light Fixtures.
I drum my fingers against the ceramic mug I’m clutching like my life depends on it. My life sort of does depend on this coffee, actually; if I stop drinking this stuff, I might drop to the floor and fall asleep for days.
And then it hits me:I know how to get this job done.
I’ll fill in the questionnaireforParker. When he was a big deal in men’s tennis, he was constantly featured in the media. All I have to do is Google ‘Parker Manning’ and I’ll find countless interviews to pick through. I can get into his head that way, and then use my research to fill out the Right Match form.
Where there’s a will there’s a way, I think, as my fingers fly across the keyboard.
My brilliant idea begins to feel less brilliant an hour and a half later, after watching two-dozen video clips that feature Parker sprawled on one interviewer's couch after another.
In every clip, he’s the same: confident, content, chill, and super cool. It’s like he has one mood, and one mood only: Relaxed.
He’s never “on” or “off” and he never seems to have a bad day.
I don't think there’s enough coffee in the world that would make watching video after video of your first heartbreaker enjoyable. Maybe I need a bowl of oatmeal or a grapefruit or something. I shouldn’t do this to myself on an empty stomach.
Right. Like food is going to help.
Any way you slice it, this research is pretty much torture.
Parker dumped me, and now I have to delve into his psyche so I can try to find him a wife.
A feeling of sadness swoops down on me as if out of nowhere… like that owl I felt so fearful of, last night.
The feeling descends heavy on my shoulders and threatens to yank me into a serious pity-party, so I abort my Parker research. It’s a relief to close the tab that featured a huge photo of him, shirtless again, holding his racket.‘Dreamy Parker Manning Would Rather be Playing Tennis’ the caption says.
Yep. I’m going to need a third cup of coffee, some breakfast, and some actual daylight before I read that one.
For the next couple hours, I focus on much more enjoyable work tasks, like going over our third quarter Profit and Loss statement and communicating with the company accountant.
By ten, I’ve showered, dressed, and ticked off half the day’s to-do items. This remote work thing isn’t so bad. It’s dangerously easy to work from a vacation house.
I’ve gotten so much done, in fact, that I deserve a break.
I’ll call Mortimer. See what he’s up to.
I’ve barely contacted him since we split. But being out in the woods with Parker—standing so close to him, and feeling his warm fingertips brush my neck—all that made me want… no,needto remind myself that I have a man. A man who’s right for me, not all wrong for me, like Parker.
According to the Right Match process, Mortimer Laughlin is a 93% match for me. That’s really good. Our company policy is that anything over 85% is a green light for marriage. The numbers are all based on hardcore statistics, and I trust them completely.
Numbers don’t lie.
People, on the other hand, lie all the time. They say things they don’t mean. They act in contradictory, confusing ways.
But numbers are pure and direct.
I think about that number, 93, as I listen to Mortimer’s phone ring. When he picks up, I can hear sounds of the city behind him. “Gemma? Can you hold for a moment?”
