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“It’ll help. I swear,” Jace sounds convinced.
I frown. “I didn’t ask for help. And I’m not lonely.”
Pearson looks up and stops scrolling. “Well, you will be with that attitude.”
I shake my head, stand, and head out of the room. “You guys should get back to work.”
My phone buzzes, and there, in the firehouse group chat, is a link to Episode 115.
I’m not going to listen to that.
Chapter Seventeen
Owen
Okay, so, maybe I listened to a few.
Or ten.
I spend the better part of my shift listening to that idiotic podcast.
It’s called The Hopeful Romantic, and after subjecting myself to multiple episodes, I’m more convinced than ever that whoever this woman is, she’s never going to find what she’s looking for.
After Episode 115, I go back to the beginning, Episode 1, and I’m in awe of how many people are actually willing to send in relationship questions to a perfect stranger who never seems to tell her listeners what her credentials are.
Still, there is something about it. Something addictive. Something I can’t quite pinpoint.
So, I listen.
While I’m washing the trucks. While I’m out for my morning run. While I’m lifting weights. Throughout my entire shift, I’ve got this woman chattering on through my AirPods about what women really want, about how to be a good partner, about holding out for a certain kind of guy—all based on the supposed wisdom of classic (and modern) romance novels.
And, after an assumption and a quick search on Amazon, I’m not surprised to find out that 95% of romance novels are written by women.
Women writing about ideal men for women without asking the men.
Shocker that they’re getting it all wrong.
She—the woman on the podcast—and the rest of them are describing a guy that I’m pretty sure doesn’t exist.
By Wednesday evening, when my shift ends, I’ve gotten through almost three-fourths of the total episode list.
I’m packing up my bag when Jace pops his head in. “Bunch of us are going to DeLucca’s to get a drink. You in?”
“Sure, I’ll go.” I could use a distraction. Between the podcast and the planning for this fireman’s calendar, I need a good, old-fashioned night out with the guys.
But the second we arrive, I have second thoughts.
Because there, sitting at the bar, is Lindsay.
Fantastic.
“What’s she doing here?” Jace asks.
“No clue.” We sit down at the other end of the bar, and Lindsay and her friend look up. I glance at her, and she waves at me.
“Who’s that?” Levi asks.
“Nobody,” I say.
