She clasps her hand to her mouth, shaking her head. “I can’t believe you really watch it.”
“Correction—really love it.” My brain catches on something she said last night. “Wait. You said something about shopping at T.J. Maxx last night. Was that storyline inspired from real life?”
She nods excitedly. “I used to go to T.J. Maxx every Friday night to pick up a new dog toy for my dad’s dog, and after a few visits, I realized the manager was wearing the same green jeans every Friday, so I went back on a Tuesday night just to test my theory.”
“And he was wearing something else? Please say yes because I don’t understand why anyone would own green jeans.”
“Yes. He wore khakis on Tuesday.”
“Thank God. Also, that’s awesome.” I rub my palms together. “All right. Let’s do it. You can be my dating doctor, and you can diagnose everything I need to fix so I can win back Cassandra. How about we grab something to eat and formulate our plan?”
She grabs her phone, checking the time. “I need to go see my dad and write. Do you want to meet tomorrow night for dinner?”
We set a time and I suggest a place—one of Nash’s recommendations for favorite restaurants in Hope Falls—and, as she heads to her bike, it occurs to me I should probably say I’m sorry for some of the things I said earlier, like the comments about her hair, and not wanting to sleep with her.
But I don’t always seem to get the right words out with her. Or with Midge either, it seems. And I definitely didn’t get the right words out with Cassandra.
And that needs to change. I need to improve my skills in that area so I can win back Cassie.
She’s the endgame, and I need to focus on the girl I came looking for.
8
Finley
“And this is the Sonoma Suite. If you choose this option, Mister Dog will get a peanut-butter-filled Kong every night, as well as a bedtime story.”
The crinkly-haired woman who’s giving my dad, the mutt, and me a tour of the newly opened Wagabond Hotel gestures to a king-size bed where my dad’s pooch would be lucky enough to lounge in the lap of luxury when my dad takes a trip next month.
I gawk at the plush accommodations for the canine. “Can I please stay here?” I flash my best smile and hold up my hands like they’re paws.
My father pats my head. “Have you been a good girl?”
“I’ve done all my obedience training.”
“Then I’ll consider it.”
“He likes you so much better than me,” I say to Mister Dog, who wags his tail and generally shows off how completely cute he is.
Crinkly-haired woman suggests letting him try the accommodations.
“Go to the bed,” my dad says, pointing to the mattress.
The pup bounds over to the bed then curls up on it. Spoiler alert—Mister Dog is a pampered prince.
“I want to come back in my next life as your dog, Dad.”
My gray-haired father laughs then tells the woman he’ll make a reservation. We head to the front desk, and as she enters his info into the system, I pet Mister Dog’s silky head and ask my dad if he’s ready for his trip. He’s always wanted to tour famous ballparks, and he’s finally doing it later this summer. I found him a group of other seniors to go with to visit Camden Yards, Yankee Stadium, Fenway Park, and others. “Are you looking forward to your trip?”
“Definitely. Are you sure you don’t want to go along?”
I wave a hand. “Nah. You know all those Viagra-popping septuagenarian dudes would hit on me.”
“Then it’s best I keep you away from those old geezers,” he says with a smile, and I pump a fist quietly since he’s happy today.
I convinced him to take the trip, and I even paid for it as a birthday gift. I told him, too, I would keep Mister Dog with me for the ten days of his extravaganza, but he said he didn’t want to cramp my style. Honestly, beyond “pajama couture,” I don’t have a style to cramp, so I wasn’t worried, but in the end, he’s choosing a peanut-butter-Kong lifestyle for his pooch over kibble at my house. I’d do the same.
After he books the room, he sighs heavily as we leave the dog hotel.
“What’s wrong?” I brace myself for today’s Sad Moment brought to you courtesy of our sponsor, the Suckitude of Death.
“The wildflowers bloomed this morning,” he says, resignation in his tone.
I draw a deep breath. “She would have liked seeing them.”
“I took a picture. I wanted to send it to her. How ridiculous is that? There’s no place to send it.” His voice falters.
I squeeze his shoulder. “It’s not silly, Dad.”
He swipes an unseen tear away as we walk to his car, Mister Dog gamely trotting by his side. “I keep thinking of her every day. Missing her so much still. When will the missing stop? Shouldn’t it have stopped by now?”
“It’s grief. It comes and goes on its own time frame.” A pang of guilt stabs at me. My grief for her loss is mostly gone.
He inhales deeply and nods, then shifts his focus. “Tell me how the show is going. I can’t wait to see the next season.”
My chest squeezes. “Great. So great. Everything is ticking along.”
His smile is as wide as the sky. “And the network still loves you?”
“Absolutely,” I lie.
I don’t want to tell him the truth. He’s always believed in me. Always rooted for me. He’s the only one who did.
My mother never wanted me to go into comedy. An accountant, she wanted me to write research reports or tech journals or some other drudgery that I would never have been any good at. When are you going to get a real job? was her war cry, especially since my brothers are both tax attorneys, in practice together. A few days before she passed, she clucked her tongue and told me it was time to get serious about steady work. How could I be renting still? I was in my late twenties and it was time to buy a home and settle down.
When my show was picked up after her death, my dad said, “Your mother would have been so proud.”
I bit back the words I wanted to say. No, she wouldn’t.
In the afternoon, we work on a jigsaw puzzle at his home, and when I tell him I have to go, he asks what I’m doing that night.
“I met a muse.”
He arches a brow. “Tell me more.”
“He a-muses me.”
He laughs, and the warm, rich sound is my favorite sound in the universe. Better than music. Laughter is my music.
9
Finley
Dinner in wine country is like going to a show.
When you’re seated and the curtain goes up, the waiter and the rest of the ensemble cast of host, busboy, and sommelier set the stage for the star. Then it’s a lively opening number, a medley of delish appetizers, and a showstopper of a main course.
Right now, we’re off to a promising Saturday night start, thanks to the tongue-tickling flavors of white grapefruit and pear in this sauvignon blanc, and I offer a toast to Tom’s newest successful roller-coaster test, and he offers one to my show.
He clinks his glass to mine. His chocolate-brown eyes light up when he tastes the wine. “Good choice.”
“Thank you. I might have picked up a thing or two about grapes from living here. Also, nice touch asking me to choose the wine. I bet Cassandra would like that too.”
Tom flashes me a grin, and I sit up straighter. Because . . . those teeth. Those straight white teeth, and that magical smile that I didn’t expect—it reaches his warm eyes that seem to twinkle with delight. A butterfly sensation zips through my chest.
And maybe because I’ve been hard on him, or maybe because I’ve learned, too, that positivity goes a long way, I say, “Let me preface this by saying I’m not coming on to you, but you have a fantastic smile, and you ought to unleash that grin on Cassandra. A lot.”
“You think so?” One corner of his lips curves up, and dear God, now it’s a lopsided grin. Why do crooked grins have to be so sexy? Especially on hot nerds like him. Hot grin plus sexy nerd equals unicorn.
Whoa.
I don’t think Tom is hot.
I don’t think he’s a sexy unicorn either.