After all, when the muses drop a gift like this into your lap, you don’t leave it on the table.
4
Him
There is planning, then there is damn good planning, and then there is precision-timed planning.
And there are also townhomes listed on Airbnb. The fly in the let’s-get-back-together ointment.
Why didn’t I think her place might be rented? Cassie’s name is on the property record as the sole owner. Plus, the light was on in what I now know is the house next door. To top it off, she’s posted photos on Facebook in front of the yellow house.
That damn double home.
It’s like a trick duplex townhouse.
I prepared for every possibility . . . except this one.
That’s why I’m making the quick drive into town, following the pedaling blonde who’s most definitely not my college girlfriend at all.
She’s the woman I serenaded. Terribly.
And yet she’s the woman who invited me out for coffee anyway, but not to the Italian restaurant where I imagined Cassie and I would be laughing, drinking wine, and toasting to my ingenuity and chutzpah.
This has thrown me for a couple of loops, and since I’m not sure what to do next, coffee with the witness to my massive face-palm seems as good an idea as anything.
When we reach the main drag, she hand signals that she’s pulling over. Not-Cassie takes off her helmet, secures it to the middle bar, and locks up her bike at a lamppost on the sidewalk while I park along the curb.
“Nice electric bike,” I remark when I get out of the car.
“Nice electric car.”
“Can’t beat the gas mileage.”
“Ditto.”
She turns to the coffee shop, and its closed sign seems to mock us.
Her shoulders sag. “Shutterbug. I forgot Cup of Joe closes at seven.”
I lift one brow. “Did you just say ‘shutterbug’ to replace a curse word?”
She nods, a little impishly. “It’s my language test this week.”
“Explain.”
“Each week I give myself a new language test.” She counts off on her fingers. “Don’t swear. Don’t use adverbs. Use the subjunctive mood—correctly, I might add—in nearly every conversation.”
“And do you grade yourself on your own proficiency?”
Her eyebrows wiggle. “I do.” She peers from side to side. “But honestly, sometimes my teacher is a bit of a slacker.”
“Sometimes those are the best teachers to have,” I say, still trying to figure out what her deal is and why she’s so eager to chat. I want to know partly because she’s connected to Cassie but partly because she’s oddly interesting.
She points a thumb at the empty coffeehouse. “Also, how is it that no one in this town needs a caffeine hit in the evenings?”
I gesture to the block after block of wine bars and chichi restaurants lining the main street. “I’m guessing it’s a town ordinance that any beverages consumed after eight must contain grapes.”
She snaps her fingers. “You’re right. It’s in the bylaws.”
My eyes sweep the block, catching sight of an ice cream shop. “Want to follow the bylaws? Or grab a gelato instead?”
She pats her stomach. Her flat, trim stomach that goes along with her flat, trim figure. “There’s a warrant out for my arrest if I eat any more ice cream.”
I scoff. “Who would ever arrest you for doing that? That’s like arresting someone for helping a little old lady cross the street.”
“I filed it myself. I had to implement tough love when I noticed my cardboard recycling consisted primarily of Ben & Jerry’s containers.” She tips her forehead to a wine bar. “Is it wine o’clock?”
“It’s after five, so I believe it is.”
But she doesn’t order wine when we grab a high table at Red, White, and Rosé. She orders an iced tea, and since I’m still discombobulated to be sitting across from this woman rather than Cassie, I follow suit.
“So, um . . .” I gesture to her. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“I didn’t throw it. But that’s okay. You didn’t exactly hurl yours at me either, Lloyd. I’m Finley.”
“I’m Kyler,” I say, extending a hand and shaking hers.
She arches an eyebrow, her light-blue eyes sparkling with curiosity. “Did your parents put Tyler and Kyle in a hat and shake it up?”
“Wow. I’ve never heard that before. Do you want to ask me next if Tyler rammed into Kyle to make my name?”
She cracks up so loudly she snorts.
“You’re a snorter,” I point out.
“And proud of it,” she says between chuckles, then catches her breath. “I bet you’re one of those people who always has to say your name twice, aren’t you?”
“Every. Single. Time.”
She shoots me a coy smile. “For what it’s worth, I heard it right the first time.”
“You’re a rare breed, then.”
She narrows her eyes, studying me as if she’s a detective. “I am. Also, call me crazy, but I get the feeling you don’t like your name.”
I tap my nose. “I can’t stand it. I don’t think you can measure how high my levels of can’t-stand-it go. Every school year, I had to explain my name because the teacher thought it had been written wrong on the class roster.”
“That’s the worst, not being able to blend in.”
“It is, and other kids would ask how I got my name. It reached a point where I’d say, just for kicks, that my mom wanted to name me Ky and my dad wanted to name me Lar.”
She laughs. “And the reaction to that?”
“At first, it was so absurd the other kids stopped asking. But then someone figured out K-Y was a popular brand name, and that became my nickname in sixth grade.”
She cringes. “Oh, that’s terrible, John.”
“Why are you calling me John?” I ask, laughing as I still process how the hell I’m sitting across from this motormouth rather than Cassie. This adorable blonde motormouth who seems like she’s never met a question she wouldn’t ask.
“John has to be better than K-Y. From here on, I shall call you John.”
“John?” I arch a brow and point in the direction of the bathrooms. “Trust me, kids will mock you for anything.”
“True. Scratch John from the potential new name list. So how exactly did you wind up with Kyler? Were your parents going through a let’s-give-our-kid-a-unique-name phase?”
“Precisely. My mom wanted an original name. It could be worse. My brothers are Ransom, Nash, and Gannon.”
“Like Dannon yogurt.”
“I bet Gannon has never heard that comparison before.”
“If you don’t like your name, why do you keep it?”
I furrow my brow. “It’s hard to change a name.”
The waiter swoops by with two iced teas, depositing them on the table with a cheery grin. I thank him, and so does Finley. She takes a drink then continues. “It’s not that hard. You go to the county and file some papers.”
“I don’t mean literally hard. It’s more socially hard.” I take a swallow of the cold beverage. “I’d have to explain to everyone why I changed it. Plus, my brothers would never let me hear the end of it.”
She’s like a dog with a bone. She won’t let go. “What’s your middle name?”
“Tom,” I say as a smile tugs on my lips.
She shoots me a knowing look like she’s caught me red-handed. “You like Tom.”
I take a drink. “Tom’s a good name.”
“You totally wanted to be Tom.”
Busted.
I heave a sigh. “Look, Tom is better than Kyler. Tom is solid, Tom is sturdy.”
“I had a cat named Tom growing up.”
“Is that a compliment?”
She practically slams her glass down for emphasis. “Of course. He was the epitome of cool. He had swagger but not in an in-your-face way. He was a striped tabby. Silver and black. All manly and cool. No one messed around with Tom.”