Janice: I always thought honesty was the best policy.
Rowan: In this case, I think it would be the worst policy.
Janice: I don’t know. Find him dates then?
Rowan: (skull and crossbones emoji, skull and crossbones emoji, skull and crossbones emoji)
Janice: Seriously? I think you have two options. Date or dates. If you aren’t going to tell him, then what else are you supposed to do? Either grow some lady balls and put it out there that you’d like to be his date or grow some lady balls and find him a date who isn’t you.
Rowan: It’s just—it’s not professional.
Janice: It’s not professional? Or are you just scared of getting back up into the saddle?
Rowan: Please don’t make this about horses. Neither of us is a horse. And don’t talk to me about riding lessons that are a metaphor for something else. I know it’s a metaphor for something else.
Janice: (horse emoji, laughing crying emoji) You’re my sister. I just want you to be happy (heart emoji). I’m just saying, if you have a chance to do it, then you shouldn’t let your previous experiences ruin it. And if you lose your job, I’m sure you’ll find another. You’re smart. Crazy smart. And crazy talented. Or maybe… go to college?
Rowan: Right. I can’t really do that without a job.
Janice: I have some savings.
Rowan: No way! I’m not taking your money. If I found a different job, maybe I’d consider doing something online. I could work and slowly get there, I guess.
Janice: That would be an excellent idea. Now… are you going to tell him or not?
Rowan: Honestly, I don’t know. He has two more dates. Maybe after that.
Janice: That’s great, except you are not a last-ditch option.
Rowan: Thanks. I get that.
Janice: I have a few more lesson plans to finish up, but text me anytime, okay?
Rowan: Okay. Love you. Goodnight.
Janice: (moon emoji)
I set my phone aside with a groan. What would I come out and tell Cliff? That I think he’s hot? That I can’t stop thinking about how his grey t-shirt was stretched over his shoulders and chest just right, and I’d like to see, feel, and taste what lies below? That I’d like to do more than that? That I’d like to discover just how much of a non-asshole he can be? That maybe I thought I was broken by my last relationship, but now I’ve suddenly discovered, since meeting him, that I actually still have functioning organs and an actual heart rate?
I yank my quilt up and throw it over my head. Great. Now said heart is racing, and I feel hot and achy all over. While we were sitting and eating ice cream, and I was busy trying not to think about Cliff and the crazy hot male vibes he was giving off and how I’d give just about anything to change places with his ice cream so I could be the one to be licked all over, I also thought of the perfect match for him.
Maybe I am too much of a professional, after all. I know that first thing tomorrow morning, I’m going to send him that profile. Even if it makes me ache in some very unexpected, and very wrong places.
CHAPTER 9
Cliff
Date two was better. At least we both agreed to disagree about liking each other. The date was fine. The whole dinner thing went over fine. Everything went fine. Actually, the whole date was fine. We were just… mutually uninterested in each other. But it was actually kind of nice to get to talk to another professional.
Lisa owns her own business. And so we talked business for most of the night, discussing different ideas. It was informative and interesting, and we actually exchanged business cards so we could keep in contact professionally. I would call that a win.
I know it’s not the kind of win Rowan wants to hear about, though, and that, for some reason, makes me feel guilty.
Since our ice cream meetup nearly a week ago, I’ve spent a lot of mental capacity on thoughts of her. Now I’m worried about her being pissed at me because date number two didn’t work out. I still haven’t emailed or called her yet to fill her in on it. I’m worried. I keep trying—and failing—to find the right words.
It blows my mind that I’m worried. How the double eff did I go from not caring about this at all to actually sitting here in my house with my laptop open, trying to type an email for the last two hours? So far, I have one word.
Rowan.
That pretty much says it all.
A week and a half ago, I didn’t even know her name. Now, I want to know so much more than that.
I swipe a hand over my face and lean back against the couch. I can’t remember a time I ever felt so frustrated or useless. Before I even realize what I’m doing, my fingers are moving. I type two lines and lean back again, staring at what I wrote.
Rowan,
My house is creepily quiet tonight. For some reason, I’m noticing the silence now. I’m actually thinking about it. It makes me think about you.
I’m not a poet. I’m also no writer. I sell seeds and garden supplies for a living. I’m good with customers. I’m good with suppliers. I’m good at pretty much everything about my job. But when it comes to actual romance? Yeah, I obviously have just about zero practice with that. So no, I can’t find the words to tell Rowan that I can’t stop wishing our fake date had been a real one. That I’d love to get ice cream with her again. That I wish she’d just burn any profiles she might be considering for me
