I approach him with caution and say, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Let’s never do this again.”
“Well, none of it would’ve happened if you hadn’t stuck your nose into my affairs.”
He gives me an incredulous, are-you-being-serious-right-now stare. So I backtrack a little. “I’m grateful you helped me with the keys. But I meant what I said: I want you to stay out of my daughter’s life.”
“It’s a pity, then, that I just risked my life to get you to court on time, because now you owe me one. And I’m cashing in right now. You’re going to listen to what Tegan has to say about her father, whether you like it or not. Then we’ll be square.” Before I can protest, he adds, “And I agree I shouldn’t be your therapist. But Tegan reached out to me, and I promised her I would talk to you, so that’s what we’re going to do. Then, I’m going to refer you both to a family specialist. But now’s not the time. You have an appointment, and I need to take a shower. I hadn’t planned for an impromptu mountain-climbing training session in the middle of my morning. Once again, a nice day to you, and please don’t come knocking on my door for at least another week.”
With that, he storms across the landing, looking not half bad with his tousled hair, dress-shirt messily hanging out of his pants, rolled-up sleeves, and bare feet. The bossy attitude is kind of hot, too. If Shrek wasn’t the horrible man-ogre he is, I could even—
I censor the thought before it can take shape in my head.
Instead, I call after him, “You tore your—”
“I know,” he snaps, stopping at his door. “I’m not sure if you’re costing me more in emotional damages or sartorial bills.”
He picks up the book from the floor and disappears inside his office.
Fourteen
Lucas
On Saturday night, I arrive at the restaurant at eight on the dot. I give the hostess my fake name, and with a bright smile she guides me to my table, saying, “Please follow me, Mr. Ewing, your date is already here.”
As we meander through the restaurant’s tables, I have to confess I’m nervous. Especially when I spot a woman with strawberry blonde hair sitting alone at a table toward the rear of the room, her back turned to us. I still can’t believe I agreed to a blind date. The few times I’ve tried one of those in the past, before Brenda, they all resulted in fiascos.
But tonight, if nothing else, I’m sure the worst highlight of the week is behind me. I mean, what could be worse than hanging from a fire escape a handgrip away from certain death and with my butt showing? Talk about adding insult to injury. The reminiscence triggers another, even less welcome memory: one of long legs and lacy pink underwear.
The male brain is a weird organ. I was at a concrete risk of dying a very painful death, and I had the time to check out Medusa’s unexpectedly racy panties as she came to my rescue. The bright pink lace was kind of hard to ignore, given the unfortunate perspective, but still, my pesky encephalon’s priorities are definitely skewed.
Because your brain is not the organ you were thinking with, a nasty little voice says in my head.
Right. And I’d better not brood over a woman’s lingerie when I’m about to meet another one for the first time. Now is the moment to concentrate on tonight, and the surely delightful Miss Bishop.
The hostess stops next to the blonde, saying, “This is your table, Mr. Ewing,” and then leaves.
The mysterious Miss Bishop turns her face up and our eyes meet for the first time. Hers are a dark blue-green shade, and she is… honestly, a very beautiful woman. Fresh-faced, without too much makeup on, and with an open, friendly expression. And when she beams at me in welcome, two cute dimples appear at the sides of her mouth.
She gets up, saying, “Hi.” Then she smiles again and blushes a little, adding, “Sorry, I’m nervous. I’m not used to, you know, all this.” She waves at me and the table. “But a friend convinced me I had to give Listen to Your Heart a try, so here we are. I don’t even know how we should greet. A handshake seems too formal, and a hug too forward?”
The blabbered introduction puts me immediately at ease. Miss Bishop is just another human being who has been roped into joining a dating agency by her pushy friends.
“I’m fine with a hug, if you are?”
She nods, and we share the briefest of embarrassed hugs.
I push her chair in for her, then move to the other side of the table, sit down, and place my napkin on my legs.
“All right, Miss Bishop, I believe we’re now allowed to share our real names. I’m Lucas—Luke.”
“I’m Meadow.”
“What a pretty name. I love it.”
She blushes again. “Thanks.”
“I hope you like the restaurant I picked. The menu is mostly meat, but the agency assured me you’re an omnivore.”
Meadow chuckles. “This place is perfect, and steak is my favorite. And, oh, gosh, can you believe the list of diets on that questionnaire? I wasn’t sure what half of them were.”
Okay, Garrett, maybe you had a point, and this dating agency idea isn’t so crazy after all.
“I know, right?” I say. “Can I ask you something?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Why did you pick the alias of Bishop? Is it a famous name?”
“Bridget Bishop was the first witch hanged at the Salem trials.”
I’m slightly taken aback by the declaration but try to spin it on the positive side. “Oh, are you passionate about history?”
“Yes, it’s important to learn who our ancestors were. The Puritan era is such a dark splotch in this country’s past. Don’t you agree?”
“Absolutely.” I try to bring the conversation back onto less loaded topics. “I’m afraid my alias is much less poetic—”
“Come on, don’t discount number 33, he’s a legend!”
“Are
