Rom-Com Collection. Kristan Higgins
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into my brain. Latex gloves meant he was … preparing someone.
“Oopsy,” he said. Without taking his eyes off me, he peeled off the gloves, slowly, as if doing a striptease, then did a throat-scraping snort to clear his postnasal drip. Dear God.
“Calliope, did you know your father has been calling me?” Mom asked, frowning as she surveyed the take-out choices of the day. “Of course, I don’t pick up. Does he have a brain tumor or something I should know about?”
“Um, nope, no brain tumor, Mom. He has more time now that he’s retired. Maybe he just … needs to talk.” She gave me a dubious look and said nothing.
“I was just thinking about you today, Calliope,” Louis murmured. “How I’d … display you.” His anemic eyebrow rose.
“Come on, Louis!” I blurted. “That’s a horrible come-on line, not to mention terrifying!” He said nothing, just smirked. “Well, I’m meeting a friend, so I’d better run,” I added, backing away. “Have a nice lunch!” With that, I scampered into the corner and took a seat.
Toasted & Roasted started to fill up with the lunch crowd. I waved occasionally, since I knew just about everyone in town. There was Shaunee Cole, one of the River Rats. Dave, Annie’s brother, was on his phone. “Hey, gorgeous,” he called to me, pausing in his conversation. I waved back. Always loved Dave.
In four more minutes, Doug was going to be late, I noted, glancing at my red Hello Kitty collector’s edition wristwatch. I figured I’d give him ten minutes, then leave. Granted, I’d have happily waited hours for Mark … had, in fact, waited for months, if not years. I squelched the small lance of pain that thought caused and texted Annie to distract myself. Am meeting Doug336. Please choose color of your dress as maid of honor. Will call with a report. Annie was taking quite the interest in my love life, determined that I, too, should end up as smugly happy as she and Jack were.
Ah-ha! Here was Doug336 coming in right now. I waved (not too vigorously, didn’t want to seem psychotic or desperate). He didn’t see me. Alas, the guy behind him did, and that guy was Ian McFarland, veterinarian. He froze, then gave a small nod before fixing his attention firmly on the specials board.
Oh, calm down, I thought. I’m not here for you. I stood up and walked over to greet my date. Ian didn’t look away from the board, reminding me of Josephine’s early years, when she’d cover her eyes to become invisible.
“Hi, there, Doug.” I smiled my hundred-watter and noted from the corner of my eye that Ian McFarland let out a sigh of relief. For heaven’s sake!
“Hi, Callie! Great to meet you,” Doug said.
“I got us a table in the back,” I said. “Do you want to order?”
“Nah, I’m not here for the food,” he grinned. “Lead away.”
Ooh! I liked Doug336! He was cute! And how nice for Dr. Stuck-Up to see that a man liked me! So there! “Hello, Dr. McFarland,” I said.
“Hello, Miss Grey,” he said, not taking his eyes off the specials board.
“Can I call you Ian?” I asked, just to be a pain.
He cut his eyes to me, then looked back at the menu. “Of course.”
“Have a wonderful day, Ian,” I said, turning away to my date. That’s right, Ian. I have a date. And he’s cuter than you.
“You’re even prettier than your picture,” Doug336 said as we sat down.
I smiled. “Thank you, Doug.” He was quite attractive, with longish dark hair and hazel eyes. Nice build, jeans, T-shirt, a woven bracelet made of some shiny fiber.
I hadn’t been on a first date in a long, long time. In fact, I’d never been on a date with someone I didn’t know pretty well. “So,” I said, grinning so my dimple showed, something that always worked well for me. “Where shall we start? I have to admit, you’re my first Internet date ever.”
“An Internet virgin,” Doug murmured. “Nice.” I blinked. “How about a basic exchange of information?” he suggested.
“Sure,” I agreed, suddenly hesitant. “Well, I work at an ad agency. Um, I have an older sister and a younger brother. Lived in Vermont most of my life, though I went to college in Pennsylvania and lived in Boston for a few years. Never married, no kids, two nieces.”
“Do you live alone?” he asked.
“No, I live with my grandfather, actually. He’s um …” I paused, not wanting to share Noah’s issues with a stranger. “We’re very close.”
“I have a housemate, too,” Doug answered. “She’s kind of a shrew, but it’s her house, so what can you do?”
“Oh, that’s too bad,” I said. “Are you looking for another place?”
“Well, it’s my mother, so I’m stuck.”
Strike one. “Why don’t you move?” I asked.
“I’m broke,” he said with a deprecating smile.
Strike two. Not to be financially prejudiced, but a broke thirty-three-year-old who lives with his mama … the positive indicators were not exactly raining down. Mark and Muriel, Michelle Obama reminded me. You’re moving on, remember? Right. Plus, the surly vet had just sat down nearby, and for obvious reasons, I wanted him to see me interacting successfully with a male of my own age.
“So what do you do for a living, Doug?” I asked. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Ian unfolding the Wall Street Journal. Before Doug could answer, my mother and Louis approached, brown bags in hand.
“Callie, are you on a date?” Mom asked, not bothering to keep the shock and horror from her voice.
“Hello,” Louis said, standing much, much too close to our table. Doug and I both looked up. “I’m Louis. Calliope’s special friend.”
“He’s not,” I said. “Mom, Louis, this is Doug. Doug, my mother, Eleanor Misinski, and Louis Pinser, her assistant.”
“Nice to meet you,” Doug said.
“What are your intentions toward Callie?” Louis said in that silky, serial-killer voice. “Is this serious? Should I be concerned, Calliope?”
“Okay! Bye now,” I said. “Bye, Louis. You may go. Off with you now.”
My mother took Louis’s arm and pulled him back a few steps. “I hope you have fun,” she said in that sympathetic and somber tone she used at work. She sighed tragically—poor woman, had her daughter learned nothing?—and guided Louis out the front door.
I took a deep breath and refocused on my date. “Sorry,” I said, smiling sheepishly. “You were about to tell me what you do for a living.”
“I’m an artisan,” he said, his face lighting up. “I use organic materials in unexpected applications to try to get people to pay more attention to our natural gifts.” It was clearly a recitation Doug used often. He leaned back in his chair and grinned.
“Oh,” I said. “Ah.” I tried not to hold the whole granola/artisan/crunchy Vermont thing against him … after all, you couldn’t go forty feet in this state without tripping over a potter or a weaver or a sculptor. My own grandfather was quite an artisan, though I was fairly sure Noah would stick a fork in his eye before using that particular label.
“So what do you actually make?” I asked, taking a spoonful of soup. Ah. Broccoli and cheese. Delicious.
“I make plant holders out of human hair,” Doug said, and I choked. Grabbed a napkin and wheezed away, coughing, tears in my eyes, swallowing convulsively. My eyes dropped to his bracelet. Blerk! It was hair! Someone’s hair! I wheezed harder, horror and hilarity thrashing in equal measure.
“Wow,”