“One date,” I say. “Maybe I’m hoping to spend time with you while I work, but that’s not a requirement of my doing the work.”
She takes a step toward me, and I get another whiff of skunk. She must notice my subtle wince, because she moves back again. “In the interest of being entirely upfront and honest here, I’m not looking for a relationship. My life is really complicated, and I don’t have room to get serious about anyone. One date is all you’re going to get from me.”
It makes no sense how her words deflate me. I know nothing about her beyond how drawn to her I am. “I appreciate your honesty, but that’s not a problem for me. I’m the least serious person I know, and the last thing I’m looking for is a relationship.” All of that has been true about me for so long, but in this moment it feels like a lie. Is it because of the woman standing in front of me? Or because of DogPerson158? “You seem like fun and I’m looking for more of that in my life.”
“I can do fun.” Her gaze flits over my body before meeting my eyes again, and I get the distinct impression that sex might be on the table as part of that fun.
But that’s probably just wishful thinking.
“Perfect,” I say. “I’d love to stop by your place and see the space I’m working with, but I’ve got to get back to work. Are you free on Friday night? We could go out to dinner, and you could show me the space after.”
“I can be free,” she says with a warm smile that makes it hard for me to walk away.
The skunk stench helps.
I make my way over to the molding, which is near where she’s standing, and start loading up. “Tell me more about this cat.”
She chats about her rescue cat while I fill my cart with molding and tells me about the space she’s considering for his gym while I check out. I’d like to believe she’s just as hesitant to walk away from me as I am to leave her.
“Why don’t you give me your number?” I say as I roll my cart up to the truck.
She stops in her tracks, scowling at me. “You. You’re the guy who tailgates me three days a week when I’m driving into work. You know, speed limits exist for a reason.”
“I don’t tailgate,” I say, fully confused.
“I’d recognize your ridiculous oversized truck anywhere.” She points at the license plate, which says Places2B. “And I definitely recognize this obnoxious license plate.”
The truck is ridiculous. It’s bigger than it needs to be, black and so clean I can see my reflection in the side panel. Luckily, it’s not mine. “This truck belongs to my brother, Sebastian. He’s an impatient asshole. I promise I never tailgate. It’s rude.”
She studies me, her shoulders dropping slowly. “Tell him to stop tailgating people. It stresses me out, and I’m already stressed when I’m driving to work. What’s he in such a hurry for, anyway?”
“He’s always in a hurry. He hates wasting time. I expect he was driving to a worksite, and we’re behind schedule on a couple of jobs right now. I’ll pass on what you said about tailgating.”
She nods and stretches out a hand. “Give me your phone.”
I hand it over, and she puts in her number. “I’m Amelia, by the way.”
“Amelia,” I say, liking the feel of her name on my tongue. “I’m Deacon. It’s been a pleasure meeting you.”
Her cheeks are pink again, and her smile is gorgeous. “You too. See you, Friday?”
“Text me your address and I’ll be there to pick you up at seven.”
She nods and heads across the parking lot. I feel like a dick for not walking her to her car, but I really do need to load up and get back to work. And I’m not sure I’d have the strength to walk away from her if I stay in her orbit much longer.
CHAPTER NINE
Amelia
My doorbell rings at exactly seven PM on Friday night, and my smile takes over my whole body. I’m so ready for this date. Harper’s at my parents’ for the night, and I’ve picked up every sign of her, because I want a casual, fun relationship. Men tend to get weird as soon as they find out I’m a mom.
At least that’s been my experience the two times I’ve gone out with a man since my divorce. Men see a single mom, and they can’t possibly believe I’m not looking for a daddy for Harper. They can’t imagine I’m not desperately seeking a husband.
I had a husband. He was almost as much work as taking care of Harper is. I’m better off on my own, but try convincing a man of that.
The nerves hit me halfway to the door and nearly knock me over. I pause, hand to chest, and breathe deep. I can do this. I’m going to have fun doing this. So what if it’s been years since I’ve had sex and almost as long since I’ve been on a date with a man I’m actually attracted to?
So what if I still smell vaguely of skunk? Or maybe not so vaguely. It’s possible I’m no longer an accurate judge of my own stench.
