“Aw, that’s great.” I massaged her neck. “See, sometimes we don’t know where things lead. I’m doing this column with the hopes that it might open doors for a publishing contract. And the dating—even if Faith doesn’t turn out to be the perfect woman for me, she might be fun for the holidays, and maybe I’ll meet someone else through her.”
“That’s kind of a crappy deal for her.” Sophia turned her head to glare at me. “No woman wants to be the interim relationship, just like no one in the world likes to be the rebound or the consolation prize.”
“I’m not saying that’s what I’m planning,” I countered. “I’m just saying, we never know. Maybe she’s the one, but if she isn’t, that doesn’t mean this is wasted time.”
“You, Harry Davis, have a very skewed view on dating and relationships.” Sophia shook off my hands and turned around to face me, her hands on her hips. “And are you even planning to tell these women that they’re fodder for your column?”
“Nope.” I shook my head. “Of course, I’ll either change their names or not use names at all. But I’m not the first person to write about my dating experiences. There was even an entire television show based on that woman from New York’s books—and no one accused her of taking advantage of the men she talked about. And then there’s Vivian—she told all her stories, didn’t she? And she even referred to her dates as frogs. Talk about demeaning.”
Sophia frowned. “Yes, but that was different.”
“Why? Because she’s a woman, and I’m a man?” I smirked. “Are we dealing with reverse sexism here, Soph?”
She rolled her eyes. “Did you ever think that maybe I’m looking out for your best interests, Harry? Did you ever think that I’m trying to keep you from—” She broke off, glancing away from me. “You really are completely clueless, aren’t you?”
I scowled. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just that—”
The bell over the door rang again, and this time, a crowd of men and women poured into the coffee shop, probably having just come from the movie theater across the street.
Sophia pressed her lips together. “I need to get back to work. I’ll see you later, Harry. Thanks for the shoulder rub.” She slipped back through the swinging half door and resumed her spot behind the counter.
Did I mention that chicks are an enigma wrapped in a riddle?
3
“Harry, what time are you leaving for work?” My mother poked her head around my bedroom door. “Do you have time for a cup of coffee? I make gingerbread, and I need someone to eat it with me so I don’t feel guilty.”
I grinned. My mother was a talented baker, but she always swore that eating her own goodies was going to make her fat. Since I was the only one of her offspring still living at home, I was the one who lucked into cookies, cakes and pies when she was in the mood to create.
“Sure, I think I can do that.” I scooped up my backpack and followed my mother down the steps. Gingerbread with lemon sauce and whipped cream sounded like a good way to start my afternoon.
But then I rounded the corner into the kitchen, and suddenly my good mood vanished.
Seated around the table were my nemeses, the three women who had, along with my parents, been responsible for making me the man I was today—or so they always said. Diana, Hanna and Camille, my three older sisters, were lying in wait for me.
“What the bunny is this?” I came to a screeching halt. “Mom, did you just let me walk into an ambush?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, sweetie.” My mother smiled beatifically and began pouring coffee. “Isn’t this a nice surprise? Your sisters stopped by to visit today!”
My father passed by, heading for the front door. He cast me a glance of sympathy. “Good luck, Harry.”
“Are you leaving?” I grabbed his arm. “Are you abandoning me?”
“Sorry. I came home for lunch, but I got called back for an unexpected appointment.” His shrug was much too innocent to be believed.
“Coward,” I muttered.
“Sit down.” Hanna patted the chair next to her. “I want to hear all about this column you’re writing.”
“And the girl,” Diana put in. “What’s her name? Grace?”
“Faith,” Mom corrected. “She works at the bookstore.”
“Maybe I need to make a quick trip over there to meet her.” Camille frowned. “How old is she, anyway?”
“Twenty-one. She’s in college. And don’t you dare.” I accepted the gingerbread from my mother, glowering at her. “That was a dirty trick, using dessert to bribe me down here.”
