Before she can respond, a message pings in from Seth.
Done.
Mark could learn from Seth, the master of concise, precise communication.
By the time I’m done testing each of the links on the agency websites to ensure everything is working the way it should and call Mark, dinner is on the table.
“Did Good Guy message you back?” Lola asks while we eat. Benji is at a friend’s house working on posters for an upcoming community fundraiser, and Mabel is out of town for a few days visiting a friend, so it’s only the two of us.
I pause, a heaping fork of spaghetti halfway to my mouth, and glare. I’d forgotten and haven’t been on Instagram all day. “Don’t know,” I say before shoveling in the noodles.
The look on her face is incredulous. “You don’t know? You haven’t checked?”
I shake my head and then say, “I was kinda busy putting out fires all day. This is really good,” pointing my fork to my plate. Because it is.
“Thanks, it’s my secret recipe.”
“Prego?” I guess. No doubt it’s from a jar because Lola isn’t the type to make sauce from scratch.
She shakes her head. “Bertolli. The new kind with the added veggies blended in. I had a coupon.” Then she realizes she’s been distracted. “Back to Good Guy. Finding out who this guy is, is top priority.”
“Why is this so important to you?” I ask, genuinely curious.
She ponders for a minute while she soaks up some sauce with a piece of garlic bread. “Dunno, I just have a feeling.”
The fine hair on my arms stands on end. I don’t believe in clairvoyance, but I can’t deny that over the years she’s predicted or seen things coming that I have no logical explanation for. I rub my forearm to tame the prickle. “Like a good feeling? Or a bad feeling?”
She purses her lips and pulls them to one side while she thinks. I must look worried because she hurriedly says, “It’s not bad. I can’t explain it, but I have this nagging feeling that this person is supposed to be in your life.”
“In my life, how?” I saved my garlic bread for last, and I’m mopping up the sauce and making a mess in the process. “Like a friend I never knew I was missing and who will somehow complete me? Or like an organ donor because I don’t know it yet, but my kidneys are lemons so I’ll need to borrow one from this generous soul in a few years?”
She rolls her eyes like I’m being ridiculous. “No. I’m the friend who already completes you.”
“You’re my sister.”
“I’m both. And you don’t need Good Guy for a kidney; I’d give you mine.Obviously.”
“Are we having a moment?” I ask. That was sweet.
She wipes her mouth with a napkin because she’s wearing sauce like a mustache. “Shit, I think we might be.” And then she jumps back into the discussion. “Maybe he’s your soulmate. Or at the very least, a wildly satisfying night of kinky sex.”
I look at her skeptically. “He could be seventy. And live in New Zealand.”
“Or he could be thirty and live two miles away. Stranger things have happened. Think positive.”
“I’m allergic to positivity. It makes my throat swell, and I get these red bumps on my—” I’m trying to joke, but she’s not having it.
“Just think, this guy could actually be good, super-hot,andamazing in bed. Like he popped straight out of a Max Monroe novel.”
“I don’t think those men exist in real life. Has anyone ever told you you’re a dreamer?” I ask.
She nods. “Frequently. That’s irrelevant.”
“I think we’re getting carried away, and I should just be logical and keep him in my back pocket for the spare kidney.”
She finally cracks a smile because she knows she won’t convince me to dream with her. “Seriously, where do you think he lives? If you had to guess?” When I don’t answer right away, she says, “Play along. Humor me.”
I sit back in my chair, finished with my food, and think. “Hmm, I think he lives in the U.S.”
