“Is that him?” Joanie’s voice sharpens with interest.
“I need to go.”
“Tessa—”
“Content calendar looks great. Talk tomorrow.” I end the call before she can protest, then sit staring at my phone like it’s a bomb I want to set off.
The notification preview shows just the first few words:Look. I put you on the spot...
My thumb hoversover the message for longer than I’d like to admit.
You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.
I read it three times. The words rearrange themselves in my head, taking on different meanings with each pass. Is he giving me an out because he’s polite? Because he regrets asking? Because he really doesn’t want to go on a date withme?
The confidence I felt last night—that spark of connection, the way his soulful eyes kept finding mine—suddenly feels like something I imagined. Like I was so desperate for a moment of real chemistry that I invented it.
I set the phone down and walk to the kitchen, pour myself a glass of wine even though it’s only four in the afternoon, take a sip, and set it down.
This is ridiculous. I coach people through this exact spiral three times a week. I know better. I know the story I’m telling myself isn’t necessarily true. I know the only way to get clarity is to communicate.
But knowing and doing have always been different things for me.
I wander back to my desk, pick up the phone, and set it down again. Pace to the window. The bridge is still there below me; the locks catching the last gray light. On any other evening, I’d grab my coat and leave my phone on the counter—my favorite rule for my favorite place; no screens, just the river and the locks andwhatever I need to sort through. But tonight I can’t make myself walk away from a phone that might buzz again any second.
What would Curvy Cupid tell her followers right now?Don’t overthink it.One ambiguous text doesn’t erase real chemistry.You deserve someone who’s excited about you, but you also can’t expect mind-reading from anyone.She’d say that a lot of men aren’t great at expressing themselves, especially via text.
I pick up the phone again.
The thing is, I felt that pull at the bar. The way Archie looked at me like he couldn’t quite stop his eyes from traveling the length of me, even though he was clearly trying to be a gentleman.
That wasn’t nothing. That wasn’t one-sided.
Was it?
I think about what I’d tell a client in this situation. I can hear my own voice in my head, warm and encouraging: Don’t assume the worst. You deserve to find out what’s real.
My fingers move before I can second-guess myself.
No, you’re stuck with me. I committed, and I’m keeping my word.
I hit send. Wait.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Good.
One word. Just one. But the tension in my shoulders loosens.
So. Valentine’s gala. Black tie?
Yeah. Saturday at 7, at the Gilded Hart. I can pick you up.
I bite my lip, suddenly very aware that I agreed to attend a fancy gala with a man I met yesterday. A man I don’t know. A man whose last name I still haven’t asked for because I was too busy drowning in his eyes.
Send me the address, and I’ll be ready.
Okay.
