“Cherry Danish,” Cian piped up immediately, as if he were a novice.
“What bet?” Izzie repeated. “I want something with poppy seeds.”
Of course, Connor knew that too. “Let Mr. Charming-Innocent explain,” he murmured, leaving the office.
The sun shone cheerfully on the empty boardwalk and pier. Later this afternoon, it would be teeming with tourists, surfers, roller skaters, and small families. Santa Monica wasn’t any quieter than Los Angeles, simply more idyllic. More intimate. Less stressful. But maybe that was entirely due to the ocean. Connor had always enjoyed staring at the waves and imagining them carrying his problems away with every ebb.
Taking a deep breath, he strolled past the old garage, which hadn't been rented since he bought the house. He kept his eyes fixed on the ocean so he wouldn’t be tempted to check if Rachel had swapped her Crocs for other shoes.
His friends were wrong. He wasn’t relationship-challenged and he wasn’t anti-love. He had eyes and, contrary to what many thought, a heart. The thing was, once people were convinced they’d met their soul mate, they started puttingwebeforeI. They no longer cared about whether they were happy, but only about whether their partner was. They became emotionally dependent on everything the other person did, said, wanted, and didn’t want. WhatMatch Me!was selling wasn’t love. It was the false idea of a perfect relationship. And, no, he wasn’t a fucking expert at good relationships. But shit, he knew what a bad one looked like! He saw it every damn day as he picked up the piecesleft over from expectations too high and false ideas of the word love.
He walked faster, pushing away the memory of Rachel’s sincere expression as she’d claimed that all the promises they made at their agency were true. She didn’t know what she’d claimed then…
“The end is near!” a scratchy voice interrupted his thoughts, and he glanced to his left. Standing next to the path was an old, bearded man wearing a stained white t-shirt and a sign announcing the apocalypse. Tomorrow, his sign would trumpet something about climate change, and Wednesday, usually a smiley face. Connor’s favorite sign was the raised middle finger.
“Ah, it had to happen sometime,” he replied lightly, stopping. “While you wait for it, do you want a piece of coffee cake or a breakfast burrito, Winnie?”
The bearded man lowered his sign. “Oh, yes, please. I’ll take both. One’s last meal should be special.”
Connor battled a smile. “You’re right.”
“Can you add another bottle of water? It’s going to be warm today.”
“Coming right up. Do you have sunscreen?”
“Yeah, Tara brought it for me earlier.”
Winnie lived in a tent on the beach, and since he’d lived on the promenade the longest of all, he enjoyed special treatment. They’d all offered him a job or a room, one after the other, but he always just said thatnormallife wasn’t for him. No one dared to ask why. Besides, it was his decision.
Connor’s phone vibrated with a text. It was from Alice, the jogger he’d chosen for his first date, assuring him that she’d love to come with him and his friends to quiz night at the Sunny Umbrella tomorrow.
Usually when he met up with a woman for the first time, he was alone. One-night stands were rarely introduced to friends,but since he was serious this time and was looking for the woman of his dreams – and wanted to prove it to Rachel, Tara, and Izzie – it seemed like a good idea to throw her right in to the weekly pub night.
He smiled smugly. He didn’t have Rachel’s number, but he did have Maddie’s, so…
Tell your sister I have my first date tomorrow night. She’d better get a move on.
So: Get breakfast, sort through the files, reassure the clients, and find the woman of his dreams.
His to-do list wasn’t really any more complicated than usual.
Chapter Three
You’re not competitors. You’re partners. You don’t win when you’re right. You win when you agree.
From the self-help book for self-pitiers by psychologist Rachel James
You've never really won, have you? - Connor
Did you tell them?”
“Not really.”
“That’s a vague answer, Rachel.”
“I know. It was intentional.”
“Then let me reply just as vaguely: Come on, Stupid. Why?”
