“When you said no kids, what if they were older?” Trever qualified.
“Older?”
“Older. Like, what if the man had kids in high school, or they were in college and out of the house?”
I actually had to stop and think about that. It was the first time anyone had ever asked me to fine-tune my list of dealbreakers, as if my romantic prospects could be calibrated like a coffee order. “I would consider that.”
At least then, hopefully, procreating would be out of their systems.
“So, adult children, on the table.” Liv made a note in her computer, her fingers flying across the keyboard with the kind of efficiency that had made her such an effective, terrifying divorce attorney.
I realized then that Liv had already made a massive spreadsheet of my dating preferences, likely cross-referenced with half the city’s eligible bachelors and every other client they’d ever had. I wondered if there was a tab marked “Unresolved Childhood Trauma,” where she’d highlighted my reluctance to open up and my tendency to channel every emotion into work or sarcasm.
Trevor leaned forward. “The only physical attribute you included was height, someone over six feet.”
“It’s not that I want to date a basketball team, I just like to wear heels. All the time. Men say they’re fine with it, but eventually they get this complex. I’d rather avoid that conversation entirely.”
At five foot seven, I wasn’t tall by any stretch of the imagination, but it was strange what men felt insecure about.
Liv looked up, brown eyes sharp. “You also left education and religion blank.”
“They’re not a priority for me.”
“It’s strange, you’ve managed to be simultaneously specific and very vague.” Trevor tapped his pen on his iPad as he studied me. “It’s almost as if you had someone in mind that you were describing, or the idea of someone.”
Shit. Had I? I filled it out at the BBQ, after I saw Adam. Was I imagining who he had become? Was I picturing him?
Liv’s phone vibrated, and she looked down. “It’s Bailey,” she announced, her business tone slipping as she picked up her personal cell. “I’m just gonna check to make sure everything’s okay.”
“Hey,” Liv said, voice warm but with an edge of concern as she tucked the phone under her chin and started typing again at her computer. The click-clack reminding me of hailstones on a windshield.
“Hey, is my sister there? Billie? Is she there? Is she okay?” Bailey was speaking so loudly that her voice sounded like it was coming from inside a wind tunnel, all panic and static, and about three octaves higher than usual, but you could hear her. Even through the tiny phone speaker, I could tell the way her words quivered on the edge of tears.
“Yeah, she is,” Liv replied, her voice the oral equivalent of a weighted blanket. “She’s fine.”
“Can I talk to her?”
Liv handed me her phone.
I pushed it away and mouthed, “I’ll call her back.”
“No!” Bailey’s voice ricocheted through the office at a volume usually reserved for tornado sirens and WWE wrestlers addressing the crowd. “Don’t you dare!”
I took Liv’s phone, exhaled, and pressed it to my ear. “I’ll call you ba?—”
“No!” Bailey shouted again. “I almost called the police.”
“Thepolice?” I blinked. Bailey did lean towards the dramatic, but the police?
Now both Trevor and Liv were staring at me as if I’d just confessed to a double homicide live on Oprah. I could feel my face flush, a pulse of embarrassment pounding just under my eyes.
“Yes, the police.” Bailey’s voice was strangled and breathy. “My sister has a stalker. She doesn’t show up for work and isn’t answering her phone. Yes, I was about to call the police.”
“How did you know I was here?”
“The tracker I have on your phone.”
“If you knew where I was, why did you call Liv?”
