T-
If you need anything and can’t reach me, call the hotel concierge. They can get you a car, groceries, whatever you need. You’re welcome to anything in the fridge. Have fun.
-F
It was sweet he left me a note. He’s thoughtful that way—he didn’t text because he didn’t want to wake me, and I appreciate that. I wander around the place and realize I’m going to be alone for most of the day. Maybe it was dumb to arrange a date for him right after practice on my first full day in town. I have no real idea what to do with myself.
And so I grab some yogurt out of the fridge for breakfast and locate the coffeemaker to get that going. I grab the big Stanley cup I brought with me from the guest room that’snow my room and fill it with icy cold water before I settle in to get some work done. I sip from my first cup of coffee as I reply to several emails from clients and vendors, update timelines and checklists, and book some appointments for various clients. I start a second cup of coffee as I batch create some social media posts—something I alwaystryto do but oftenforgetto do.
I order lunch from the same restaurant we had dinner from last night. I busy myself with more work.
The later in the day it gets, the more I notice my eyes inching toward the clock.
It’s simple curiosity, that’s all. I’m excited for Ford and my new friend. I’m excited to be the matchmaker. Maybe someday I’ll plan their wedding.
The thought leaves me with an inexplicably hollow feeling.
I bury myself in more work, and I take a stretch break to stare out the window at his view. I let myself out onto the terrace, and I breathe in the salty air.
What would it be like to work here? Maybe I should add Tampa to my shortlist of dream places to own a venue.
Seven o’clock hits, and I know I should order dinner, but I’m not hungry.
Their date is starting.
Those two thoughts are unrelated.
I think.
I’m nervous for them, maybe. I can’t stop wondering how it’s going. Because I’m curious. Nothing more.
I can’t focus on work. I can’t eat. So I sit on the terrace and stare out over the water until I hear the door inside click.
I stand and turn to see Ford walking in. He’s carrying a container of his leftovers, and I casually open the door and walk in.
“How was the date?” I ask.
“Did you eat?” he asks rather than answering.
I shake my head.
“I somehow knew you didn’t, so I brought you dinner.” He holds up the container. “It’s the same thing I ordered. You’ll love it.”
“Oh. Thanks. That was really nice of you. How’d it go?”
He sets the container on the counter and grabs a fork for me, and he pushes both across the counter. I settle onto a stool and wait for him to answer before I start eating.
“It was nice. Fine. Fun.” He shrugs.
Well…that’s not exactly a rousing review, and I’m not quite sure why a small measure of comfort darts through me. “Are you going out with her again?”
He shrugs. “She was nice enough.”
“Did you kiss her?” I’m not sure where the question comes from. It’s not my business, and even I can hear a slightly dark edge to my tone.
“No.” His eyes move to mine. “I didn’t feel a spark.”
Relief? Is that what I’m feeling?
