“Oh, right, sorry.” Not sorry. I release his thick neck and he straightens, grinning. He shrugs out of his peacoat and hangs it on the hook behind him. He straightens to his full height, before he sinks into a nearby chair.
An incoming text lights up my phone. Good. Something to do other than to worry about Jack Mann studying me like I’m a modern piece of art that defies logic and explanation.
Can’t wait for the new installment!Arial texts.We’re doing so well. What’s next?
Then I’m reminded that I am supposed to be single. Solo. Independent.
I try to imagine writing this ER scene and can’t. I’ll have to focus on FlyFit, but I’d have to leave out Jack’s gallantry.
Exercise classes are next. How we’re killing ourselves to look good for dates!
Arial gives the message a thumbs-up.
“Do you run a lot? Five k’s?” Jack asks me, nodding to myk-r-otsweatshirt that I forgot I’m wearing, tearing my attention away from the possibility of full-time, steady employment. “That’s cool you help fund the children’s hospital.”
I glance down at the charity patch on my sleeve. “I walk more than I jog, but I give the parents with strollers a run for their money.”
Jack laughs. “Phew. I hate running. If you see me running down the street, call nine one one because someone is chasing me.”
We grin at each other again.
“How’s the ankle?” Jack nods at my ever-swelling appendage.
“Hurts. I blame Valentine’s Day.” I nod at a stupid heart-shaped cardboard decoration on the back of the door.
“Why?”
“I blame everything on Valentine’s Day. It’s just convenient that way.”
“You don’t like Valentine’s Day?” He leans forward, puzzled. “Does this have to do with the fifth-grade candy incident?”
“No. Yes. Maybe.” I have flashbacks to the Valentine’s Day aisle. “I just hate Valentine’s Day. Actually, hate is an understatement. If I could disembowel a holiday and wear its entrails as a trophy necklace I would.”
“Wow.” Jack whistles. “But what about all the chocolates?”
“I’ve never had those on Valentine’s Day.”
“Romantic walks? Candlelit dinners? Fresh-cut roses?” he prompts.
“My wallet was stolen on Valentine’s Day last year by a date I met on Spark. That’s about it in terms of excitement.”
“That’s terrible. Justwhohave you spent Valentine’s Day with?” Jack snaps his fingers. “Oh, wait. I remember. Marley.” He shifts a bit in his seat. “That explains so much.”
“Yeah. He refused to celebrate Valentine’s Day. He said it was against his belief system.”
Jack looks astonished. “Wow. That’s sad.”
Oh no. Now I sound like a pathetic girl who never got a valentine. I shift on the exam table, and a twinge of pain runs up my ankle to my leg. Ugh. Stupid ankle.
“Well, the Romans decapitated Saint Valentine for marrying couples,” I point out, trying to keep my ankle still. “How does it follow that we need to give each other boxes of cream-stuffed chocolates?”
“I suppose I hadn’t thought about it that way before,” he concedes. He stuffs his big hands in his pockets and rocks back, taking his chair onto two legs. The back of his head touches the wall.
“And did you know that Saint Valentine isn’t the patron saint of love? He’s the patron saint of epilepsy.” I’m on a roll.
“Because love gives you seizures?” he ventures, eyeing me as he sets his chair down again on four legs.
“Exactly! I mean, do you know that Hallmark and other arms of the commercial love machine—”
