I stop on a brunette with a sharp jaw and dark eyes. She’s pretty—really pretty—and something about her reminds me of...
No.
I close the app and stare at the ceiling.
This is pathetic. I’m a grown man lying in bed at midnight, swiping through strangers, trying to convince myself that any of them could make me forget the way Tori looked at me in Detroit.
They can’t. I know they can’t.
My mother would have opinions about this. She’d tell me—in rapid-fire Quebecois French that I’d pretend not to fully understand—that I’m too stubborn, too closed off, too much like my father. She’d also tell me that when I find the right woman, I’ll know.
I’m starting to think she might be right.
I delete the app.
The icon disappears, and I drop my phone on the mattress, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes.
The thing is, even if I was willing to risk it—even if she was—I’ve got Maisie. My daughter has watched enough people walk in and out of her life. I’m not going to introduce someone new unless I’m sure, absolutely sure, that they’re going to stay.
Tori’s not a sure thing. She can’t be. We work together. This thing between us might just be proximity and tension and two people who’ve been alone too long.
It might be nothing.
Except it doesn’t feel like nothing.
I lie there in the dark for a long time, not sleeping, not doing anything except accepting the truth I can’t outrun anymore.
I’m falling for someone I can’t have.
And I have absolutely no idea what to do about it.
9
WINE AND CONFESSIONS
Tori
“Okay, spill.”
Winnie doesn’t even wait for the wine to arrive. We’re barely settled into our corner booth at Rosario’s—yes, the tourist trap, sue me—and she’s already got her elbows on the table, chin in her hands, staring at me like I’m a puzzle she’s about to crack.
“Spill what?”
“Don’t play dumb with me, Victoria. You texted me ‘I need wine and carbs immediately’ at 3 PM. That’s code for something happened.”
“Maybe I was just hungry.”
“At 3 PM. After a road trip with a bunch of hockey players.” She narrows her eyes. “Try again.”
The waiter appears with our wine—a pinot grigio for me, a malbec for Winnie—and I take a very long sip before answering.
“How’s Derek?” I ask, deflecting.
“Derek is Derek.” She waves a hand dismissively. “But we’re not talking about Derek. We’re talking about whatever has youlooking like you haven’t slept in three days and maybe got hit by a truck. A hot truck. A truck you want to get hit by again.”
I quirk an eyebrow in her direction. “That metaphor got away from you.”
“I know. I’m workshopping it.” She leans forward. “Seriously, Tor. What happened?”
