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“Fucking spam,” I mutter, then immediately check again to make sure I didn’t miss anything.
This is pathetic. I’m Dex Malone. Women wait for me, not the other way around. I could call any number in my contacts right now and have company within the hour. Beautiful, uncomplicated company that doesn’t require meeting at coffee shops or working around school schedules.
But none of them sound like Golda when they laugh. None of them have that slight rasp in their voice that’s been stuck in my head for weeks. And none of them look at me like they’re trying to figure out whether I’m full of shit, which should be annoying but instead makes me want to prove I’m not.
My phone buzzes again.
Sorry, just saw this. Today’s crazy with recordings. Tomorrow maybe?
I read it three times. She’s not saying no. She’s saying not today, but maybe tomorrow. That’s something, right?
What time works? I’m flexible.
Kids have practice at 4. Before that?
Of course. Kids have practice. Because she’s a mom. With kids. Who have schedules and needs and probably require actual parenting instead of just showing up when it’s convenient.
Christ, what am I doing?
Perfect. 2 PM? There’s this place called Grind on Capitol Hill.
See you there.
Three words. No emoji, no exclamation points. The kind of response I’d normally get from my accountant, not a woman I’m trying to... what? Date? Hook up with? Figure out why I can’t stop thinking about her?
I set the phone down and realize I’m grinning like an idiot at my empty kitchen.
“Get it together, Malone,” I tell myself, then immediately stop talking to myself because that’s apparently a thing I do now.
My phone rings. Brody’s contact photo fills the screen.
“What’s up?”
“Checking on your mental state. You looked pretty fucked up after lunch yesterday.”
“I’m fine.”
“Right. That’s why you’ve been checking your phone every thirty seconds during film study today. Very subtle.”
Shit. I thought I was being discrete.
“Coffee date confirmed?” he continues.
“Tomorrow at two.”
“Good. Where?”
“Grind. You said it was decent.”
“It is. Elliot likes it.” There’s a pause. “You nervous?”
“Why would I be nervous? It’s just coffee.”
“Uh-huh. And I’m just a guy who happens to slide around on ice for a living.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
