Page 24 of Playing for Keeps

I just sat there in the dark for a minute. All I could think of was Emma, with that British accent that turned ‘arrogant’ into a compliment. Emma, who I’d gone back to look for like some lovesick moron, only to find empty aisles.

I took out my phone and called Grace, who picked up on the second ring.

“What’s wrong?” she asked immediately.

“What the fuck, sis.”

She groaned. “That bad?”

“Unsolicited inner child analysis. Something about my blocked aura. I tuned out after she suggested fasting in the woods.”

“Oh, Max. I’m sorry. I honestly thought Zoe would be different. She’s nice at work – quiet, bookish. I guess I didn’t know her well enough.”

“She’s… something,” I muttered.

Grace was silent for a moment, then gently said, “You were thinking about her again, weren’t you?”

“Who?”

“The bookstore girl.”

I closed my eyes. “Yeah. I can’t get her out of my head, Grace. That one conversation – we just clicked. I haven’t had that with anyone since. Not even close.”

Grace sighed. “I believe you. And maybe you’ll see her again. Toronto’s a big city, but not that big.”

“Feels like it.”

“Well,” she said briskly, “since I have you on the phone, I have a favour to ask.”

I groaned. “That tone never means anything good.”

She chuckled. “The Literature Foundation is hosting its annual charity gala in a couple of weeks. Aidan can’t come because he has to work. You’ll probably hear him yell ‘Sorry!’.”

As if on cue, Aidan’s voice called out, “Sorry!”

Grace continued. “I need a date. It’s for a good cause, the food is amazing, and you’ll look devastating in a tux. Please, Max.”

“A black-tie gala,” I said flatly.

“Yes.”

I rubbed a hand over my face. “Fine. Sure. Just don’t seat me next to any aura cleansers.”

She laughed. “Deal.”

We hung up, and I sat in my truck for a moment longer, staring at the city lights.

Three dates down, zero wins. And somewhere out there, there was a green-eyed woman who’d made everything else feel like a poor imitation.

I wasn’t ready to give up yet.

13

EMMA

I’ve learned that charity galas are often more about the party than the donation. Dresses sparkle, champagne keeps flowing, and everyone pretends to know which fork to use for which course. At least the food lived up to the hype. The vegetarian courses weren’t just side dishes masquerading as main courses, and I could’ve hugged the chef for the pastry shells that fell apart at the mere touch of a fork.

I was happy to be at one of the round tables near the stage and not in the middle of all the schmoozing. I had done my duty during cocktail hour by smiling at donors, answering questions about “the writing life” with the usual mix of humility and mystery. I had even managed to avoid the more scary ones about my next novel. Now, I could just enjoy the food and conversation.