Page 75 of Just Ten Seconds

The song on the speakers plays a soft melody. At first, I sway a little bit to it, but as I listen deeper to the song, I start to get a little misty-eyed.

“Regrets, I’ve had a few …”

“Are you crying?” Dean asks as I wipe away a single tear.

“Damn Frank Sinatra.” I roll my eyes at myself.

Dean bites his lip as he stares at me with an odd look of admiration. “You weren’t lying when you said Ol’ Blue Eyes makes you cry.”

“I’m not crying. I’m just … moved.”

He wipes a spot under my eye, catching a rogue tear. “I have to say, this is definitely a first.”

“What? You never had a woman get emotional listening to ‘My Way’ at the dinner table?” I joke.

He laughs with me. “Most definitely not. And believe it or not, it’s not nearly the worst thing to ever happen to me on a date.”

I’m intrigued by his comment, so I ask, “What’s the worst first date you’ve ever been on?”

“Easy. Blind date about a month ago. She was a divorced mother of two and spent the entire night asking if I thought the other women in the restaurant were attractive. Apparently, her ex had a wandering eye, and she was a bit affected.”

“That does suck. Mine was when I first moved to Manhattan. I dated a stockbroker I’d met at happy hour. He was an hour late to pick me up and then left me at the restaurant to make a phone call … for forty-five minutes. I ordered an appetizer, finished it, and left as soon as he got back. That is why I don’t want to get back into the dating world again.”

“Afraid of a bad date?”

“Yes. They’re the worst. It’s why people settle—so they don’t have to suffer through the worst dates.”

“Well then, we should get your next first worst date out of the way.”

“Now?” I look around the room, wondering what kind of shenanigans he could possibly mean.

“Worst first date commences right now.” With his arms crossed, his strong arms pulling at the threads of his shirt, he leans in on the table and asks, “How many romantic partners have you had?”

“Oh my God, that’s the craziest question. So inappropriate,” I scold with a mock serious tone and then answer easily, “Four.”

“Ten.”

“That means nine.”

He taps his temples. “According to that logic, your number is five.”

“Touché.” I take a sip and think of another question that might ruin a first date. “Do you have any STDs?”

“Hell no. Wow, that is a terrible first-date question, albeit important. You?”

“Nope. Do you want more kids?”

“Yes.” His answer is quick. “I love being a father.”

The light in his eyes dissipates. He leans close. So close that I can smell the woodsy scent of his cologne. The cedar is mixed with vanilla, and it’s intoxicating.

“Mara, I know you think your dreams are dead, but I have a feeling you’re on the right path to a new future. Give me your hand.” He holds his out, palm up.

I stare at it for a beat before laying mine on top of his. It’s callous on the pads and smooth at the same time. A man who works with his hands yet is tender to the touch.

Dean flips my hand over and runs his finger over the lifeline on my palm. The sensation is gentle yet feels like a current running through my bloodstream.

“My mother is into palm-reading.” He runs his finger up and down my palm. “Yours is long. That’s a good thing.” His laugh is sweet as he narrows into a part of my lifeline that appears jagged. “It branches off right here. Like you were supposed to live one life, but it altered, and here you are, on the right path.”