Addison looks at the neat little beds with a thoughtful frown. They’re covered in wood chips, just waiting for someone to dig them up.
“I’ll help if you want,” I offer, not quite looking at her. “We could do it tomorrow afternoon.”
I figure if I distract her, she’ll have less time to work on the list. Plus, now I’m curious. Were the sweater and the house decluttering a coincidence? Or was it for me? If I stick around long enough, will she do more?
Heck, I’ll be a yard donkey if that’s what it takes to find out. I’ll haul wheelbarrows, pull hoses, even shovel mulch if I must. In fact, I can’t think of anything I’d enjoy more than getting dirty with Addison.
Pun not intended.
Okay, maybe it was a little intended, but I’m a nice guy, I swear.
She turns to me, looking skeptical. “You want to help me plant petunias?”
I fake a grimace. “How about something a little more manly?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Venus flytraps?” I tease. “You know, predator plants.”
She rolls her eyes. “No.”
“Fine, petunias.”
Addison studies me, and I know I’m walking on thin ice. She already knows something is up, but she’s not sure what.
That makes two of us.
What am I doing here? Gary will flay me from throat to navel and then fire my sorry tail if he finds out I’m taking out his daughter.
Really, though, I’m just looking out for her. Believe me, she’s better off with me tonight. Who knows what kind of loser she’s going to accidentally drag home thanks to Jessa’s ridiculous list? No, don’t answer that. I’ll tell you what kind—the type attracted to big doe eyes and a helpless act.
But that’s not Addison.
Maybe that is what’s really irking me about the list. Addison doesn’t need to change for a man—she’s great just the way she is. The girl learned to change a tire when she was twelve, and where did I find her earlier? Gazing under the hood of her car like she didn’t know a spark plug from a dipstick. It’s not right. She shouldn’t dumb herself up to get a guy.
“All right,” she finally says. “If you’re going to volunteer, don’t think I’m going to turn it down.”
“Now I’ve done it,” I joke. “So much for idle offers.”
She laughs, and a few minutes later, we’re headed into town in my truck. We talk about projects at the shop, funny stories about the guys—pretty much everything work-related. For obvious reasons, we don’t talk about the list. It’s awkward at first, but it quickly becomes more normal.
Until we get to the restaurant.
I choose a French bistro—a little fussier than I prefer but still casual enough they won’t chase me down with a tie. I happen to know it’s Addison’s favorite.
She glances at me as we walk up the steps, a funny look on her face.
“You like this place, right?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she says immediately, looking ahead. “It’s great.”
“Good evening,” the hostess says when we reach her stand. She appears to be in her early forties and has a soft look about her, probably has a couple of kids at home who she takes to story time at the library and the craft table at the farmer’s market. “Two?”
We nod.
“I have the perfect table for you.” She gives us a knowing look that worries me.
She leads us through the booths, past the front half of the restaurant with the families out for an early dinner, and into the quieter, darker back. Because it’s so early, the usually bustling bistro is slow. There are only a few occupied tables, and the couples pay us no attention as we pass.
We end up at a table in the far corner, near the fireplace that’s only in use during cool evenings in late December and January. Now it’s filled with dozens of lit candles and looks like it belongs in a scene of a romantic movie.
“Your server will be with you shortly,” the hostess says, gracing me with a smile that says, “You’re welcome.”
I give her a tight smile back.
“This is…nice.” Addison folds her hands on the table. She glances at the flickering candles.
Before I can respond, our waiter arrives, sets a basket of bread on the table, pulls out a pad and a pen, and introduces himself. “What can I bring you to drink? Maybe a nice cabernet? Iced tea?”
I stare at my menu, not about to meet Addison’s eyes. “Get wine if you want.”
She’s quiet for several long moments. Finally, she clears her throat and says, “I’ll have tea, please.”
That’s good. Probably smart.
“And for you?” he asks me.
He leaves after I order a soda, and just like that, we’re alone again…sitting here in the dark. Next to the flickering lights. With Addison across from me looking pretty with her hair down and those sparkly earrings glinting in the low light.
I take a gulp of water and resist the urge to tug on my collar.
What is wrong with me? I can navigate first dates like no one’s business, but my palms are sweating, and my throat feels tight. It’s like I’m back in high school, and that’s insane.
Addison folds her cloth napkin into quarters, smiling when she accidentally meets my eyes. “So…” she says.
Don’t be an idiot, Carter.
I sit back, crossing my arms. “I have a question for you, Addison—and it’s a serious one.”
Nodding, looking acutely nervous, she sets the napkin aside and folds her hands in her lap. “Okay.”
“Do you still suck at mini golf? Because you were terrible last time, and I need to know if I should take it easy on you.”
The last time we played together was years ago, back when I was a senior in high school. She and Jessa must have been freshmen.
Her mouth drops open as she pretends to be offended. “I’ll have you know I’m very good. In fact, I was just wondering if I need to take it easy on you. I know what a sensitive ego you have.”
I rest my forearms on the table, leaning in, meeting her challenge. She shifts forward as well, her eyes bright in the dim light. I’m about to say something witty, maybe something a little flirtatious just to see if she’ll blush, but I don’t get the chance.
“Addison?” a male voice booms through the quiet restaurant.
The two of us snap back in our seats as Addison’s dad and stepmother make their way to us. The hostess stands by a booth she was directing them to, looking confused as to why her sheep went astray.
Lydia takes in the two of us and presses her lips together, trying not to smile. Then that smile fizzles, and she casts a look of concern at her husband. Gary doesn’t look amused.
“What is this?” My boss stops at our table, looking between us, a very worrisome crease forming between his brows.
Gary is not a big man. He’s relatively average—about six foot and pretty fit, with just a little bit of a paunch in his midsection. His hair is dark and beginning to recede at the temples. In fact, there’s nothing particularly intimidating about him—unless he signs your paycheck.
He’s made it crystal clear there is to be no fraternizing between employees—even if he’s the biggest hypocrite there is considering he married Lydia last year. She’s worked in the office for at least twenty years. I’ll tell you what his rule really means: Stay away from my daughter.
Addison opens her mouth, scrambling for an excuse.
“Just car stuff,” I leap in. “Addison and I were doing some business.”
“Is that right?” Gary deadpans.
“I just happen to have a ‘70 GTO in my garage that’s screaming her name.”
Addison widens her eyes in warning, looking shocked that I’d make up something like that, which is understandable because she doesn’t know I actually have the GTO in my garage.
“Is that so?” Gary gives me a grim smile. “You know there’s nothing more I like than some car talk. Care if we join you?”
Addison looks h
orrified, and Lydia attempts to come to her stepdaughter’s rescue. “Let’s not intr—”
Gary waves her concern away. “Ah, it’s fine. The kids don’t care. Do they?”
Addison and I quickly shake our heads.
“Great!” Gary pulls out the chair to my right and takes a seat.
Since Addison and I are sitting across from each other, Lydia takes the side opposite Gary—which means they have me surrounded. Addison looks like she wants to die. Even in the dim light, I can tell her cheeks have gone pink, and she twists the napkin in her hands, looking as though she’s trying to wring water out of it.
Gary snaps open a menu and holds it in front of him like a book. He then glances at the candles and gives us a toothy smile. “There now. This is nice and cozy, isn’t it?”
8
Dinner is quite possibly the most uncomfortable experience of my life. Dad grills Carter about the fictional GTO, and the foolish man digs himself in deeper and deeper. Any minute now, Dad’s going to say something like—
“Why don’t we take a drive to your house after dinner and check it out?”
Yep. I called it—of course it was coming. I want to crawl under the table, maybe escape out a side window, but nope. I’m stuck.
Dad takes the check as soon as it comes, pulling it away even when Carter protests, and pays for the whole meal. With a tight smile, Carter nods his thanks while he inevitably tries to figure out a way to get out of the impromptu visit.
He catches my eye, giving me an apologetic look.
This can’t end well. Maybe I’ll offer to help Carter with his resume. I’ll even pay for stamps and lick envelopes.
“Sure,” Carter says to Dad. “If you want.”
What’s his plan? Pretend the car was stolen while we were at dinner? Make an insurance claim on a vehicle he never owned?
“Gary,” Lydia says, drawing out the name in a voice that even Dad listens to.
He glances at her, giving in. “No, we probably shouldn’t. I promised Lydia I’d take her to a movie.” He then looks at me. “You want to come with us, Addison?”
He’d like that, wouldn’t he?
“Not tonight,” I tell him. “Thanks though.”
“Do you need a ride home?” Dad presses, not about to give up. “I didn’t see your car out front.”
Dad would notice too; he has a knack for that sort of thing.
“I’m good,” I assure him.
Dad studies me, and then he turns his eyes on Carter, looking none too pleased. Finally, he says, “All right.”
The four of us rise and leave the restaurant. I walk in front, not wanting to stand too close to Carter. A weird feeling settles in the pit of my stomach. Sure, ice cream was Carter’s idea, but I basically threw myself at him this evening so I didn’t have to lie to Gio. (Number Eighteen: Be assertive. Men like confident women.) If he gets in trouble, it will be my fault.
“Don’t stay out too late, pumpkin,” Dad says as we pause in front of the restaurant. He scans the parking lot, perhaps checking to see if he just happened to miss my car. Carter’s truck, with its four-inch lift and Kentford custom paint job, stands out like a sore thumb.
I don’t necessarily want him and Lydia to know I rode with Carter, but I’m pretty sure they’ve figured it out.
Nodding, I resist the urge to remind Dad I’m an adult. I own my own home. Pay taxes. Vote. Make out with Carter in vivid fantasies.
All very grown-up stuff.
Finally, Dad turns to leave. I let out a quiet sigh of relief but freeze when he suddenly turns around as if remembering something. “Oh, Carter,” he says offhandedly. “Meet me in my office about thirty minutes early on Monday.”
It takes all of ten seconds for Carter’s face to pale, but he nods, acting like he hasn’t the slightest idea what the meeting might be about. “Yes, sir.”
I give Lydia a hard look, begging her to do damage control. Silently, she tells me she’ll do what she can…but I shouldn’t get my hopes up.
Carter and I don’t say a word as we walk to his truck. He opens my door and then rounds the front to his side. I buckle my seat belt, watching him from the corner of my eye.
After a long moment, he turns to me. “You still up for mini golf?”
I roll my eyes. “Well, yeah.”
He grins and starts the truck.
* * *
I beat Carter. Funny thing: we’re both terrible. Most of the evening was spent looking for the brightly colored golf balls in bushes and wading through water features. We stopped keeping track of the score because it was too embarrassing, and we decided that whoever got their ball up the mountain at the end first, won the whole thing.
“I had no idea you are such a cheat,” Carter says as he turns on the truck. It’s fully dark outside, and the course is getting ready to close.
“It’s not cheating. It’s creative playing.”
Carter made the rule himself. He said I had to get my ball into the hole—not that I had to do it myself. I gave an eight-year-old a buck to do it for me.
He frowns at the clock as the truck rumbles to life. Five after ten. “I think the ice cream place just closed.”
I shrug. “Next time.”
And then I realize what I implied, and I resist the desire to smack myself on the forehead.
“We can try tomorrow if you want,” he answers as if it’s the most natural thing in the world for us to spend time together. “After we work on your flower beds.”
“Sure.” I somehow manage to sound halfway normal. I glance at Carter again, my brain sprinting at bunny-rabbit speed.
“I’ll see if Dad left his rototiller in the back shed,” he says, oblivious to my thoughts.
“Okay, yeah. Good idea.”
Fifteen minutes later, we end up in front of my house. I remembered to flick the porch lights on when we left, so it looks welcoming and homey.
“Thanks for tonight,” I say as a major case of awkward infects us once more.
I unbuckle my seatbelt. Carter does the same. I open my door; he opens his too.
He’s walking me to the front step.
I roll my keys in my hand, extremely aware of the man next to me. When we reach the door, I turn to him and blurt out, “What is this, Carter?”
He widens his eyes. “What?”
I gesture randomly in the air, encompassing us, the porch, his truck, the street, and the neighbors’ arborvitae.
“What do you think it is?” he asks, hiding a grin. “You asked me out. We went out.”
“I did not.”
“You did. I specifically remember you saying, ‘Do you want to get ice cream or not?’”
“But you said…”
He shrugs, and that rotten grin finally breaks through in all its charming glory. “I was just asking if you’d tried the place. I was going to get some if it was any good.”
I stare at him, juggling my keys, eyes narrowed. “Yeah, okay. But explain why you keep showing up.”
His grin morphs into something that makes my mouth go dry. It’s dark and delicious, and my stomach clenches in response.
Carter steps in, and like a coward, I shift back—but not far enough. He’s here, in my space. And that annoying buzz in the back of my head becomes a purr.
“Thanks for asking me out, Addison. I had a good time.” He lowers his voice, his eyes locking with mine. “I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”
And then he leaves. That’s right—he walks down the drive, gets in his truck, waits for me to open my door, and then takes off.
* * *
Dad and I—and now Lydia—have a standing tradition to do lunch every Sunday. Usually, it’s something I look forward to. Today, not so much.
“You’re setting me up?” I ask, sitting back against the padded bench of our favorite casual diner and crossing my arms.
“He’s a nice kid,” Dad says, which means the man could be anywhere between twenty-one and thirty-five. “I think you’ll like him.
”
“And what does he do again?” I ask.
I can’t believe it. This is just like the car thing when I was sixteen—I get my hopes set on something, and what does Dad do? He fixes me up with a more reliable model.
“He’s a podiatrist.”
“A podiatrist,” I deadpan.
“A doctor,” Dad stresses, like that makes all the difference.
I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with a foot doctor, but who isn’t going to argue that it’s the human equivalent of soccer mom sedan?
And Carter…well, he’s a GTO.
Not that I want Carter. Again, he’s just my practice dummy.
“Listen,” I say on an exhale, “if this is about Carter, please know that last night wasn’t a date.”
Lydia looks like she wants to laugh, but she focuses on her sweet potato fries instead, keeping her smile to herself. She’s smart enough not to get in the middle of these sorts of conversations. Too bad I can’t do the same.
“I know that, sweet pea,” Dad says. “You made that clear last night. Besides, you know how I feel about you dating other employees in the shop. You’re a good girl—you wouldn’t disrespect me like that.”
Good heavens.
“So why are you trying to set me up?” I demand.
“Well.” Dad pushes his plate aside, giving the last of his fries a longing glance but ultimately giving up. “Some of the guys have brought it to my attention that you and Jessa…”
He goes on, but my stomach drops as I tune him out. Apparently, someone blabbed about the list.
“…and you’re almost twenty-five. It makes sense that you might be thinking about settling down, especially now that Jessa is married.”
“Daddy, please don’t take this the wrong way, but I think I can find a guy on my own.”
His expression hardens. “A guy like Carter?”
My smile tightens. “A nice guy.”
“Dr. Cameron is nice.”
“I’m sure he is.”
Dad folds his hands on the table. “And he’s a doctor.”
27 Ways to Find a Boyfriend Page 5