by R.S. Grey
I take a seat on the couch the previous owners left behind. The whole place came furnished, which is part of the reason why it feels temporary and, well, sad. Take the couch, for instance. It’s made out of fake red leather, a color that burns my eyes every time I look at it. The potpourri on the coffee table has likely been sitting in the same glass bowl for the last thirty years. A tapestry of Dogs Playing Poker hangs on one wall. In short, it’s not my style. I feel like I’m a guest in someone else’s home, which was the intention in the beginning. I didn’t want to dig in too deep too fast, but how long can I keep skimming the surface of my life?
Olivia and I had a house and a dog, two great careers, and a large circle of friends. I doubt anyone would have guessed we’d break up a few months before the wedding, that she would sleep with my best friend instead of telling me she wanted to end it.
And Molly. The fact that I let her have Molly has been eating away at me for the last few weeks. Maybe this house and its tacky furniture would feel a little more like a home if Molly were here to greet me at the end of the day.
Then again, maybe not. My life in Texas won’t start to feel right until I push myself out of this weird holding pattern I’ve fallen into. I set up parameters for my life—no dating, no getting too attached—because it seemed like the right thing to do after getting out of a long-term relationship, but maybe there’s a little more to it. Maybe Olivia didn’t just take scissors and shred our relationship, but did a hack job on my confidence as well. Hell, after eight years, I should have known what she was capable of, but I was blindsided and I don’t want it to happen again.
However, I also don’t want to sit on this stupid red couch for another day, pretending I don’t have feelings for Madeleine. She doesn’t want to be led on, and I don’t want her to slip through my fingers. So, it’s simple: it’s time to man the fuck up.
I text her.
Adam: Tomorrow. 8:00 PM. Be ready because I’m taking you out on a date.
I expect some sort of protest; instead, I get a joke.
Madeleine: UGH. A little heads up would be nice. All my sexy panties are in the dirty clothes hamper.
Adam: Do laundry. Or don’t…no one said you had to wear underwear.
Madeleine: ADAM FOXE, I think my phone just blushed.
Adam: Is that a yes?
Madeleine: ……………………………Fine. Okay. ONE DATE.
CHAPTER TWENTY
MADELEINE
“
Where have you been? I’ve been calling your office phone all morning!”
“Oh, sorry,” I reply. “I was just showing my new client a few condos downtown.”
Daisy squeals. “Are you serious? A new client other than Adam?”
I lean back in my chair and run my fingers across my desk calendar. It’s not as full as I’d like it to be, but it’s getting there, and tonight, after Company meeting, I have Date???? penciled in with a little heart. The four question marks seemed necessary this morning; a period at the end was too presumptuous. Sure, Adam called it a date last night, but I’m not naive enough to take his words at face value. Maybe he wants a date, maybe he wants to find another dark closet—either way, I’m game. I’m just going to keep my heart and my expectations in check. Simple.
“Madeleine?”
I cover the calendar with my keyboard as if Daisy is looking over my shoulder instead of lingering on the other end of the phone line.
“Yes! It was another new client. I met him at the mixer, the one you showed up to for five minutes before leaving. Still, I owe you.”
“Oh yeah, that sucked, but you don’t owe me. I stole some wine on my way out.”
“Classy.”
“It was the sauvignon we both liked.”
Genius.
“Good. Save it until we can drink it together.”
“I can’t promise it’s going to last beyond tonight. Just come over after work. I see my last patient at 4:30 PM.”
Date???? taunts me from beneath my keyboard.
“I can’t. I have plans.”
“Plans? With who? I’m your only friend. That’s how this works.”
“Lori.”
I hear her do a very ladylike spit-take. “Jesus, I just got coffee all over my computer screen. Tell me you’re kidding.”
I smile. “Yeah. I’m actually seeing Adam.”
“Seeing Adam?”
“Yes, for a get-together.”
“Just call it what it is.”
“He called it a date, but I’m calling it a casual dining experience between two consenting adults.”
“God, you’re annoying,” she groans. “Can’t you just let good things happen to you? Why do you have to sabotage this before it even starts?”
“Sabotage it!?” I lean into my cubicle and lower my voice. “Have you already forgotten the scene at the YMCA when I asked Adam out for dinner and he turned me down? That was barely two weeks ago! And now suddenly he’s all ‘let’s date’ and ‘let’s get it on in dark closets’.”
She hums. “I see your point, that is a quick turnaround time. Maybe he’s suffering from a psychotic condition? Bipolar disorder? Depression?”
My eyes widen in alarm. Daisy is a doctor; she would know this sort of thing. “Are you serious?”
She laughs. “No! C’mon, I was kidding. He’s well within his rights to change his mind. It’s not like he proposed to you. He asked you on a date. Relax. Actually, if anyone is suffering from a psychotic condition, it’s you.”
“Thank you for the diagnosis, Dr. Thatcher. You might need to work on the bedside manner.”
“Speaking of bedside manners, have you guys boned yet?”
I jerk forward in my cubicle as if her voice can somehow carry through the office.
“Daisy!”
“Oh c’mon, don’t hold out on me now.”
“No, as a matter of fact, we haven’t yet.”
She hums and takes her time before replying, “That’s smart. Better to not have sex until you’re both ready to commit.”
“Why?”
She sighs. “Don’t they teach kids the whole milk-and-cow adage anymore?”
“Daisy, it’s not the 1950s. I’m an independent woman who can spray her milk all over town if she so chooses.”
She snorts. “And far be it from me to interfere with that. But if that’s the case, there’s another adage you should remember: don’t cry over spilled milk.”
“What the hell? Are you trying to be some freaky spirit guide?”
“Maybe.”
“You’re not even spiritual.”
“I took a meditation class a couple months ago, Madeleine. Name one person in your life more spiritual than me.”
“My mom. My dog. My mailman. The lady that passes out bibles outside the grocery store.”
She hangs up on me, and it’s just as well because Sandra walks by my cubicle a second later and clicks her tongue. Oh, save it, Sandra. I’ve had to listen to you take personal phone calls for the last year and guess what, my hilariously witty conversations with Daisy trump your weekly phone calls with your podiatrist. Newsflash: no one wants to hear you talking about bunion cream.
“Nearly finished for the day, Madeleine?” she asks, attempting to surreptitiously spy on the papers sitting on my desk. What does she think I keep in here, the nuclear codes?
“I just have a few things to finish up.”
It’s true. While I’d love nothing more than to leave work and start primping for my “casual dining experience” with Adam, I still have to fire off an email to Kyle Foster—my new client who’s in the market for a condo—and recap the options we toured earlier this morning. I have another round of showings scheduled with him later in the week, but I want to make sure we’re both on the same page.
Mr. Boggs has demanded another list of houses, and though everyone will say it’s a waste of time, I compile all the new listings on the market and send them over.
Then, after a few
phone calls and a short chat with Helen where she informs me that I’m “on the right track” and “won’t be on probation for much longer!”, I’m heading out the door, giddy to see Adam.
My attention is on my phone, though I tell myself I’m not checking for a text from him. Surely he wouldn’t cancel this last minute, right? As soon as I think the question, a dog bark snaps me back to reality. I glance up and freeze, completely taken aback by the sight in front of me. Adam’s car is parked in front of the curb and he’s leaning back against the passenger side door à la Jake Ryan from Sixteen Candles.
“Well this is a surprise,” I say, stepping closer and taking in the whole tantalizing image first presented to me a few yards back: his sexy jeans, the white button-down, the bouquet of sunflowers wrapped in brown paper he has clutched in his right hand.
I try to keep my smile within normal, sane limits as I raise my gaze to meet his. He’s been watching me study him.
“Do you like sunflowers?”
“Oh those are for me?”
He tilts his head and his adorable smile nearly kills me. “Well, I could try giving them to Mouse, but he’ll probably try to eat them.”
I nod, playing along. “He’s more of a roses guy.”
He bends down to kiss my cheek. “I’ll remember that for next time.”
Next time. NEXT TIME. My heart explodes.
“I love them. Thank you.” He hands me the sunflowers and I cradle them to my chest as he opens the car door for me. “You know you’re a few hours early.”
His fancy car purrs to life and we pull out onto the main road.
“I figured there was no point in waiting.”
“Oh yeah? Maybe I wanted to change or reapply my makeup or something,” I joke.
“No need. You look great.”
“Hmm…in my work dress? I look like I’m about to go to a board meeting.”
“Then I want to sit by you in a board meeting.”
I follow his gaze to where my dress has ridden up. When I’m standing, it’s a modest length, but the leather seats in his Audi have hiked up the skirt and a few inches of my thighs are now on perfect display. I lay the sunflowers down across my lap and smile when everything is covered.
“Thanks for the flowers,” I say with a smirk.
“Maybe I should give them to Mouse after all.”
“No, they’re too pretty. Where are we headed?”
“To the grocery store. I thought we’d grab a few things and then head back to your place to cook.”
“Oh? No fancy restaurant for the first date? Whatever happened to wining and dining a woman?”
His green gaze locks with mine as he slows the car to stop at a red light. “I’m a really good cook.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Any man can take you to a restaurant and pay for a meal, but not everyone can make my famous lasagna.”
“Fancy—a veterinarian and a chef.”
“Do you need me to turn the A/C on? You look flushed.”
“Ha ha, how about you just drive, funnyman.”
A few minutes later, we head into the grocery store and I suggest a strategy. “Let’s divide and conquer because I’m already hungry and lasagna takes forever.”
As it is, I’m already planning on peeling open a bag of chips to eat while I peruse the aisles.
“Okay, here.” He rips his grocery list in half and hands me one of the slivers. “I’ll grab the vegetables and then meet back up with you.”
I glance down and admire his chicken-scratch handwriting.
“What a romantic date.”
“Pretend like I’m there with you, being charming.”
“Maybe our hands would have brushed as we reached for the same box of lasagna noodles and we would have blushed and looked away—now we’ll never know.”
He starts to back away, smiling and shaking his head. “I thought you were hungry.”
I reach for a bag of sour cream and onion chips stashed on the end cap of an aisle. I tear them open and pop one into my mouth. Delicious. And if I imagine it’s a healthy green juice, it’s a win-win.
“You have to pay for those, you know.”
“I will,” I say with a shrug. “Now go. I bet I can finish with my list way before you can.”
His brow arches. “Is that a challenge?”
I stuff another chip into mouth, nod, and then take off running in the opposite direction before he even realizes what I’m doing. Technically it’s cheating, but I ignore his shouts behind me as I narrowly avoid a cart being pushed along by an elderly woman. She bats her fist at me like I’m some no-good youth, and hell, maybe I am. I’m running in a grocery store while eating stolen merchandise, but it’s for the greater good—or at least for good, healthy competition.
I realize my mistake a minute later when I glance down at Adam’s list. His messy handwriting might have seemed adorable before, but it’s going to be my downfall in this race. What the hell does he mean by “crosted tumatues”. I squint and gather that the second word is actually tomatoes. Still, what the hell are crosted tomatoes?!
I ask everyone in the tomato and pasta aisle who will humor me.
“Lady, I have no clue. I’m just trying to get to the spaghetti sauce.”
I try someone else. “Excuse me, sir, have you heard of crosted tomatoes?”
He shakes his head and keeps careful watch of me as he scoots his cart past, like he assumes I’m going to reach out and grab it.
“I’m not crazy!” I tell him, like any sane person would. “I just don’t know what crosted tomatoes are!”
Then I fling my arms up in hopeless abandon and knock down one of the display towers so carefully arranged in the aisle. I scramble to keep the cans from rolling too far away and succeed in recreating the display at least half as well as the person who did it before me. Mission accomplished. I look down and read what the cans say: crushed tomatoes. CRUSHED, not crosted! I mistook Adam’s u and h for an o and a t. I shout that to the man who thinks I’m crazy and he tells me I better leave him alone.
I know I’m running behind. Adam is probably done with his list and heading toward the checkout by now. I make a mad dash for tomato sauce and lasagna noodles, and then I spend a solid five minutes in the cheese section trying to decipher his handwriting. Parmesan and mozzarella are easy enough to make out, but there’s a third type of cheese that’s plaguing me. I’m scanning through all the possible options on the shelf when someone says my name behind me.
“Madeleine? Is that you?”
I turn to find Carter grocery shopping in his police uniform. Well damn. I now realize that if he’d worn this getup on our first date, there would have likely been a second.
“Carter! Hey!”
I’m excited to see him for two reasons: he was in the market for a house the last time I checked, and I think he can help me decipher Adam’s handwriting. I start with the latter.
“Oh, yeah, that says ricotta.”
I slap my forehead. “Of course! Duh. Thank you.”
He finds it on the shelf before me and then adds it to the growing pile of ingredients stacked in my arms. I should have grabbed a basket, but in my rush to get going, I forgot one.
“You got it?” he asks with a laugh.
“Yeah. It’s all very strategically balanced and should stay in place as long as I don’t make any sudden movements.”
He laughs again, and I ask how he’s been since the mixer.
“Good. Just picking up extra shifts whenever I can, keeping busy.”
“Sounds fun. Did any properties catch your attention?”
I’m nothing if not direct. I still have a grocery-shopping contest to win, after all.
“Y’know, to be honest, now probably isn’t the best time to invest in real estate. I’m going up for a promotion soon and if that happens, I’ll have a bit more income to play around with.”
I’d hold up my hands to stop him if they weren’t full. “Of course! Believe me, I underst
and. I have dreams of moving out of my crappy apartment one day too.”
He smiles and catches the attention of another shopper, who passes extremely slowly with her cart. Like I said, it’s the uniform.
“I am in the market for a date though.”
My attention jerks back to him. “What?”
“C’mon, Madeleine. I know the timing didn’t work so well last time, but we had a good time, didn’t we?”
“You never called me about a second date,” I admit sheepishly.
His brows arch as if in shock. “I must have been busy with work or something, because believe me, I was interested then, and I’m interested now.”
“Oh…ha. I don’t think…I mean, I’m flattered.”
I am, seriously. Up until the last few weeks, I would have crawled on my hands and knees for some male attention, and now suddenly I’m at the grocery being asked out while on a date. Is Mercury in retrograde or something? Wait, what does that even mean?
“C’mon, you aren’t seeing anyone, are you? I asked Daisy at the mixer and she said you were dating, but it was nothing serious.”
At that precise moment, I spot Adam push a cart around the corner, and for some reason, I panic. It feels like I’m cheating on him, like I’ve snuck off in the middle of our date to have a rendezvous in the dairy section with Carter. Adam’s expression as Carter and I come into view only solidifies my guilt. It sits like heavy sludge in my stomach.
“Madeleine?” Carter asks, trying to figure out why I’ve suddenly gone mute.
Adam stops his cart beside ours and glances back and forth between us.
“Cameron, hey.”
“Oh, it’s Carter.”
“Right. Madeleine, did you get all the stuff on the list?”
I look down at the pitiful stack in my arms. I still have a ways to go, and now it looks like I’ve been here dilly-dallying with Carter instead of shopping.