by Holly Kerr
“Why?” Flora asks the woman with a hard edge to her voice. “Are you dating him?”
The woman laughs bitterly. “Clay doesn’t date. Or at least he doesn’t do relationships. We went out a few times, and I thought things were great, but now he won’t return my texts. Nothing. He’s ghosting me.”
It takes three swallows before I can reply, my heart breaking like the cup Rhoda dropped earlier. Clay and this woman with the hair and amazing hazel eyes? Clay and other women? My Clay? “Ghosting?”
“Pretending I don’t exist. He’s done it before to a couple of girls I know, but at least he was nice to them. I sent him a bunch of texts and now nothing.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say faintly and walk out of the shop without meeting Flora’s eyes.
Clay
As soon as M.K. opens her door, I know I made the right decision giving up my ticket for tonight’s Jays game.
She’s wearing a navy, sleeveless dress that makes her eyes even bluer and her waist tinier than I thought possible.
But she’s frowning, her eyes filled with worry. It’s the twist of her lips that stills the hug I’m about to give her.
“You look amazing,” I begin. “I’ve been—”
“Are you seeing someone else?” she demands, folding her arms across her chest. Her blue eyes flash with anger.
“No! Are you?”
“I met someone who has been texting you.” M.K. takes a deep breath. “She says she went out with you a bunch of times and now you’re ghosting her. I don’t even know what that means.” Her frown deepens and a tinge of concern sparks.
“It means…Don’t worry about what it means, because I don’t do it. And I’m not dating anyone.” Now it’s my turn to frown. I don’t know M.K. very well, and therefore don’t know what she considers dating. My hanging out with Heather was last week so—“Was it Heather?”
“Was what Heather?” M.K. remains in the doorway, leaving me on the step below so we’re the same height.
“Is that who you met?” I glance down to see a movement at her feet. A gray cat winds its body around M.K.’s ankles. “A cat.”
M.K. raises an eyebrow. “I have three cats.”
“That’s a lot of cats.” I laugh awkwardly, knowing I’m sinking fast.
“Do you like cats?”
I feel like this is a very important question, more important than the usual favourite animal query. “Who doesn’t like cats?”
“Do you?” Her voice cools several degrees, and for a moment my knees quake.
“Not especially,” I admit, steeling myself. “But only because I’m allergic.”
“You’re allergic to cats?”
The disappointment on her face cheers me. “Only a little bit. And I always have Claritin.”
“You have allergy pills with you now?” she asks skeptically.
“Never leave home without them,” I brag. “I’m like a Boy Scout that way. So, are we ready to go?” I step back in hopes she’ll leave the doorway.
No such luck.
“Not so fast,” M.K. says quickly. “I think I need to know more about this Heather. Are you dating her?” Her voice is cool and calm, but I can’t read the expression on her face. She might be teasing, or she might be deadly serious. She might be getting ready to slam the door in my face or set one of her three cats to attack me, laughing as I sneeze myself into misery.
I really wish I’d texted Heather back.
“Let’s get this clear. Was the girl—woman—you spoke to tall with long brown hair? Lots of earrings? And she wears this mauve-coloured lipstick that really doesn’t go with her colouring?”
“Sounds like you know a lot about her.”
“I’m observant. I have a thing about lipstick. Like yours.” I reach out and touch the corner of her mouth with a hesitant finger. “I like the shade—enough pink so that it’s not technically a nude, but I think you could even go a shade or two brighter, to make your lips stand out.” I gently swipe my finger under her bottom lip. “You have really nice lips. As I was happy to notice last night.” I smile carefully at her, wondering if I went too far.
M.K. draws in a shaky breath. “You’re trying to distract me.”
“Am I? Am I distracting you?” This time I grin at her, seeing the coolness in her face dissipate.
I’m surprised how much I really want this to work.
“No. I’m not dating anyone,” I say slowly. “I went out with Heather a few times. The last time was last week, but I never gave her any indication that it was anything other than casual. I wasn’t into developing a relationship with her. It was fun; she’s a nice girl.”
“But you didn’t text her back. That’s rude.”
“It is.” I pull out my phone. “But if you look here…” A few touches has my list of messages open and inviting her to look. “Heather texted me yesterday and again last night.” I hold my phone up. “I got them yesterday right before you called me. And last night it came in just as you walked in the door.” I smile at her. “You kind of distracted me. Not that it’s your fault, of course. I should have gotten back to her.”
“But you’re not dating her?”
“My relationship status is single. But I’m hoping to change that after tonight.”
~
It takes almost the entire drive to the restaurant before M.K. relaxes, and even then I sense the questioning sideways glances she gives me. But she does give me a smile, albeit a tight-lipped one, when we walk into the restaurant.
How did things go so wrong? I enjoy the company of more than a few women so it’s not impossible that my past and present overlap but never before have they collided like this.
I hope M.K. is past it, but nope, she’s only just begun.
“Are you a player?” she demands as soon as the hostess leaves us with the menus. But M.K. doesn’t wait long enough because her head whips around when she hears her comment.
“Define player,” I counter, dropping my napkin in my lap and fighting the urge to open the menu. Not that I care about eating right now, but it might be a good defense should cutlery start flying.
“You date a lot of women.” It’s not a question.
I take a deep breath. “I do.” There’s no sense beating around the bush. And besides, I already get the impression M.K. isn’t one for withholding the truth.
“Why?” M.K. rests her chin on her fist, her dark gaze searching my face. On closer look, I realize her eyes are a very dark blue, almost navy. And her nose turns up a bit at the end.
“Why what?” It’s not that I’m avoiding the question, but studying her face actually distracts me. Her lips are a perfect bow, the bottom lip full, and the little dip on the top is adorable.
“Why date numerous women? Why aren’t you looking for a relationship?”
“Who says I’m not?”
I’ve never had a girl look at me like M.K. is—like she has the ability to read my soul.
A woman—M.K. is a definitely no girl.
I think she might have the potential to be a scary woman too.
As M.K. stares at me, I toy with my fork; moving, adjusting. Fidgeting.
Like I’m afraid of the question.
“When I meet a woman, the first thing I do is tell her I’m not looking for anything serious. I say I’m looking for fun and want to keep it casual. My way of thinking is that people will accept anything if you’re upfront at the beginning, so that’s what I do. I never tell women that my first serious relationship was in my senior year in high school and on the night of the prom, I found out she had been sleeping with my best friend all year. I don’t tell anyone about the woman who I dated in university who had changed my mind about getting serious until I caught her with my roommate.” I grin ruefully. “I also don’t introduce many dates to my friends.”
M.K. swallows. “Is this the part where you tell me you’re not looking for anything serious?”
“I would have told you that last night. Before I ki
ssed you, too.” The memory of her lips against mine brings a smile to my face.
“Oh.” The corners of her mouth turn up, and I hope she’s having the same memory.
I glance at my watch. “It’s twenty-five minutes into this date and I’ve already told you more than any woman I’ve dated in the last year. I date a lot of women because I enjoy women. They’re fun. They’re fun to be around. And I haven’t been looking for a relationship. And right now, I think that’s been a really smart move on my part.”
“Why is that?”
I reach my hand across the table and touch her fingers. “Because then I wouldn’t have been ready to meet you.”
Chapter Nine
M.K.
When I look at Clay, I will myself not to melt. Because he’s very good looking—even more once I realize he’s not the sleazy player Heather made him out to be. He’s like a blond Tom Cruise, with that contagious smile and even a tiny dimple in his cheek.
He smells better than freshly baked pastry.
Maybe it’s naïve, but I trust Clay more than Heather right now. He showed me her texts; he gave all the right explanations and despite how he’s trying to smooth it all under the table, I believe him.
I really want to believe him.
I open the menu and search for the wine list. “Does anything look good?” Clay asks politely.
“I think I just want—I really need a drink right now,” I admit with a smile. “This—this night hasn’t gone as well as I’d planned.”
“So it’s not just me?”
At the sight of his hopeful smile, I do melt a little and give him an apologetic smile. “I should apologize for attacking you like that.”
Clay shrugs. “I should have texted her back, and then we wouldn’t have had the problem. Just out of curiosity, where did you meet her?”
“She came in to Flora’s for an interview when I was there. Flora said something about you; I said something about Dean and Heather—if that’s who it was—put two and two together.”
“She never even met Dean. Maybe I mentioned him…”
“Maybe she’s observant.”
“You mean like a stalker?”
I laugh, and then Clay laughs, and then it’s like the whole world is laughing with us.
This is going to be okay.
Maybe better than okay.
“Since you’ve had the Twenty Questions about my dating life, do I get to ask you any?” Clay asks, resting his hand on the table. It would be easy to reach out and touch it, touch him. I can’t believe how much I want to.
“There’s no need,” I say ruefully, tugging on my earlobe. “My last actual date was seven months ago, courtesy of my mother trying to set me up. It went horribly, as expected.”
Clay winces. “You let your mother set you up?”
“Trust me when I say I really had no choice.”
“Sounds like my mother. Actually, no, because Mom would never try to set me up. But she’s strong and tough. She makes sure I give women the respect they deserve.”
“My mother is the strongest woman I know.” My admission surprises me. “My father left us when I was ten, and she had to raise me and my three sisters, as well as take over the winery because my father gave that up, too.”
“Winery? Like a Niagara winery?”
“Four Leaf Clover wines. It’s outside Niagara-on-the-Lake. That’s where both Flora and I grew up.”
“Four—named for you and your sisters?”
I laugh again, my shoulders relaxing bit by bit. “You’d think. No, my grandfather started it, named it. It’s a family joke that my mother had the four of us to fit the name. Apparently my father only wanted two—two boys probably.”
“Boys are overrated. Girls are much more fun.” His hand still rests on the table and if I reach just a little bit, I can touch his fingers.
I fold my hands in my lap instead. He smells incredible. “How about you? Any siblings?”
“Two older brothers. Clarence and Clyde.”
I bite back the smile. “They’re interesting names.”
“You can say that. I’m not sure what my parents were thinking.” Clay points to the menu. “Look, if you grew up with wine, you can pick the bottle, and then tell me what you’re doing in Toronto instead of tending the grapes.”
“I can’t just pick wine for you without knowing what you’re going to eat,” I protest.
Clay gives me a blinding white smile. “It doesn’t matter what I order; I’m not going to be able to taste anything because I’m so full of you.”
My heart lurches.
He wrinkles his nose at me. “Was that too cheesy?”
“Maybe a little,” I admit with a shy smile. “But I think I like cheese.”
I order a bottle of Gamay Noir and tell Clay about taking culinary classes at night before following Flora to Toronto; name dropped the restaurants I worked in before realizing I needed to open my own place before I went crazy taking orders from arrogant chefs.
“I didn’t want to run a restaurant because of the hours,” I admit, after tasting the mouthful of wine and nodding to the waiter who brought it. “I’ve always been more of a morning person. Flora gave me the idea for the patisserie. She had already opened Fleur, and there was a pub that was for sale. She said she didn’t want a bar there because we’d drink too much, but someplace that had coffee that could compete with Starbucks would be great. It’s ironic because we had been drinking at the time of this conversation,” I finish with a laugh.
“So you up and bought the place? All by yourself?”
“Flora helped. It was a tough go at the beginning, but I managed.”
“I don’t think your mother is the strongest woman you know,” Clay says with admiration. “You must be one tough cookie.”
“I like making cookies,” I say.
“I’d like to try your cookies,” he says lightly.
“That might be arranged.” He holds my gaze until I dip my chin self-consciously. “So what do you do?”
“Nothing nearly as exciting as you.”
As I listen to Clay tell me about his marketing duties with FoodMart, I feel my heart pounding. My rule is four dates, four substantial dates before any physical contact. I don’t do casual sex. I need a degree of developed intimacy before I allow myself to take that step. It’s a hard rule for me, one that will protect me from the confusion and uncertainty an impulsive physical relationship can lead to. It also protects my heart. I don’t do sex with men I don’t know well enough to trust.
When I look at Clay, I wonder if it’s time to break the rule.
~
We linger over dinner. Every comment seems to lead to a new conversation train.
I don’t remember the last time I laughed so much.
Clay pours the last of the wine in my glass. From the heated flush of my cheeks, I know I’ve drunk my fair share of the bottle, but Clay is driving, and it is a nice bottle. “I’m not ready for tonight to end,” he says, sounding surprised.
I circle the rim of my glass with my finger. “Why do you sound so surprised by that? Do your dates not last?” I glance surreptitiously at my Fitbit. “Wow, it’s already after ten o’clock!”
Clay looks sheepish. “I don’t remember the last time I had a three-hour dinner with a woman.”
“When’s the last time you invited a woman to dinner?” I ask then shake my head. “Don’t answer that. It’s none on my business.”
“It could be your business,” he says casually, but the words send a childish thrill through me. “I think you’ve figured out that I date a lot of women. You can call me a player if you want, but I enjoy the company of women. I think the female species is fascinating.”
“I don’t think I’ve heard that one before.”
“Well, it’s true,” he says with a rueful grin. “You, especially, are very fascinating.”
I motion with my hand for him to continue and Clay laughs. “You’re not falling for any of my bullshi
t, are you?”
“Is that what it is?”
“I like to compliment. Is that so wrong?”
“As long as you mean it.”
He holds my gaze for a beat. “I do. I mean every word. There’s something about you, M.K…” He shakes his head. “What’s your real name?”
“Moira. Moira Margaret.”
“Moira.” He rolls my name between his lips and never before have I appreciated it more. “What’s the K stand for?”
“That’s a long story, and one you might not understand. Have you ever seen the movie The Cutting Edge? It came out in the nineties.”
“I have a vague recollection of the nineties.” Clay grins. “And I remember sitting through that movie more than once. It’s the one about the skaters, isn’t it?”
I laugh at his admission. “You must have been forced to watch it with a girl.”
He nods. “My sister-in-law, actually. She wanted to be a figure skater. Liv.” Something passes over his face that I don’t recognize. “Rance’s wife.”
“Rance?”
“Clarence. My brothers are ten and eight years older than I am, so Liv’s always been like a big sister to me.”
“That’s nice.”
“So—movie,” he prompts. “We seem to go off topic a lot tonight.”
“We do,” I agree. “Anyway, I watched that movie with friends and since there was another Moira in the class, they started calling me M.K. because I looked like the actress in the movie, Moira Kelly.”
He cocks his head to the side. “I can see it. But I think you’re better looking.”
“I thought we agreed no bullshit?”
“It’s not.” Clay reaches across the table and tucks my hair behind my ear, displaying the ragged, whitish-pink scar. “That looks like it was painful. How’d you get it?”
He’s the only man who has ever noticed my scar and not said it looked ugly. I swallow past the lump in my throat.
“Biking accident,” I say lightly. “I was sixteen and Flora and I got pushed off the road by a truck. I fell into barbed wire; she dislocated her arm. It ended any hope of her career in softball.”