Maybe Someone Like You

by Stacy Wise

  “Are the photos in the file? I haven’t seen any.”

  “You need to get them,” he says, stretching out the words as though I have only a tentative grasp of the English language. “I want you to go to the pet store with your camera and gather evidence.”

  In law school, we were told investigators handled this type of thing. It’s unclear to me why Kenneth wants me to do it, but I won’t ask. He’s in one of his superior moods. “Okay. Should I focus specifically on the area where the bird was?”

  He sighs and slips his hands into his pockets. “Dr. C said there’s a don’t touch the bird sign posted. Does it say why?” He shrugs and adopts a look of concern. “If it only says don’t touch, am I supposed to guess why I shouldn’t touch the bird? Will I spook it? Does the prospect of germy hands handling the bird worry the owners? How are we supposed to know the bird will bite unless it’s clearly stated? Is there a pet shop employee standing guard near the perch, warning customers?” He pauses, moving to cross his arms. “These are all things we need to know. If there’s only the one vague sign, we bury them with it.”

  God, he’s brilliant. Scary, but brilliant. “Right. I’ll get the photos today.”

  The pet store smells like rodents and beef jerky. A glass pen filled with fluffy bunnies explains the first odor, and I’m assuming dog treats are responsible for the second. I’d hate to work here. A stout woman with a cotton candy poof of hair is stocking a shelf with fish food. I sidle past her, hoping to go unnoticed, but she turns to me, brushing her hands down the front of polyester pants. “Hi there. What brings you in today?”

  So much for my stealth operation. I should’ve thought to use a hat and sunglasses. Trying to avoid her eyes, I say, “A birthday gift.” Shoot. Why couldn’t I have said I need a flea collar? Who buys gifts at a pet store?

  She tilts her head, and I marvel at the way her hair doesn’t move. She must use a healthy coating of hair spray to maintain that style. “Do you have a particular pet in mind?”

  “Um, I’m not sure. I’ll do a little browsing.” I pause, pretending to think. “On second thought, a bird would be nice. From the chirping, it sounds like you have a lot of them.”

  “We sure do. There’s an entire bird room in back. Follow the noise.”

  I head to the back of the store, passing only one customer who’s busy following a toddler along the wall of fish tanks. The birds welcome me with a frantic cacophony of squawks and a flurry of fluttering wings. “Shh!” I whisper, looking down as though it’ll help. Averting eyes is what you’re supposed to do with an aggressive dog, not a flock of crazed birds.

  Once I settle in, I sweep my eyes across the room. Standing in the corner is an empty bird stand made to look like a tree branch. Written in lopsided printing is a sign that reads, Please do Not pet the Bird. ASK Employees. As I mentally correct the capitalizations, I slip my phone from my pocket, double-checking the ringer is off, and I tap on the camera icon.

  My phone nearly drops from my hand when a voice sings, “Hello! Hello, my fine, feathered friends.”

  A thin man wearing fitted yellow jeans and bright-green high-tops scuttles in, a plastic bucket in hand. “Well, well! I didn’t realize we had company,” he says, peering at me over his red-framed glasses.

  “Uh, hi. I’m just browsing. For a gift.” And trying to get a freaking picture.

  “Well, don’t mind me. I’m just here for the birds. Get it? For the birds?” He wheezes out a laugh as he extends a hand. “I’m Jimmy, the caretaker of these amazing creatures.”

  Oh, for the love of God. Can’t anything be simple? “Hi.” I shift my phone and take the hand he offers. It feels like a tilapia fillet. “Nice to meet you. The birds are lovely.” I turn to a cage filled with parakeets and pretend to study them. The last thing I need is a conversation with a potential witness.

  He hums as he opens cages, removes plastic feed cups, and dumps the contents into a trash can. “You know,” he says, “the canary is a gem of a bird. Their singing is delightful, unlike the finches’ tune, which can get a little grating with the peep, peep, peeping. I personally love it—that goes without saying, of course—but some people don’t. Peep, peep, peep,” he says in a shrill voice. “But the sweet song of the canary…” He pauses, a dreamy look in his eyes. Then he purses his lips and moves them like he’s doing lip yoga, creating a very authentic birdsong. This guy should go on tour. He finishes with a loud warble, twirls a hand in front of himself, and bows.

  “Bravo.” I clap quietly. “That must’ve taken a lot of practice.”

  “I can teach you if you’d like. See, first, touch your tongue to the roof of your mouth, right behind your teeth.” He opens his mouth so I can see. I’m certain it doesn’t cross his mind that I don’t want a view of his tongue and teeth. “Now blow out while putting pressure on your tongue,” he mumbles while trying to keep his tongue in place.

  “It’s okay.” I hold up a hand. “I can’t even whistle, so a birdsong is going to be a bit of a stretch for me. Anyway, I should go. I need to get back to work.”

  “Shame.” His mouth falls into a pout. “But what about your gift?”

  My mind races. “Um, I just don’t know. Do you mind if I take a few photos of the birds? It’s a big decision.”

  “Why, certainly. Finding just the right bird takes time. Please don’t use the flash, though. It can frighten my little friends.” He leans toward a cage, cooing, and I wonder if he’s warning the birds about the imminent photo shoot.

  As he does his bird whispering, I begin snapping in rapid succession, taking care to circle my way around the bird stand.

  He turns to me, concern clouding his face. “Do you see a bird on the perch there?”

  I tuck my phone into my pocket. “No. Am I supposed to?”

  “No. No, no, no. I just saw you taking pictures of an empty perch and had to wonder. No offense, but the world is full of oddballs.”

  “Right. I like the stand and want to remember what it looks like. Thanks for the canary tips. I’ll keep them in mind.”

  “You bet. And practice those whistles!”

  Yeah right.

  Even though it’s been hours since my pet shop excursion and I’ve changed into my gym clothes, the pet store stench emanates from my pores. I can’t imagine what it’d be like to be stuck there all day. Maybe I’d become immune to the smell, the way Hannah became immune to garlic stink when she worked at Olive Garden during our senior year.

  In the entry of the gym, I pause by the fan, hoping it’ll blow the smell off me. With my eyes closed, I let the cool air blast my body.

  “If you’re going for a windswept look, it’s working.” I flick my eyes open to see Ryan wearing his usual half grin.

  “You should thank me. I’m trying to dry clean myself so I don’t smell like caged animals.”

  “I kind of feel like I don’t want to touch that one.”

  “Smart man.”

  His eyes crinkle at the corner as he laughs. “I try. So,” he says, his tone now serious. “The pipes are squared away, but the gym still feels musty to me, hence the fans. Any chance you feel like taking a field trip for our training today? I’m in need of some fresh air.”

  “A field trip? Like to the yoga studio?”

  He raises his brows. “Oh, I like the idea of crashing a yoga class. But what I had in mind is jogging down to the beach. We can do some soft sand sprints and work some drills.”

  An image of a sandy Ryan holding his niece springs to mind, and I swallow a grin. “Sounds fun.”

  “That’s my girl. Always up for adventure. Go ahead and leave your things in a cubby, and let’s go.”

  As I rush to stuff my bag in a cubby, his words zip around me, teasing me. That’s my girl. If only.

  We jog down the hill toward the beach, and I take in a lungful of the crisp air.

  “It’s nice out, isn’t it? I love this time of year,” he says easily, the run obviously more fun than taxing for him.


  “Me, too.”

  “So this caged-animal business,” he says, stealing a sideways glance. “I have to admit I’m curious.”

  “It was a super-fun work field trip. I had to take some evidentiary pictures at a pet shop. The best part was having some guy wanting to teach me bird calls.”

  “Sexy.”

  A laugh bursts out of me, and I have to stop to catch my breath. “He was far from sexy. What, do you like girls who do bird calls?”

  We resume jogging, and he says, “Hell no. I don’t like birds. They friggin scare me.”

  “You’re not afraid of spiders, but you’re scared of birds?”

  “Okay, not all birds, but the ones that talk freak me out. And I hate crows.”

  “Shoot. There goes my birthday present idea for you. I was going to get you a talking parrot.”

  He punches my arm—lightly of course—and smiles. “It’s next month, so there’s still time to think of some other ideas.”

  “I’m on it.” If he only knew the ideas that were filling my mind.

  We reach the pier and step onto the soft sand. “Since it’s getting dark, we’ll keep between here and the first lifeguard tower. There’s plenty of light coming from the pier.”

  Taking off our shoes, I ask, “Are you going to do these sprints with me?”

  He places both pairs of shoes on the low retaining wall and turns to me. “We’re racing. Ready?” I take off without answering as his laughter flows behind me. But seconds later, he’s by my side, running hard. We reach the guard tower and sprint back to our starting point, my breath coming out in pants.

  “Okay, that sucked.”

  “It was fun!”

  I glare at him. “You’re insane.”

  “I try. Two more, and then we can work some drills. Actually, we’ll do two and a half so we end up on the hard sand down by the water.”

  Heaving a breath, I take off again, wanting it to be over. By the time I finish, which in truth is only minutes later, my chest aches, and I place my hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath.

  Ryan stands near me, barely winded. “Can’t quit on me yet.”

  “Not quitting,” I say between pants. “This is the part of our training where you show me some kicks.”

  “Clever, aren’t you?”

  “Very.” Brushing the sand from my leggings, I stand back, smiling. In seconds, Ryan is in the air, spinning, his front leg out at a devastating height, and then he lands softly. Like a cat. “I feel like that deserves a round of applause. What was that?”

  “It’s called a 540 kick. A little something I learned in tae kwon do.”

  “Impressive.”

  “Thank you.” He grins. “Now it’s time for your drills. Do a good job, and I’ll show you another kick.”

  “I’m not sure I can handle all that hotness,” I mutter.

  “What’s that?” he asks, stepping closer.

  “Drills! I’m ready.” I step into fighting stance. “Shadow boxing doing a jab, cross?”

  “Go for it—halfway to the tower and back.”

  As I step forward and begin my drills, I replay Ryan’s kick in my head. There’s no way he learned that in a day or a week, or even a month. It’s clear that he truly loves what he does. A feeling I can’t pin down glimmers inside me. Admiration? Yes. But also envy.

  “Hang on, there, champ.”

  I stop and turn as he jogs toward me. “Let’s get that footwork under control. You want to push off your back foot while taking a small step with your lead as you throw the jab.” He demonstrates for me, his movements as fluid as the ocean. My heart flutters in my chest. Watching him move in the moonlight with the ocean behind him and the twinkling lights of the pier casting a romantic glow is too much. He turns his head. “Come on, Katie! Do what I’m doing.”

  “Right!” We fall into sync, moving together as we head back toward the water. It’s strangely intimate, like we’re dancing without touching.

  “You’ve got it. Now do two more on your own, and then we’ll switch it up.”

  He stops to watch my progress, and I continue alone. I’m certain he demonstrates for all his clients, but here, with the waves lapping the shore and the moonlight making his eyes shine, it feels like more. And it shouldn’t. My date with Lachlan can’t come soon enough.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I try to keep my hand steady as I apply my eyeliner. Lauren is busy riffling through my closet. It’s Saturday night, and in less than thirty minutes, I’ll be in the throes of my date with Lachlan. Those lively brown eyes and that accent will definitely distract me from my crush on Ryan. Or whatever it is I have for him that I’m too afraid to fully admit.

  “What kind of vibe are you going for?” she calls over the clatter of hangers scraping across the closet rod.

  “No clue. Just me, I guess.”

  “You should sexy it up a bit. Add a little badass kickboxer chick to your buttoned-up lawyer look.”

  “So you’re thinking a cute skirt with my boxing gloves?”

  “Precisely.” She lays my navy wrap dress across my bed. “This is perfect. You can wear the nude heels I borrowed last weekend with it.”

  “Actually, I think I’ll wear it with my boots. They’re more badass.” I smile as I slip off my robe and slide the dress over my head. Once I have the belt tied, I step into my brown suede stiletto boots, lace the leather cords up the front, and stand so she can critique my outfit.

  She circles me like a tailor with a sharp eye. “Those boots, Katie. Wow. And your dress is amazing. You’re going to have a wonderful time. Will you sneak off to the bathroom to let me know how it’s going?”

  “You got it. Wish me luck.”

  Cone-shaped topiaries dotted with twinkling white lights flank the front doors of Cacciotti’s, and the smell of rosemary wafts out to greet me. Here we go.

  I walk into the restaurant and spot Lachlan immediately. He’s hard to miss in the wine-colored jeans he wears. He’s paired them expertly with a V-neck cashmere sweater over a white collared shirt. The hostess’s cheeks redden as she laughs at something he said. He turns as though suddenly aware of my presence, and his face lights up. I feel like I’m basking in sunshine. The hostess turns her gaze to me, and I know she feels it, too. For the first time in ages, I’m the one the handsome guy is excited to see.

  “You look positively smashing, Katie.” He takes my hand and leans in close to kiss both cheeks. “Shall we proceed to the table?”

  We follow the hostess through the restaurant, passing tables covered with crisp linens and bud vases filled with tiny roses. The reviewers weren’t exaggerating when they called it the best date place in town.

  The hostess stops at a booth tucked into an alcove in the back of the restaurant. I wonder if Lachlan slipped her a twenty to score this table. It’ll be so much easier to talk away from the buzz of voices up front. As soon as I slide into the leather booth, my nerves march in. I really should have considered a shot of vodka before coming here. I’m certain Lachlan can see ugly red splotches blooming across my chest.

  “I’ve been waiting all week for this. I’m so pleased to have you as my dinner date.” His eyes match the sincerity in his tone, and my nerves begin to scurry aside. “Would you like to begin with a glass of wine?” he asks, perusing the list.

  “Sure.”

  He smiles. “The Argiano Brunello di Montalcino sounds lovely. It has, and I quote, ‘a rounded and voluptuous body, and interesting, silky tannins.’ What do you think?”

  I hold back a laugh. “It sounds lovely.” And not unlike the vintner’s idea of his perfect woman. I pause, searching for something else to say. My mind goes blank, so I focus on the menu, reading full descriptions of Quattro Formaggi and Pappardelle Genovese. Both seem wonderful. I feel Lachlan watching me, so I glance up. “Hi.”

  “Hi.”

  I take a breath. “So how’s your journal? Have you written in it yet?”

  “Ah, Katie.” He slides the menu
s to the side of the table and leans forward. “I’ve written about a disastrous trip to Disneyland. People say it’s the happiest place on Earth. The happiest place on Earth, my arse. I needed a haircut by the time I arrived at the front of the line for Space Mountain.”

  “Oh no! The key is going on an off day. Weekdays are typically better than weekends, though.”

  “Well, the day we went might as well have been a national holiday. I could’ve spent my time in a far more entertaining way than looking at the back of little children’s heads capped with mouse ears. I’ll have to make up for it tonight, won’t I?” He folds his hands casually beneath his chin. “I’m certain tonight will be journal worthy. In fact, will you stand up? I need one more look at those boots. I had only the briefest glimpse of them.”

  If it weren’t for his charming accent and that jaunty smile, his request might’ve sounded creepy. Part of me feels entirely too self-conscious, but nonetheless, I scoot out of the booth and stand.

  “Give me a twirl, will you?”

  A laugh spurts out of me. “You’re too much.” I spin, offering a hint of a curtsy when I’m done.

  “Bravo, Katie. You’re lovely.” I start to take my seat, but he taps the spot next to him. “Please. Sit next to me.” He sweeps a sorrowful look across the table. “As lovely as it is back here with all this privacy, the table is positively massive, wouldn’t you agree? I nearly have to shout to be heard across it.”

  That’s a hefty exaggeration but sweet—adorably sweet—and I scoot in next to him.

  The server arrives, greeting us with a red-lipped smile. “May I get you something to drink? Some red wine, perhaps?” Her thick Italian accent makes her words sound like they’re slathered in honey.

  Lachlan orders a bottle of the Brunello, which seems like a lot for just the two of us, but I suppose we can enjoy it over a leisurely dinner. He takes my hand as the server leaves.

  “You have such lovely hands. American women put their British sisters to shame when it comes to grooming.” He trails a finger along my skin. “Your nails are short, but that glossy red polish is stunning. The average British woman doesn’t look after her hands.” He inspects mine like a child discovering a seashell for the first time and frowns. “It’s as though they spend their days climbing trees or tending horses.”