“I would wager you’re incorrect,” she retorts. “In fact, I know you are, like you were when we were little about where the sun went as it set.” Aspen smirks and tilts her head to the side.
When she does that, I’m instantly eight years old and want to pull her hair and call her names. My sister and I were the worst as little girls. My parents have a huge home. It’s ridiculous, but they insisted that we share a room. They both grew up very modestly and believed the bonds with their siblings were strengthened by sharing.
So, Aspen, who’s been a slob since she was little, shared my room.
My beloved room, which I’d color-coded for easy cleanup. I liked order and a bit of neatness, but my sister would purposely make the room a mess.
Making me ... crazy.
We fought daily, calling names, pulling hair. We were so bad my parents finally separated us, but Aspen thought it was comical to still come into my room and destroy it.
Right now, I feel like she’s doing the same damn thing.
“I wasn’t wrong then and I’m not wrong now. You barely even know Reid; I know everything.”
“Not who is right for him.”
I groan. “I think I know what he’s looking for more than you do. You looked at a photo.”
“She has crazy eyes.”
Now I’ve heard it all. “I have a crazy sister.”
“Yes, but my eyes aren’t.”
Oh, I assure her, they are. Everything in front of me right now is. “Whatever, she’s my best pick for him.”
“Well, you’re going to be sorely disappointed when he meets the crazy-eye girl and suddenly starts to second-guess you.”
“If you’re so smart, who would you pick?” I toss back at her. She thinks she’s so good at this? Let’s see her find someone for him.
Aspen closes her eyes, with her hands on her knees. “You.”
And now I know she’s really crazy because there’s no way Reid and I could ever work. We’re too different. Whatever chemistry the two of us felt last night was a fluke.
Tonight will prove that.
Six
Willow
Monday nights are when Reid tortures me with all of his comic book shows. They’re so bad. I know he thinks my sappy shows are terrible, but at least the plotlines are decent.
His shows are meant for teenage boys, and apparently he still is one.
However, it’s almost eight and he’s usually here by five to eat whatever I have in the house.
Me: Where are you? Dinner is going to be cold.
* * *
Reid: I’m stuck at work.
* * *
Okay, and he didn’t let me know? Weird.
Me: Are you leaving soon?
* * *
Reid: Yeah, getting my stuff now and I’ll be there soon. What did you make?
* * *
Me: Food.
* * *
Reid: Well, good. Because food is my favorite thing.
* * *
I laugh. He personifies the typical saying about the way to a man’s heart.
Me: Okay, I’ll keep it warm. See you soon.
* * *
Reid: Don’t leave me only a little either. I didn’t eat lunch and I plan to lick the plate clean.
I’d like to lick …
I slap myself. Literally. I can’t believe I just let my brain go down that path. After my sister’s comment, I’m trying not to think about him like that. It’s insane to imagine I would be a match for him, and once she said it, it was as if my brain recognized the stupidity too.
We are perfectly matched as friends. That’s it.
My perfect guy is nothing like him, and I don’t really want a man anyway. I want a baby. I don’t need a man to have a baby.
And Reid sure as hell doesn’t want that with me. He doesn’t want that at all.
He likes spontaneity, and I’m the furthest thing from that. I like order, plans, and follow-through. Schedules and lists.
We’d never work.
But for the next forty-five minutes, I can’t stop myself from wondering what if …
“Hey.” Reid’s voice fills the room and I jump.
“Hey. In the kitchen.”
He walks in and I brace myself. I wait to see how my stupid body will react because my mind is already at peace, knowing I feel nothing.
Thank God, I don’t feel anything weird. Just my normal affection for my best friend. Sure, I notice that his suit looks especially good on him today and that his blue tie makes his eye color deeper than usual. And so what if I like the fact that he must not have shaved this morning, giving him more scruff than usual? That doesn’t mean anything other than I like guys that have scruff.
Reid walks over to the table, kisses my cheek and then grabs a roll that was on my plate. “How was your day, dear?”
I only need to say one thing. “Aspen helped me with your matches.”
Reid’s brows shoot up. “Oh, now I’m really excited for tonight.”
“Hardy har har.”
“Oh, come on, you know your sister is my favorite lunatic.”
“She looked over all the girls I picked for you.”
“Let me guess.” His smile matches the excitement in his voice. “She hates them.”
“Nope. She thinks one is really a winner.”
He laughs. “Liar.”
“Whatever.”
“It’s fine, Wills, we both know you’re never going to match me, which means our evenings will remain quiet, without a screaming baby in the background. Just accept that our lives are meant to be this way.”
“I get six months to change your mind, remember?”
Reid laughs and then opens the oven. “Did you make Dorito casserole?”
“Maybe.”
“You know I love Dorito casserole.”
“You love everything I make.”
He nods. “This is true. I also love you.”
I try really hard not to let that comment get to me. I know he’s saying that he loves me as a friend. We both have said it countless times before, it just ... feels different.
Stick to the plan, Willow. Find him a match.
“So I’m thinking one night this week will be perfect for you to invite Kandace for drinks after work,” I tell him, poking at a tomato in my salad.
“Who the hell is Kandace?” he asks, his mouth full of the pilfered roll. He takes his suit coat off, hangs it on the back of a chair, and drops into the seat. There’s another salad on the table in front of him, and he gestures to it. “Is this mine?”
“Yes. Kandace is your dream girl.” I look him in the eye and smile sweetly. “Your perfect match.”
He snorts. “Is this the one Aspen thinks is a winner?”
“It’s the one I think is a winner.” I stick the tomato in my mouth, although I’m suddenly not that hungry.
Reid sticks the rest of the roll in his mouth and sits back in the chair, arms folded across his chest. He chews and swallows, never taking his eyes off me. “You’re really going to make me do this?”
“Yes. I think Thursday would be perfect,” I go on, sticking my fork through a piece of lettuce on my plate. “Nothing too fancy, just a happy hour cocktail. If it goes well and you hit it off, you can ask her to dinner.”
Exhaling heavily, he gets up, goes to my fridge, and takes out a bottle of ranch dressing. As he dumps giant blobs of it into his salad, he says, “I’m not asking her to dinner. One cocktail and I’m out.”
“Don’t be so negative,” I scold. “You promised to go into this with an open mind and a good attitude. You have to at least try to be charming—although I know that’s difficult for you.”
He gives me a look as he sticks a bite of salad into his mouth. “And what do I get out of this again?”
“You mean aside from everlasting love and a soul mate for life?”
He rolls his eyes. “Yeah. Aside from that.”
Laughing, I get up from the table and take the c
asserole from the oven. “You can be godfather to my intergalactic baby?”
“You’d trust me to give spiritual guidance to your child?”
I shrug as I set a trivet on the kitchen table and place the hot dish on top of it. “Why not? And if anything ever happened to me, you think I want Aspen raising my kid? Poor thing would probably go to school without shoes and never get a tetanus shot or see the dentist.” I grab two large, shallow pasta bowls from the cupboard, and serve myself a small portion and Reid a massive slab of the casserole. When I finally sit down and pick up my fork, I notice he’s staring at me silently.
“What?” I ask, disconcerted. “Is there something on my face?”
“You’re serious about that.”
“About what?”
“Naming me the godfather of your child.”
I blink at him. “Of course I am. Does that surprise you?”
“Yes. No.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know … I guess I just picture a godfather as being, you know, an adult.”
I have to laugh. “You are an adult, Reid.”
“An adultier adult.” He scratches his scruffy chin. “Someone with a lawn mower and a grill in the yard and a station wagon for Sunday drives. My car doesn’t even have a back seat. And what if I forgot to feed it? Look what happened to your plants.”
He looks so distressed, I can’t even tease him—much. “Not even you could forget to feed a child. I promise. Kids let you know when they’re hungry.”
“But I don’t know how to cook.”
“I suppose you’d have to learn. Or hope that your wife knows.”
“Oh, right—I forgot about her.” Looking relieved, he digs into the crunchy topping of the casserole. “What’s my wife’s name again? The one for Thursday?”
“Kandace.”
“Yeah. Kandace. Good old Kandy. Remind me to make sure she can cook. I can’t let my intergalactic godbaby starve.” He shoves a bite into his mouth. “What’s she look like, anyway?”
“She’s very pretty. I can show you a picture after dinner.” I poke at my casserole while a small part of me wishes I’d chosen someone slightly less beautiful.
I’m not hungry at all anymore.
There’s a weird lump of something in my stomach the next day when I pick up the phone to call Kandace McMillan. It’s not dread, exactly—I have no reason to think this won’t go well. After dinner last night, I showed Reid her profile and he agreed she was pretty and sounded interesting. “A hot physical therapist who enjoys baking, craft cocktails, and reading graphic novels?” He nodded enthusiastically. “I might actually like this one.”
I stare at her photograph. She’s pretty, but is she really hot? I wonder. I mean, she has freckles dusting her nose and cheeks, just like I do. I’ve always hated my freckles—the curse of fair skin. That’s not hot, is it? And yes, she has long, thick, honey-colored hair, but maybe Aspen was right about her eyes. They do look a little glazed, although they’re a stunning shade of blue. And her mouth is full and soft.
Without thinking, I pull a compact from my desk drawer and analyze my face. Are my brown eyes less alluring? Are my freckles more noticeable? More homely? Is my blond hair too ashy? I smile ghoulishly at my reflection. Are my teeth as white? As straight? Are my lips as plush and inviting? If they were, would he have kissed me the other night?
Angry with myself, I snap the compact shut and pick up the phone. This isn’t about you, I tell myself. Get a grip.
Kandace doesn’t answer, so I leave a message. “Hello, this is Willow from My Heart’s Desire, and I’m thrilled to tell you I’ve found a fantastic potential match for you. He’s a smart, funny, handsome ad executive, and he’d love to meet you for a drink Thursday after work. Can I set that up? Give me a call back and let me know. Hope you’re having a great day!”
I end the call and set my phone down, noting that the lump has grown bigger. Determined to ignore it, I busy myself with other work tasks—clearing my email inbox, reviewing new profiles, checking on our social media ads. About an hour later, Kandace calls back.
“Wow, he sounds great,” she gushes. “I’d love to meet him. What’s his name?”
“Reid,” I tell her, placing a hand over my belly, where that stupid blob of anxiety is still lodged. “Reid Fortino.”
“Reid Fortino,” she says dreamily, like she’s already picturing herself signing checks as Kandace Fortino.
“Can you meet at The Darling at six?” I ask her, naming a quiet, classy place that’s perfect for craft cocktails and conversation. “I’ll make a reservation for you in the library there.”
“Ooooh, I’ve been wanting to go there. Yes, that sounds perfect.”
“Great. I’m sending you a link to his profile now, so you’ll know him when you see him. He’ll be sent yours as well.”
“Thank you so much, Willow. I’m so excited.” She giggles. “I haven’t even met him yet and I’ve got a great feeling about this!”
“Me too,” I say, and it isn’t exactly a lie. I do have a great feeling about them. On paper, they’re a perfect match. In person, I have no doubt they’ll find each other attractive. She seems outgoing and genuine, and he’ll probably charm the pants off her right from the get-go.
So why am I hoping Thursday never arrives?
Seven
Reid
“Where’s that white shirt you bought on Saturday? The one I liked with the camel sweater.” Willow rummages around in my closet while I watch from my bed.
“I don’t know. I might not have even taken that stuff out of the bags yet.” I’m lying on my side, one hand propped under my ear, trying not to stare. She’s in a shitty mood today, but she looks adorable. She’s wearing some kind of fuzzy sweater that’s also a dress, and even though it’s baggy as fuck, it’s nice and short.
“Reid!” She turns around and parks her hands on her hips. “They’re probably all wrinkled now.”
“So I’ll iron them. I’ve got almost two hours before I’m meeting what’s-her-face.” Ironing is the only domestic skill I have, but right now I really don’t feel like doing anything but watch her stomp around my room, muttering to herself about what a hopeless case I am.
“Kandace, her name is Kandace.”
I shrug because it doesn’t really matter what her name is, it’s not going to last past the first date anyway. So instead of arguing with Willow, I just go back to watching her. She’s wearing these tall boots I like. They cover up a lot of her legs, but there’s just enough thigh showing between the tops of the boots and the bottom of the dress to drive me a little crazy. When she finds the bags of new clothes in the corner of my room, she bends over to grab them, giving me an even better view.
I’m probably going to hell, but ever since Sunday night, when I tackled her in her bedroom, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about getting my hands on her. And my mouth. And various other body parts. I’ve jerked off to the memory of us on the floor a stupid number of times since then.
My fantasies end differently though. Instead of coming to my senses and going home, I tear that towel off her with my teeth and fuck her senseless right there on the rug. I give her the best orgasm she’s ever had, and I know it for a fact because afterward she says to me in this breathy voice, “Oh, Reid, that was the best orgasm I’ve ever had. Your dick is just amazing.”
Alas. Real life is a little less sexy.
“Reid, you’re not even listening to me!”
“I’m sorry, what?” I try to focus. Thinking about banging Willow is a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad idea. It can never happen.
“Plug in your iron,” she demands, dumping the bags out on my bed. “I’m not sending you to your first date looking like you slept in your clothes.”
Exhaling dramatically, I get up and pull an ironing board from the back of my closet. “Okay, Mom.”
“Are your nice jeans clean? The dark ones without any rips?”
I set up the board and grab the iron off the she
lf in my closet. “I think so.”
“Good. Can you find them and make sure? If not, wear the charcoal pants.”
I cock a brow at her over one shoulder. “Jeez Louise, you’re bossy today, even for you. And why are you in such a bad mood?”
“I’m not,” she snaps, shaking out a white button-up.
“Yes, you are. What’s wrong?” I walk over to her, take the shirt from her hands and toss it on the bed. “Talk to me.”
Sighing, she drops onto the bed and hangs her head. “I don’t know. I’ve just been in a weird mood this week.”
I sit down next to her. “Is it that time of the month?”
She gives me a searing look. “Fuck off.”
“Okay, okay. Sorry. Bad joke.” I hold up my hands. “But it’s got to be something. I know you.” I brush her hair back behind her shoulder. “Talk to me.”
For a moment, she’s silent, her eyes on the floor. “It’s … it’s just … it’s the baby thing.” She looks up at me like she just remembered why she’d been upset. “That’s what it is. I saw something, um, a friend of mine posted. She’s pregnant.”
“Your friend is pregnant?”
“Yes. And it really bothered me, because, you know, I want to have a baby.” She nods, like it makes perfect sense. “Yep, that’s what’s wrong.” She tries to get up, but I put a hand on her leg and keep her where she is.
“Hey. Look at me.”
Reluctantly, she meets my eyes. “What?”
“Is that really what’s going on with you?”
She nods, pressing her lips together like she’s scared words will escape.
“You’re really serious about this baby thing, huh?”
Another nod.
Imperfect Match Page 5