by Terri Osburn
Not You Again
Terri Osburn
Copyright © 2021 by Terri Osburn
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover 2021 Bookin’ It Designs
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Epilogue
Also by Terri Osburn
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Chapter One
Four blind dates in five days. Why did I agree to this again?
Oh, right. Because I’m a people pleaser willing to suffer so that my friends will stop worrying about me. A woman my age—four months shy of the big three oh—should not cave to peer pressure, but when the most important women in your life team up against you, resistance is futile. They nag because they care.
They want me to be happy. To move on. What they don’t believe is that I have moved on, and I shouldn’t have to date a man to prove it. Something I’ve repeated several times yet no one listens, so if going on these meaningless blind dates was what it took to put this subject to rest once and for all, I was willing to do it.
The five days part was due to my job. As an event planner, I didn’t have much time to socialize since most weekends were spent overseeing a party of some sort. It had taken a Herculean effort but I’d managed to twist my schedule to get this one full week with no active events. I still had the regular meetings during the day, but five consecutive nights without having to be on hand at a single event was nothing short of a miracle.
So here I was, lingering at the northeast corner of Market Square in downtown Pittsburgh, scanning the area for a face I’d seen only once in a low-quality picture the day before. I hadn’t thought to ask Josie—one of my best friends since college who set this up—if she’d offered the same courtesy to my date. Spotting someone who looked like the guy in the picture, I crossed the sidewalk in his direction, but another woman approached him first. An affectionate greeting was exchanged, making it clear that I had not found the right person.
At least I hoped not.
“Becca Witherspoon?” came a voice from my right.
“That’s me,” I replied with a spin.
“I’m Peter, the broker,” he said. “I’m your date.”
Uncertain how these things worked, I extended a hand and said, “I’m Becca the event planner.” He’d already said my name so clearly this was redundant, but my mouth had disengaged from my brain. I hadn’t expected to be nervous, yet meeting a stranger, even with less-than-genuine intentions, was still stressful.
When he accepted the greeting and leaned in for a hug, I stiffened in response. After two awkward pats on my back, he stepped away. “Should we go inside then?”
“We should.” I waited for him to go first and we ended up staring at each other for several seconds before I realized he was waiting for me to do the same. Catching the hint, I nodded and shuffled off toward the restaurant entrance.
At the hostess stand, he said, “We have a reservation under Laghari for six thirty.”
A pretty young woman with a round face and coke-bottle glasses checked her list before looking up with a smile. “Your table is ready. Follow me, please.”
She led us through the long narrow dining room to a table on the right in front of a pastoral wall mural of an Italian countryside. Italian was my favorite kind of food so when Josie let me know Peter had picked this location, I’d been relieved to find, if nothing else, I would get an excellent dinner out of this deal. I took the booth side of the table, against the mural-painted wall and Peter sat across from me in a beige chair.
“Have you dined with us before?” the hostess—Justine according to her name tag—asked.
“I have,” Peter replied. “Have you, Becca?”
“Yes, I have. This is one of my favorite restaurants.”
My date smiled as his shoulders visibly relaxed, and my earlier anxiety fled. He was cute with kind eyes and a tiny dark curl that lingered just above his brow. As always, the comparisons ran through my mind. He lacked Brian’s dimples and cleft chin. His voice wasn’t as deep and his shoulders not as broad. But this wasn’t about finding another Brian. That would never happen. This was about meeting my friend’s colleague for a nice meal and checking one date off the list.
“Great,” Justine said. “Albert will be taking care of you this evening and he’ll be with you shortly. Until then, can I get you some wine?”
“Pinot grigio for me,” Peter replied.
“And you?” she said, turning my way.
Thanks to a hectic day I hadn’t eaten in several hours, and one glass of wine would put me under the table. “I’ll stick with water, thank you.”
“No problem. If you change your mind, just let Albert know.”
Justine left us and the awkwardness returned as we perused our menus. “Do you like working in finance?” I asked to break the silence.
Sliding the dark-rimmed glasses up his nose, he nodded. “I do.” Taking me by surprise, he countered with, “Have you dated anyone recently?”
“No,” I replied, wishing I’d kept my mouth shut. “You?”
“I have.” I wasn’t sure what to do with this information and embraced my right to remain silent.
“So you’re an event planner?” he asked.
I rolled with the topic change. “I am. It’s our busy season with June around the corner and life has been a bit crazy.”
A tall man in a white shirt and black pants stepped up to the table. “Good evening, folks. I’m Albert and I’ll be your server tonight.” After filling my glass, he set a small carafe of water on the table and proceeded to fill Peter’s wineglass from a bottle he’d had tucked under his arm. “Justine let me know that you’ve both dined with us before so I’m guessing you’re acquainted with the menu, but just in case, do you have any questions?”
“I don’t,” I replied, then checked with my date. “Do you?”
Peter swallowed his entire glass of wine before responding. “I’m good, but I’d like a martini. Dirty, with gin not vodka.”
Albert accepted the empty wineglass with an unreadable expression, and I hoped mine was the same. I had no problem with anyone drinking alcohol, but the speed with which he’d downed the wine concerned me. Peter carried a tension that went beyond the nerves of a blind date.
“A martini it is. Are you ready to order your meals?”
“I’m ready,” I said, eager to move things along. “I’d like the Pappardelle Bolognese, please.”
“Pork, beef, or veal?” the waiter asked.
“Beef, thank you.”
“That’s what Evelyn always ordered,” Peter murmured.
“Who is Evelyn?” I asked.
“No one. I’ll have the Caramelle.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll get your orders in and be right back with that martini.”
“Why is June your busy season?” Peter asked as Albert walked away and I was still wondering about Evelyn.
“June is a big month for weddings,” I explained. “That means a lot of last-minute details have
to be worked out this month.”
“Have you ever been married?”
My chest tightened as I gave the short answer. “No.”
“Why not?”
“No particular reason,” I lied. Time to change the subject. “Are you originally from Pittsburgh?”
“No, I grew up in Silver Spring, Maryland. I went to Pitt and decided to stay after graduation. Do you want to get married?”
Unprepared for the question, I took a sip of water before responding. “Is that a proposal?” I joked. I knew full well what he’d meant. I just didn’t want to answer.
“Of course not. We just met.”
This was going from bad to worse.
“Yes, I know. I was kidding.”
“Oh.” Peter didn’t crack a smile and after an extended silence, Albert thankfully returned as promised.
“Your food should be out shortly,” he said as Peter reached for the martini before the glass touched the table.
“Thank you,” I said with a smile, then watched Peter attack the foggy drink like a dying man and down most of it in one swallow.
Thirst seemingly quenched, he said, “I almost proposed once.” His eyes remained locked on the glass and I wondered if he’d meant to say the thought aloud. After finishing off the rest of the drink, he said, “Where did you grow up?”
There was something going on here that had nothing to do with me or this date.
“I’m born and raised in the area,” I replied, reaching for my water. “My family has lived in Carnegie for generations.”
“I’m surprised you don’t have a stronger accent then.”
A fair statement. Most locals sounded like someone loaded the Boston and New York accents into a blender and added a hefty dose of yinz to the mix. The only reason I didn’t sound like the rest of my relatives was my occupation—convincing potential customers to trust you with thousands of dollars went better with a more professional accent.
“I can turn it on when I want to,” I assured him.
The food arrived and as Albert set the plates on the table, Peter held up his empty glass. “I’ll take another one of these,” he said.
Between the drinking and the random mentions of another woman, I recognized the situation I was in. Peter and I had a few things in common but his wound was clearly fresher than mine. Not a dream date scenario, but since I hadn’t walked into this situation with the best of intentions, the least I could do was offer a sympathetic ear.
Albert walked away with yet another empty glass, and I said, “Would you like to talk about Evelyn?”
Peter’s brown eyes went wide behind the dark frames. “How do you know about Evelyn?”
The poor guy had no idea. “You said her name earlier. I don’t mind listening if you want to talk about it.”
His eyes shifted from his food to the mural behind me before he said, “She’s someone I work with.”
So he had to see her all the time. “Was she more than a coworker at some point?”
The curt nod spoke volumes.
“That’s never an easy situation.” I’d never dated a coworker but forced proximity with an ex must have been difficult.
“We dated for a year until three weeks ago when I found out that she was also dating Roger Mertens. Not that I care.” The speed with which he was downing martinis said he very much cared. “If she wants to date the biggest snitch in Human Resources,” he added, his fork swinging dangerously, “then she never deserved me.”
Wanting to support this statement, I said, “I agree.”
“I can do better,” he muttered.
I would have been flattered but this was said without even a glance in my direction.
“How are we doing?” Albert asked as he set the new martini on the table. “Can I get you anything?”
“We’re good, thank you,” I said.
The waiter strolled off as I kept my eyes on my plate. Lending a sympathetic ear was one thing. Becoming an accessory to the headache Peter would have tomorrow was another.
“I don’t normally drink on a weeknight,” he said, drawing my attention. When I looked up, he added, “I’m not going to get drunk or anything. It’s just been a week.”
I agreed. And it was only Tuesday.
Forty minutes later, Peter the Broker made a liar out of himself by getting thoroughly drunk. Possibly closer to shit-faced, as Aunt Jeanne called it when Uncle Reginald had enough Iron City beers to piss his own pants. Hopefully, this date would not include Peter wetting himself. I’d assumed we would go Dutch on the meal, but by the time the check came, my heartbroken date could hardly sit upright let alone whip out a credit card, so I paid in full. Josie would be getting a bill for his half.
He’d ordered two more dirty martinis and barely touched his food. Partly because he’d been too busy talking about Evelyn. Apparently, the month before her infidelity had come to light, they’d shopped around for an apartment, and Peter had put a down payment on a sizable ring. He showed me a picture of it on his phone and the man had excellent taste. In my line of work, I’d seen every ring out there and Evelyn had cheated herself out of a beautiful setting.
To make matters worse, the cheating had been revealed through an email between coworkers that he’d been mistakenly cc’d on. The more I learned, the more I had to agree that Peter absolutely had grounds for tying one on. I’d have preferred he not do so while on a date with me, but who was I to judge? I’d swallowed my fair share of alcohol two years ago when my heart got broken.
Once the check was paid, Albert helped me get my date outside where I then had to figure out how to get him home. He was in no condition to drive, and I didn’t have a license. Did I put him in a car and hope he made it home? That didn’t feel right. In his current condition, he might pass out on the way and who knew where the driver would leave him. I’d have to go along, and then get myself home.
“I need you to focus,” I pleaded, cupping Peter’s face in my hands. “Where do you live?”
I pulled up my trusty app, prepared to enter his address but, of course, he couldn’t make it that easy.
“In my apartment.”
Jaw tight, I tried again. “Where would that be?”
“Are you trying to come home with me?” he asked with half-closed eyes and a lopsided grin.
“No,” I assured him. “But since you’re in no condition to drive, we’ll have to order a car.”
“But I have a car.”
I’d handled enough drunk wedding guests over the years to have a degree in this sort of thing, but in those cases said guests had ultimately been someone else’s problem. This one was mine alone, and I was quickly running out of patience. Lucky for him that I wasn’t heartless enough to abandon him in the middle of Market Square.
“You obviously can’t drive in your condition,” I explained, “so I need your address to put in the app. Where do you live?”
“The South Side,” he replied. It was a start, but not nearly the details I needed.
“Where, exactly?” I pressed.
Glasses perched on the end of his nose, he attempted to focus on my face. “Sidney Street. Twenty-nine fifteen Sidney Street.”
Finally. I entered the address into my phone and the first option—a car two blocks away—popped up. “We’re all set,” I said, confirming the ride with a quick touch of the screen. “Jacob to the rescue.”
“Who is Jacob?”
“Our driver.”
“Is he driving my car?”
“You’ll have to get your car tomorrow.” Following the instructions on the phone, I took Peter’s hand. “He’s going to pick us up down this way.”
To my surprise, my date spun me in a circle and said, “You aren’t as pretty as Evelyn, but I like you.”
The move threw us both off-balance, sending me toppling into a passing couple and Peter onto his butt on the sidewalk. A pigeon squawked in protest before whooshing past my head, and after a sincere apology to the passersby, I attempted to lift
my dance partner to his feet. For a man who looked as if he’d need to run around in the shower to get wet, he was quite heavy.
During the struggle, a white Buick pulled up to the curb. The passenger window slid down and a voice said, “Meredith?”
My mother had blessed me with the name Meredith, after her own mother, but to avoid confusion, the family had used my middle name Rebecca. That had been shortened to Becca by middle school. However, anything tied to a credit card was easier if I used my first name. A detail the drivers who shuttled me around the city had no need to know.
“Yes, that’s me,” I replied. “Are you Jacob?” Normally, I would check the license plate to make sure I was climbing into the correct vehicle, but none of this was normal.
“I am.” The window went back up, and I spun to see Peter still on the ground.
“You have to stand up.” I tried lifting him from behind with no luck, then I switched to pulling from the front, but he still didn’t budge. At five foot two and barely one hundred pounds, I’d never been much of a power lifter. “Come on, Peter. Help me out here.”
As the challenge continued, the passenger window slid down again. “Are you getting in?”
Frustrated, I huffed the hair out of my face and said, “I can’t get him up.” That sounded far less dirty in my head.
Dark brows arched my way as an awkward silence passed. I feared he might drive off, but instead, he opened his door and climbed out. I hadn’t been able to see him well inside the car, but when he joined me on the sidewalk, my breath caught. At well over six feet, the man carried himself like one of those action heroes who never gets rattled.
The ones who have all the best lines, carried the perfect amount of scruff along their chiseled jawline, and morphed into a total badass when necessary. He also looked as if he’d walked right out of one of the Asian dramas I’d devoured on my rare nights off. The cheekbones alone could make a girl swoon.