“Lydia.” Poppy’s voice, mid–chew, bought me back to the present. “Are you going to reply?”
I flexed my fingers. “Right.”
I’d let my thoughts get away from me again, and a wandering mind seemed to have become my latest bad habit. I pushed my hair away from my face and positioned my fingers on the keyboard. I knew Poppy wanted to speak up, to help me, but she resisted.
Can I ask you a question?
I hit send without thinking about it. Poppy nodded her approval. She picked up the remote to the tiny TV set that was mounted on the wall in front of us and turned it on. For the next forty–five minutes, we debated over a Marilyn Monroe flick versus You’ve Got Mail, a debate that went on so long that we eventually settled for a replay of 27 Dresses, just because it had started.
We ate through the entire pie, and I let myself feel only slightly guilty, riding the sugar high to the bitter end. I would probably have to take a long run tomorrow to make up for it, but I deserved it after my event. I’d knocked the PR out of the park.
“I feel like it’s fitting, seeing how you started your book at a wedding,” Poppy said, cutting through the white noise in my head as I waited on pins and needles to hear the ping again. I always gave her my books a chapter at a time for editing. Doing it that way let me concentrate on typing the words remaining in front of me.
“Yeah,” I said.
I knew a watched browser wouldn’t ding, so I got up to make us both some peppermint tea to soothe our carbohydrate overloaded stomachs. While the kettle boiled, I pulled down two large ceramic mugs and put a tea bag in each. I could feel my body vibrating on a wing and a prayer. Would he answer me back? He had to. If he wasn’t interested in me romantically, he never would have written all those letters by hand. Right?
I wondered if he was too busy to get back to me right away. I checked the time on the oven. The clock read eight p.m., meaning he was in the middle of the first act of the show. I had to relax. I had to let myself breathe.
“Lydia,” Poppy called from the living room, “he said, ‘of course you can.’” Poppy used her generic boy voice, deepening it two octaves as she repeated the message. I rolled my eyes as the kettle whistled notification of the boiling water.
“Hang on,” I called. “Tea’s ready.”
I poured the two mugs in record time, adding a dash of cream and cocoa powder without spilling on myself. I carried them into the living room, handing one to Poppy. I set the other on the coffee table and resumed my spot on the sofa. Without giving myself the chance to chicken out, I started typing.
“Oh my god, you’re asking him out,” Poppy squealed a little breathlessly as she read the words appearing on the screen.
“To coffee,” I corrected, “I’m asking him to meet me for coffee.”
Coffee felt right. Official. No one went on lunch dates and dinner seemed so formal. Nothing was worse than two people who hadn’t had much contact interviewing each other over the calamari. Plus, he worked six nights a week. I figured that it would be impossible for him to do a dinner date unless it was a Sunday, and who did dinner on Sunday?
I typed the message as quickly as possible, reread it to make sure I didn’t seem desperate and hit send. I could feel my heartbeat reverberate through my body, thudding through my chest, into my head, fingers, and toes.
Please, say yes.
“Take a deep breath.” Since Poppy was my best friend, I knew she could sense that the freak out meter had risen to a ten on the scale. I concentrated on filling my lungs with air, holding that for five seconds and releasing for ten seconds, hissing the stale air through my teeth. I’d learned the diaphragm breathing technique in yoga class, and I relied on it during times of stress along with my Austen quotes.
“There is no way he’ll say no,” Poppy said. “He’s so into you.”
I smiled at my best friend as she clutched her hands to her heart. She was right. Poppy managed to annoyingly be right about almost everything.
His reply pinged back in less than a minute. He had given a time and an address to a coffee shop near his theater. I felt all the air leave me in a rush.
I have a date!
“You have a date,” Poppy repeated my mental celebration through bestie telepathy.
“Isn’t it wonderful?” I pushed my stupidly trembling hands through my hair. “With someone who’s already been vetted.”
I almost couldn’t believe it. Poppy had already hopped up and was heading to my bedroom, most likely to sort through the piles of my clothes, trying to decide what I would wear. I sat immobile on the leather sofa, stunned, and stared at the neat type on my laptop.
It finally felt real. Lydia Singleton was getting a second chance for her fairytale ending.
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Copyright
Hook by Colleen Charles ©2017 All Rights Reserved
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Colleen Charles loves reading and writing stories that entertain and sweep the reader away from their everyday life.
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Titles by Colleen Charles
Hook Page 27