“I believe that’s stupid.”
“What?”
Rowan’s face is completely neutral—like she eats douchebags for breakfast. She’s not disturbed at all by my rudeness. In fact, she’s smiling at me, and her eyes are twinkling. She’s still just as crazy beautiful as she was when she walked in here. It appears she’s also utterly undaunted by my less-than-thrilled attitude.
“I believe it’s ask a stupid question, get a stupid answer.” She grins at me. “And I’m not going to ask you what fruit you’d be if you could be a fruit, because this isn’t a job interview, and people can’t be fruits, so what’s the point? I try and avoid questions that aren’t going to be helpful to me in choosing a match.” She starts gathering up her things, clearly done with this meeting.
For some reason, that makes me panic. It’s irrational. If I don’t want to be here in the first place, why am I worried about her leaving? Maybe because I actually have nowhere better to be, since my fire-breathing mother told me I’m now on vacation. Maybe this is the highlight of my day, which is incredibly sad. Or maybe because I like her smile.
No. No, it was definitely not that. It had everything to do with going home to unbearable silence and long hours to fill, and nothing to do with Rowan.
Rowan packs up her things and shoots me yet another charming smile. I’m starting to wonder if her face is hurting from all the smiling. I have no idea how long she can keep it up for. No one is actually that cheerful in real life.
“I’ll have your first date arranged for Friday night. In my experience, it’s a good night to go out. You’ll have lots of options then. I’ll send your date’s information—her name and a brief profile—over to you by tomorrow afternoon, and I’ll do the same for her. That way, it will be less awkward for you both. We create a personal account for each of you, and that includes an email. I expect you to be in contact and work out a pick-up time. Please note that you should keep things to a public place for your first meeting, and you shouldn’t exchange personal information like addresses or phone numbers unless you are extremely comfortable doing so.”
“You mean, don’t take her home and—”
“That’s not at all what I’m talking about.” Rowan shoves back her chair and reaches for her black coat. She shrugs it on and pulls her curtain of dark hair out from where it was trapped. It falls freely about her shoulders, the red highlights in the dark brown locks brought to life by the rays of sun drifting through the huge windows.
“It’s Wednesday,” I point out helpfully. “You must be a miracle worker if you can get a date arranged by Friday.”
“I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised by everything about this.” Rowan hoists her tote over her shoulder before picking up her coffee cup. “Thanks for meeting with me. You’re a little on the sour side, so I’d advise picking out one of the amazing desserts they have here. The lemon brownies are absolutely to die for.”
I literally don’t have time to say anything else before she turns and saunters out of the coffee shop, her head held freaking high. Oh yes. She’s quite confident in her abilities.
I grasp my coffee cup and sit there for a few minutes. I stare at the dark liquid sitting in the cup until I realize my eyes are dry from not blinking in ages. I blink slowly. Pointedly. We’ll see. We’ll see if Little Miss Confident lives up to all the I can conquer the world vibes she puts out there. I realize I’m actually looking forward to Friday night, just to see what Rowan comes up with. Which makes me realize I’m slightly excited if just for that reason. Well, no, not excited. Curious. But I do feel something. Which I vowed not to do.
Oh, she’s good. She’s really freaking good.
CHAPTER 4
Rowan
I wasn’t nearly as calm or as cool as I pretended to be in my meeting with Cliff on Wednesday. I’m a professional, so there was no way I was going to let my annoyance show. The guy would have probably got up and done a happy dance, knowing he pissed me off. Cliff Marshall is like a splinter under my skin, and the whole thing chaffed and bothered me until Saturday afternoon. I told him in the package I sent over on Thursday that I would be doing a follow-up call. I not so subtly implied that he better freaking answer it, or else.
My hand shakes a little when I pick up my cell. We don’t work in the office on Saturdays. Any follow up calls after dates are made from home. I log my hours and get paid for it, so I don’t actually mind. Anyway, the only thing I have going on is a hot date with my cactus, which, excitedly enough, has decided to flower. Hey, being single isn’t so bad, despite what all my clients tell me and what I tell all my clients. I know. I’m probably the world’s biggest hypocrite, but it’s not that I don’t date. Sometimes I do. I just happen to find myself single at the moment, and for the time being, I’m enjoying it. I also may have just gotten myself out of a pretty possessive relationship six months ago, and yeah, I’m not in any hurry to get myself back into the dating arena.
I find that when I’m single, I have time for long baths with cheap candles sitting on the decrepit vanity. I get to watch my cactus grow a little more each day (you know you are seriously single when you detail all the life stages of your plants). I don’t mind drinking the occasional glass of wine by myself or doing some cooking that only I eat.
So, I’m not a walking, breathing, living billboard for what I do for a living. So. Freaking. What.
I force myself to focus on what I’m doing. Talking to Cliff Marshall is going to take every ounce of my concentration. I’ve thought about the guy, in technicolor detail, for the past three days. Oh right. That wouldn’t be because I’m using him as the inspiration for touchy-feely me time. Seriously. Nope. I am using him as inspiration for I can’t get my ass fired because I’m barely making all my bill payments as it is.
I punch in Cliff’s number and prepare myself to get blasted. I’d say get chewed out, but that sounds strangely intimate, and I don’t do intimate, especially not when it comes to clients. The phone rings three times, and then there’s a crisp, clear voice on the other end.
“Hello, Cliff speaking.”
Right. So, he answers his phone like this is a business call. I guess it is kind of a business call. But still. I half expect him to tack on, what can I help you with today?
Seeing as that’s my question, I force cheerfulness into my voice. I’m at my small kitchen table, which is a retro set, of course, because my love of all things vintage doesn’t just stop at clothes. I set my one hand flat on the bright red tabletop and study the small window right across from me. My cactus—since the months are getting warmer and there’s more sunlight now—has been relocated to a small table in front of said window, so I cast a quick glance at it before studying the window again.
I think I’m a nurturer by nature, and that makes what I do for a living perfect for me. Despite how rude Cliff was to me, which I guess was to be expected since he’s basically being forced into this by his mom—which is kind of sad, weird, and maybe even a little bit creepy if you think about it—I actually care about how his date went. And not just because if this goes sideways, I’m out of a job. God. With a client like Cliff Marshall, I should already be on my laptop searching for different job options.