Page 7 of Love in Fine Print

This bench was my escape from her. About a week after his funeral, I’d decided to run away, and I’d ended up here. I stayed sitting on the bench for eight hours and when I went home, she hadn’t even noticed I’d left. So the next time I got upset with her, I came back to the bench. And the time after that, and the time after that, until I was coming to sit on the bench nearly every day. When I sat here, I felt an odd sense of peace. One of the reasons my law firm had been at the top of my list was its proximity to this bench.

My job was high-stress and high-stakes. I met my clients under some of the worst circumstances a person can face. There had been studies done that said that divorce was more difficult than death. I was good at my job, and part of the reason was because I’d seen how devastating the aftermath of divorce could be on the injured party. I knew what was at stake when someone lost everything. I didn’t take my job lightly when the repercussions were so great.

I’d tried yoga and meditation, but the only place I’d ever been able to find peace was sitting on this bench.

I was sure that it had something to do with sense memory, but as soon as my butt hit the worn wooden slats, my blood pressure dropped. As I took a sip of my tea and sat down, hoping to clear my head, something caught my attention.

My dad loved birds, and hummingbirds were his favorite. Since he died, every time I saw one, I felt his presence. Beside me, there was not one but two hummingbirds. They were circling around each other.

In all the time I’d spent at this park, and it had to be hundreds if not thousands of hours, I’d never seen a hummingbird there before, much less two. I watched as the tiny duo flittered and dipped in what looked like a choreographed dance.

My phone buzzed, and I looked down to see who was calling. It was Trevor. I pressed the answer icon and lifted the phone to my ear. When I looked back up, the birds were gone but there was something else that caught my attention. A Greek god in gray sweats. He lifted his thick, muscled arm to throw a ball to his dog and my mouth watered like Niagara Falls.

"Arm porn is a real thing,” I commented as I answered my phone.

“Yes, girl, it is,” Trevor agreed. “What inspired this epiphany?”

“A man playing football with his dog in the park.”

“What’s he wearing?”

He was wearing a white t-shirt that clung to his upper body. An upper body that would make a nun, and some priests, consider renouncing their vows. His torso, chest, biceps, and forearms were chiseled to absolute perfection. And I didn’t throw that word around lightly. He looked like he’d been manufactured in a lab and could not possibly be a mortal man. But there was no way I was going to tell Trevor that. If I did, he’d come down here and interrupt my quiet time. Which begged the question of why he was calling now.

“What do you need?”

“Your 4:00 p.m. canceled. They’re going to try and work it out.”

“Was that the cheating with sister?”

“No. Sister Cheater is coming in tomorrow morning at eleven. Four o’clock was the man who lied about wanting kids.”

“She’ll be back.” In my experience, when men lied to get women, they continued lying to keep them. Once a woman caught on, they were usually out. Sure, it might take a few years. She might even be able to wrangle a few kids out of him. But once a liar, always a liar, which typically didn’t bode well for a relationship.

“Okay, I answered your questions. Your turn,” Trevor demanded.

“My turn?”

“What is Arm Porn wearing?”

“Oh.” I realized then I was still staring in his direction, so I quickly looked away. “White t-shirt, gray sweats.”

“Damn, I love a man in sweats.”

“Apparently, I do too.”

“Tattoos?”

“Yes.” I couldn’t make out what they were of, but they were all black and gray and added to his sex appeal tenfold.

“Take a picture,” Trevor demanded.

“No.”

“Why not? Just pretend to take a selfie. He’s not going to know which way the camera’s turned.”

“It’s not about getting caught taking a picture. I could easily do that. I’m not going to objectify this poor man.”

“Poor man? Any man who can make Olivia Bradshaw drool should beproudto be objectified.”

---