Page 4 of David's Proposal

She got suspicious at some point and questioned my entire process.

She had a hard time understanding why getting the right shade of red was so important to me.

I couldn’t tell her the real reason behind my fussing––that the whole idea of coloring my hair had become a big thing after meeting David Moore. And there was that slight possibility that I might see him again.

‘I might see him again’ is the right wording since I haven’t heard from him these past few days.

And before getting into a war with the silly voice inside my head that does her best to keep me humble I need to clarify some things.

I’m not chained to my phone, waiting for him to call me.

I’m definitely not doing that.

I’m also not thinking we are a thing.

We are nota thing.

We may or may not see each other again. And even if we do, the color of my hair isn’t only about him.

I’m invested in getting it right since I’m the flower girl at Thea’s wedding, and my looks are important.

So it’s not everything about David.

And it shouldn’t be.

David is David.

An interesting man, but nothing more.

“Why are you smiling?”

Thea’s voice pulls me out of my head, leaving me with a half–baked grin on my face.

“Smiling? Me? No. No one was smiling.”

I pick up a garlic knot and pop it into my mouth, but regardless of how delicious it is, I can’t focus on it.

“Youare smiling,” Thea says around her food, a grin splashed across her face. “What’s so amusing?”

I clear my throat, unable to remove that stupid grin from my face. It’s like lint on my favorite sweater. I can never get rid of it.

“Nothing.”

“You were thinking about something,” she insists.

“Yes, I was.” I can admit to that. “But I don’t remember what it was. Uh…”

“Yes?”

She’s waiting for an elaborate answer, and I’ve got nothing.

“What were you thinking about?” she asks quietly, scooping up another garlic knot.

Luckily, the Chicago–style pizza arrives, and just like that, the smell of baked tomatoes mixed with herbs and a generous quantity of melted mozzarella simmering from the oven hovers over the table, erasing the last shred of weirdness from our conversation.

Her eyes flicker with delight, and I’m no better.

I didn’t plan to eat pizza today.

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