Page 8 of Faking It With the Grumpy Single Dad

As if the universe can sense that my mind has drifted in that doomed direction, my phone lights up with an incoming call where it rests on the vanity counter.

I glare at the screen.

The contact name is one emoji: the cockroach.

I finish brushing my teeth and spit aggressively into the sink. With my nose wrinkled in disgust, I send the call directly to voicemail, knowing well enough that my inbox is full.

Unfortunately, the cockroach is not so easily deterred, because then I get three text messages sent in quick succession.

First:Seriously, P? You’re not even going to let me know that you landed safely? For all I know, the plane could’ve gone down in a fiery crash before you even made it to Boston!

Then:You should call me back, babe. You might be three thousand miles away, but I still care about you.

Finally:At least tell me you’re not dead. Do me that one small courtesy so I can stop feeling sick with worry.

“Sick with worry, oh please,” I grumble mockingly, rolling my eyes. “Let’s hope it makes you sick enough to drag you to an early grave, Barclay.”

Percy Barclay is the only person on the planet who can truly bring out the worst in me. We dated off and on for a while, almost two years, but we’ve been officially broken up for over a year now. Despite that, he’s still obsessed with me.

For example, he’s not even supposed to know that I sold my house and left Malibu. He’s also not supposed to know that I flew to Boston yesterday. I’m sure it didn’t take much prodding for the news to reach his ears, but I really don’t owe him anything.

He doesn’t understand thatthisis why I ended things with him. He’s too controlling. He always thinks he knows what’s bestfor me and he doesn’t understand boundaries. It’s like he thinks I’m some poor, defenseless girl who can’t handle the real world.

Meanwhile, he’s the heir to a major Hollywood production company and has gained all of his so-called life skills from idiotic self-help books written by other billionaire brats.

I really can’t believe I ever liked him.

But thankfully, like he said, there are three thousand miles between us. Ideally, the distance will stop his delusions that we’ll ever get back together.

As usual, I ignore the texts and carry on with my morning. When I’m satisfied that I look cute but casual enough to fit into this beachy little town, I grab my purse and head out on foot down toward Main Street.

Mermaid Shores is small and pleasantly walkable. I might not even need my car when it arrives. Then again, I love my baby blue Bronco more than life itself. I can’t wait to take her out and explore a new coastline.

It doesn’t take me long to locate Lazy Joe’s, which seems to be the most popular coffee shop on the main stretch of businesses. I send a silentthank youup to whatever omniscient beings might be listening that it’s not a Dunkin’ Donuts.

I find Sabrina Marx easily enough. She’s hard to miss, with a wild and golden mane of hair that reminds me of a proud lioness. She’s all sparkly eyes and rosy cheeks, grinning from ear to ear when she spots me and waves me over to a table by the large windows.

“Don’t hate me,” she says in lieu ofhello, “but I already ordered for you.”

I sit down across from her and eye the paper cup she pushes in my direction. I love how instantly comfortable I feel around her, though I shouldn’t be surprised that I adore Aiden’s wife. We’ve only met once before, when I flew out for their wedding on Martha’s Vineyard last summer, but we hit it off instantly.

“Did you guess my usual coffee order?” I ask.

She shakes her head, grinning as if she’s about to reveal the secrets of the universe to me. This is how she is with everyone, Aiden told me. Instantly familiar and warm, acting as if everyone she meets has been her best friend for years.

Sabrina leans in conspiratorially. “It’s a blueberry latte.”

“Awhat?”

“Trust me, Poppy. It’s the greatest invention known to man.Trust me. Just take a sip. If you hate it, you can dump it over my head, but I am absolutely confident that you’re going to like it.”

I laugh, taking the drink and bringing it to my nose for a sniff. It does, indeed, smell exactly like blueberries and cream with a hint of dark espresso.

Little does Sabrina know that I love fruity coffee. Fruity chocolate, too. Fruit in anything, really.

Still, for the sake of keeping her on her toes, I act uncertain as I bring the cup to my lips and take a tentative sip. Schooling my features into neutrality, I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing when Sabrina leans in closer, practically bursting at the seams with the desire to know how I feel about the latte.

It’s delicious, of course. Even if someone wasn’t a huge fan of fruit-and-coffee combinations, this might win them over.

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