Page 15 of Protective

“Okay… did you get his number? Maybe that’s the universe putting you in the right place at the right time.”

I laugh. “No. This is the universe telling me to get a grip, take some time to myself, and—”

“Matching Halloween costumes, Christmas walks with cocoa, and a Thanksgiving away from the kids’ table. You want those things, and you can’t have them if you push everyone away forever.”

I draw in a deep breath and settle back on the sofa with a blanket and the booklet that was in the basket by the door. “I know, but something is wrong with me. I don’t want to bethat girl.”

“The girl who has a nice date with one guy and casually notices another man’s biceps? Heather, you’re being ridiculous. I notice every man’s biceps.”

“Well, you’re not the role model you think you are,” I say with a chuckle. “No offense.”

She laughs hard. “Wow. You’re going there?”

“Oh, I’m so going there. You’re doing this mail order thing next. You know that, right? You need a reality check.”

I can almost hear her eyes roll. “Sure. Let’s see you finish this thing first and then I’ll decide if it’s worth it.”

“Right,” I bite sarcastically. “Well, in the meantime, I’ll be down here in reality getting something set up for you.”

“Love you,” she laughs.

“Love you, too.” The line disconnects and I flip open the notebook and thumb through the pages, stopping when I see a full-page picture of myself with a bio beneath it. This must be the picture Trish gave them to set up my profile. They didn’tshare the photo, but I assume it was required to match physical preferences.

It’s a horrible picture. I’d been out gardening all morning, and my hair was a sticky mess of sweat and dirt. I make a mental note to ask her what the hell she was thinking later. Right now, I have to find Chevy’s photo. If I’m in here, he has to be as well.

I flip the pages two at a time, frantically searching for his picture. It has to be here. There’s no way they make an entire welcome binder with all this random information about just me.

Maybe I’m an asshole for looking. I mean, he can’t see me until tomorrow morning… if the storm clears.

I close the notebook. I should wait. We should see each other the way the experiment is intended. The anticipation makes it that much better, right?

The fireplace crackles in front of me as I think over this notion. Not looking is the right decision. Besides, who cares what he looks like. He was a really great guy, and I felt more comfortable talking to him than I have anyone else ever. That’s what matters most.

Also, a second ago, I was canceling all of this and going on a journey of self-discovery, so it doesn’t matter, anyway. What I really need is a long vacation from all men, all decisions, and snow.

I stare toward the orange flames in the fire, tapping my nails against the binder slowly.

This is the right decision. I’m not going to look.

My chest squeezes and my stomach flutters. No one is here. No one would even know I looked. I could peek for two seconds and move on with my night, maybe even go back to the bedroom and create a hybrid version of a man that’s got Chevy’s personality and the man from the parking lot’s body. I’m pretty sure that guy could get me off pretty quickly.

Clit throbbing, I set the notebook back onto the couch and close my eyes in an attempt to slide into that fantasy, but my brain is stuck.

I need to open that binder. I need to search every single page until I see Chevy. I need to know exactly what this man looks like, and I need to know now!

Heart pounding, I flip the binder open, set it on my lap, and stare down at the very first page where a five by seven photo of a man with dark, kind eyes, gray hair, and a salt and pepper beard stares back at me. He’s wearing a cap with a tractor on the front, and his shoulders are broad and firm.

The room spins and my throat closes as a wave of cold air spills into the room.Why is a wave of cold air spilling into the room?

I turn back to see him in the doorway. The man that’s on the page. The man I saw earlier. The man that sounded like Chevy.The man that is Chevy.

My jaw slacks, and though I’m pretty sure I stood up, I might still be sitting. “You’re him.” I point to the notebook. “You’re the guy from earlier.”

Why is my chest tight? Why is my clit thumping? Why are my arms aching to reach out for him? Why do I want him to back me into the wall and take me over?

He steps toward me. “I’m sorry. The speaker hadn’t cut out when you listened to that voicemail from your ex, and I couldn’t leave it be. I had to follow you. So, when your tires were flat, I knew it was him.” He reaches his hand out for me. “I couldn’t leave you.”

My voice wobbles with emotion as I say, “So you knew it was me? Why didn’t you say something?”

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