Page 66 of Exes and O's

What if he’s sick today?

What if he exits through another door?

What if he already left the building for a meeting?

What if he’s on vacation?

What if he got facial reconstruction surgery, rendering him virtually unrecognizable?

While Trevor makes (some) valid points, at least I will be able to say I exhausted every avenue before desperately sliding into Daniel’s LinkedIn DMs.

“You’re kind of killing the mood here,” I say, dropping my phone in the cupholder. “This is my very last and most promising ex. The only one on that list who knows the real me. I would regret it forever if I didn’t pull out all the stops.”

He peels his eyes from the road to meet my gaze. “I’m just... worried you’ll be crushed if it doesn’t work out with him.”

Oof.I rest my head against the seat as the stifling wave of realitywashes over me. In all the excitement of this ex-boyfriend goose chase, I haven’t fully considered the possibility of none of them working out. My hands clench in my lap, envisioning Seth’s smug face if I fail in my pursuit and show up at the gala alone. And worse, I think about the crushing pain of scratching Daniel’s name—the very last name—off the list. I can’t let that happen. After Seth, my heart simply can’t withstand more carnage.

I avert my stare out the window, avoiding Trevor’s worrywart expression. “I know it’s dumb. I know the whole ex thing seems frivolous. But how pathetic would it be if I, the biggest romance novel fan ever, failed to find book-worthy love in real life?”

“Tara—”

“I never told you, but this time last year, after Seth broke off the engagement, I was at a real low point. I could barely get out of bed. I thought no one would ever want me. Even a year out... I still can’t help but think that sometimes.”

“If this is about going to the gala, I’ll go with you.” His offer is so casual, I’m unsure I’ve even heard him correctly.

“Really? You’d waste your Valentine’s Day to come to a random gala with me?”

He lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “Yeah. Why not? It’s for the heart center. And what else would I be doing on Valentine’s Day?”

I fiddle with the heat vent, considering this proposition. “Maybe. If things don’t work out with Daniel, I guess.”

“Right,” he says, distracted as he parallel parks in front of the building. “Here we are.”

I expected Daniel’s workplace to be an all-glass modern skyscraper. But upon arrival, it’s a Romanesque medium-rise with ornately detailed windows and doorways. It’s bougie, kind of old-school.

The prospect of coming face-to-face with Daniel after nearly twenty years is hot flash–inducing. I imagine him in a corner office, thumbing through urgent files, dressed in a perfectly tailored sharkskin suit. He channels someDevil Wears Pradaenergy, icing out his staff with just one glance. Everyone knows Daniel doesn’t do small talk. His receptionist only bothers him with important stuff, although he will take calls from his beloved mother.

As I gawk up at the building, Trevor nudges my arm over the console. “Look, three o’clock. Pale, six-foot, brown hair. Is that him?”

I scrunch my nose, watching the pimply-faced teen with an oversize backpack as he shuffles past the passenger window. “Mr. Metcalfe, you need your eyes checked. That kid is like fourteen. At most.”

“I don’t have a lot to work with here. You didn’t have a photo of him on your hit list,” he retorts.

This is how it goes for the next fifteen minutes as we watch people filter in and out of the front doors. Trevor has, somehow, transformed from miserable twerp to James Bond. He’s checking his mirrors, murmuring physical descriptions of passersby, none of whom are Daniel. He might as well be a Man in Black with one of those fancy earpieces, speaking into his watch.

Since this isn’t my first rodeo being a certified creep, I’m well aware that surveillance in the movies is much more exhilarating than it is in real life. But it doesn’t make it any less dull, especially for an impatient soul like me.

Out of nowhere, Trevor reaches over the console. I suck in a sharp breath at his hand’s proximity to my legs. For some reason, the mere prospect of the splay of his palm spanning my thighfloods me with heat, like a wave of caffeine or straight-up sorcery, jolting me alive.

Something heavy drops over my knees. It isn’t his hand. It’s the glove compartment. Before I can even reconcile my dangerous thoughts, he extracts one of my paperback thrillers. Ignorant to the hammering of my heart and the crimson shade of my entire face, he casually flips to the middle of the book, silently picking up where he left off.

Did I really get that excited at the prospect of my womanizer roommate’s hand inches from my leg? Am I that desperate for human affection? Maybe my followers’ comments advocating for a room-ance with Trevor have somehow wormed their way into my subconscious.

I will those errant, nonsensical thoughts to a decrepit, condemned corner of my mind and padlock it for good measure. But now I’m far too aware of the heat blasting through the vent. In fact, I’m sweltering under my layers. Trevor’s car, which was perfectly comfortable two seconds ago, is now a claustrophobic, shrinking closet.

“Wanna go sit in the lobby? I need to stretch my legs,” I say, rolling the window down for some much-needed air.

Trevor is alarmed, like I’ve proposed a mass atrocity. When I unbuckle my seat belt, signaling I’m going with or without him, he relents with a heavy sigh, following me inside.

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