Page 127 of Misfortune and Mr. Right

Olivia Pennington has always had this effect on me. She unravels me. I’m not myself—not even a version of myself I recognize. Everything about her dominates my thoughts and drives my decisions. All I can think of today is making everything up to her. Not only this promotion, but the years of competition when I disregarded the way my dominance and ambition would ultimately diminish her sense of success and worth.

After my meeting with Darwin, I feel like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. I’m still burdened by the radio silence from Olivia. There’s a gnawing hole in my life in the space she has started to fill with her laughter, her smiles, and her brilliance.

On my drive to Gil’s I stop at the florist to get a bouquet of tulips since they just came back in season and Maisy loves them. I pick up an extra bouquet with a vase and set it on the passenger seat, securing it with the seatbelt.

I start the engine and head toward Gil’s. My phone pings with a notification. I’m like a lab rat, habituated to the sound of a bell. All day long, my head has been snapping up any time my cell rang or vibrated. I kept hoping against hope Olivia would call or text.

She didn’t.

But now, my car Bluetooth announces, “Text from Olivia Pennington.”

I smile at the sound of her name. She might be texting to tell me she wants nothing to do with me ever again, but I’m pretty sure she’d have the decency to call if that’s what she were going to say.

I push the play button on my digital display and the automated male voice reads Olivia’s message.

“Thanks for the coffee.”

I wait.

That’s it.

I hit replay.

“Thanks for the coffee,” the voice says again.

I try to imagine Olivia’s voice saying thanks instead of the British guy I have programmed into my settings.

She thanked me. That’s something. Of course, she’s polite. But I’m choosing to think her reaching out to thank me represents more than mere manners. I think Olivia wants to find a way back to me. I have to pave that road, but if I do, she just might walk down it and meet me halfway.

I push the button to record a response. “Send a message to Olivia Pennington.”

“What would you like to say to Olivia Pennington?” my British car guy asks.

“So many things.”

“Your message says, ‘So many things.’ Would you like to send it now?”

“No! No! No! Do not send.”

“Cancelled.”

Whew.

I picture British car guy rolling his eyes, sipping his tea and thinking,These Americans. So dramatic.

“Send a message to Olivia Pennington,” I try again.

“What would you like to say to Olivia Pennington?”

“You’re welcome. Let me know if your order varies for tomorrow. I’ll get you whatever you’d like from Serendipi-Tea.”

My British guy repeats my message, and I hit send.

There’s no answer.

I’d like to say I’m not disappointed, but I am.

Only two days ago, Olivia would have sent a sassy comeback or said something fun and flirty in response to my offer to alter her order.

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