Page 57 of Don't Tell Me How to Die

He couldn’t possibly know what I was thinking. I barely knew. But the dampness between my legs was a clue. I wanted to tear his clothes off and jump his bones. I’d never been so gobsmacked by the physical presence of another human being in my life.

“And what am I thinking?” I asked as casually as I could.

“You’re incredibly uncomfortable, and you’d probably like to throttle the hell out of your sister.”

I looked at Lizzie. She knew what I was thinking. I definitely wasn’t going to throttle her. I was going to award her the game ball, name our firstborn daughter after her, and apologize for ever doubting her.

“My work here is done,” she said, standing up and flashing me a victory smile. “You guys are on your own.”

Mission accomplished, she picked up her bag and left the restaurant.

Alex didn’t move. He was still standing tableside. I looked up. About six feet two. Thick chestnut-brown hair. Soft, upturned lips.

“She talks about you a lot,” he said. “Showed me your picture. But she didn’t say you’d be here. She sandbagged me.”

“Welcome to my world,” I said. “She said you asked her out.”

He laughed. “Asked her out? Not exactly. I’m just getting over a relationship. Third one in three years. I started to wonder what I’m doing wrong, and I thought it might help if I had a woman’s point of view, so I had drinks with Lizzie. I picked her because she’s gay. She’s safe.”

“She’s a meddler,” I said. “People like us are never safe around meddlers.”

“Apparently. Do you mind if I sit down?”

I scanned the restaurant. At least half a dozen college girls were staring at Alex over their sandwiches, their Diet Cokes, and their coffee cups.Did I mind if he sat down?If I did, I bet he wouldn’t have made it out the door before one or more of them pounced.

“Have a seat,” I said, crossing the words “lock myself up in the law library” off my mental things-to-do list.

He sat, and I could almost feel the other women whose eyes were glued to the tableau let out a collectivelucky bitch.

I looked at my watch. 12:47 p.m. on a Friday afternoon—the start of my first date with Alex Dunn. It didn’t end until 7:15 a.m. Monday morning.

THIRTY-THREE

I hadn’t been in the market for a new boyfriend, so when we hightailed it out of the White Dog Café that Friday afternoon and headed for Alex’s apartment, all I was hoping for was a torrid night with the best-damn-looking guy I’d ever been with.

He did not disappoint. And then came Saturday morning. I’d had more than my share of awkward goodbyes—throwing my clothes on in a hurry and doing the walk of shame in front of neighbors, and occasionally, the same doorman who’d seen me go upstairs the night before.

This was different. It was 11:00 a.m. We were in bed, still naked, enjoying a late-morning breakfast of Friday night’s leftover Chinese food.

“Lizzie told me about your mother,” he said. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thanks. Did she tell you about the crazy lady who almost took my father for all he was worth?”

“No. She said there was some family drama after your mother died, but that it was your story to tell.”

So I told him the tale of Connie Gilchrist, leaving out, of course, the part where Johnny Rollo and I broke into her house.

“Wow,” he said. “If I was your father, I’d have sworn off women for the rest of my life.”

“And how long do you think it would take before the next dumpster fire in high heels and a push-up bra came along to change your mind?”

“Good point. As you can see, I’m susceptible to beautiful and intelligent women.”

“All men are, and my father is no exception. So Lizzie and I orchestrated a meet and greet between him and the librarian, Beth Webster.”

“And are they dating?”

“Not anymore. They got married two years ago. I love her, Lizzie loves her, and I know my mother would approve of our choice. So,” I said, “your turn.”

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