Page 18 of Pucking the Grump

Our date that isn’t a date, obviously.

It’s just easier to call it that than an appointment with my fun coach, who used to be my fuck buddy, who I sort of called things off with before having a meltdown in front of him and then allowing him to me give me a weirdly non-sexual bath, sleep in my bed, cook for me, and hang out watching adult cartoons on my couch most of Monday…

I’m honestly not sure what Stone and I are to each other right now, but I’m probably way too excited about spending a night doing kiddie crafts with him.

“You’re sure you wouldn’t rather go bowling or something?” I ask, pushing my chair in. “There’s a cute place over in Dundee where we shouldn’t run into anyone we know. Smells like moldy feet, but has cool vintage shoes and great snacks.”

“I’d be down for bowling another time, but tonight is for crafting. I already RSVPed for sock puppet making, and I can’t afford to anger the local handicraft community. They hold a grudge, and I’m too addicted to flower arranging to get blacklisted.” He checks his watch. “You cleared the next two hours? It’s going to take us a little while to get there. I booked at a craft collective out of town.”

“Yep. All clear.” I have, in fact, cleared the rest of the evening. In a rare show of self-compassion, I asked my volunteer back-up to cover for me at the elementary girls’ skill workshop tonight. Marjorie loves coaching kids and has been offering to help out for months.

She actually seemed excited that I’d called in a favor.

Maybe people want to help more than I’ve given them credit for. And maybe letting them is actually a sign of strength, not weakness.

The fact that I’m allowing questions like that to roll around in my head is proof that Stone is rubbing off on me. But there are worse things than letting a good guy teach you how to be better to yourself.

He really is a good one, even better than I previously suspected.

What he did for me Sunday night and Monday…

Well, I owe him way more than a good attitude about participating in weird crafts. That’s the very least I can do.

“So do we need to bring our own socks?” I ask, sliding my laptop into my oversized purse and grabbing my duffle from under my desk. I took the bus this morning so I could ride with Stone after work, but I couldn’t justify skipping leg day. “I have some in my gym bag, but I’m sure they’re stinky.”

“Girl, what do you take me for?” he asks, tsking as he shakes his head. “I already picked up socks at the dollar store. White and multi-colored. You ready to jet?”

“Ready,” I say, circling around my desk. “But you can’t make fun of me if my puppets are lame. You know I’m not artistic.”

“I know you don’t think you’re artistic,” he says, poking his head out into the hall. He glances right, left, then back to the right again before murmuring, “All clear. I’ll take the stairs? You can take the elevator and meet me on the west side of the lot. I parked right by the west exit for maximum stealth, but by the time I headed up, almost everyone had cleared out.”

“Yeah, sounds good. I wanted to swing by the bathroom on my way out, anyway.” I follow him into the hall, locking my office behind me. “See you down there.”

“See you.” He backs toward the stairs with a wink that sends a flutter through my stomach.

In the bathroom by the elevator, I reapply lipstick and pull a brush through my frizzy hair. I remembered to run some oil through it after my workout and shower, but it never looks as good when I let it air dry instead of using the diffuser. But it’s fine. Stone has seen me looking way worse.

And it’s not like this is a real date.

This is just friend fun time, and it’s good that I embraced business casual in black pants and a black sleeveless turtleneck. Stone is the crafty one. I’m more likely to end up with paint on my clothes, which hopefully won’t show on the black fabric.

Outside, I sweep my gaze back and forth across the mostly empty lot before heading for Stone’s idling SUV. There are still a few vehicles scattered across the vast expanse, but they’re empty.

Still…

“We should probably meet somewhere else next time.” I toss my bags into his backseat before climbing into the passenger’s side. “No sense in tempting fate. I mean, I knew Dad was going to be at the banquet tonight, but his schedule isn’t usually that ironclad.”

“Sure, no worries,” Stone says, shifting into drive with another big grin. “Ready for fun time? Whoo-hoo! Fun time, heck yeah!”

“Yes, I’m ready, you goober. Now drive,” I say, giggling.

I can’t help it. His enthusiasm is contagious.

“That’s the spirit!” He reaches over, giving my knee a quick squeeze that makes me laugh again before returning his hand to the wheel and pulling out of the lot. “So, tonight’s objective! To embrace the joy and fun of creation without stressing about being ‘good’ at it. Good and bad are relative, and they don’t matter in a situation like this. The fun is in the process. The journey, if you will.”

“I hear you,” I say with a sigh. “But you know I don’t like being bad at things.”

“I do know that about you,” he says, shooting a smug glance across the cab. “Why do you think I chose weird crafting for our first coaching session? There’s a method to my madness, woman. Even if you make the ugliest sock puppet ever known to man, it’s still going to be awesome. And pointless. And just plain fun. Mark my words, you’re going to have a judgment-free blast.”

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