Page 9 of The Accidental Text

“Why would Dad even want to see what’s out there?” Chelsea asks.

“He said he’s lonely.”

We just look at each other, no words, our concerned and questioning eyes doing the talking.

“Maybe I should ask him to move in with me and Mark?” Chelsea says, her voice ending the silence.

“He’s fifty-nine,” Devon points out. “He’s not going to want to do that.”

“Could we get him a dog?” I ask, the idea coming to me just now. A dog would definitely help with loneliness.

We had a dog once. Butch was his name and he was a golden retriever/boxer mix. He regularly ate my mom’s shoes, and I suspect there wasn’t a lot of love lost on her end when he finally passed away at thirteen years old. I, on the other hand, didn’tthink I could ever be more sad about a death. Until my mom died. That was much, much worse.

“Yeah, a dog might work,” Chelsea says. “I’ll look into it.”

“We probably shouldn’t spring a dog on him, though. Maybe we should ask first?” Devon says.

“Right,” I agree. But already my heart is feeling a little less heavy. A dog would be a perfect way to keep my dad from feeling alone at the house.

“Okay, I’ll let you know what I can find,” Chelsea says.

Devon and Chelsea both turn to leave, the meeting over. Gone are the days when we used to stand in a circle, put our hands on top of each other’s, and yell “Coopers!” at the top of our lungs before releasing our hands and shooting them up toward the ceiling.

Just as they’re walking out the door, I hear two taps on the wall outside my office and someone saying, “Knock, knock.”

I would know that voice anywhere. The low, soothing, extra sexy tones of Dawson Hargrove.

“Dawson,” Devon says when he sees him, in that “bro” way guys talk to each other. He gives him a fist bump. “What’s up, man?”

Chelsea also offers a greeting—a more professional one—and then leaves.

I watch as Devon and Dawson start up a conversation about something car related. I appreciate this, as it gives me time to get myself together. I’ve got a sweaty palms and pits situation happening right now.

Dawson is the operations manager at Cooper’s—my family’s shop. He’s worked for my dad for about a year now, and he’s been the object of my affection since the day heaccepted the position and said those fateful words to me: “You’re stepping on my toes.”

I was literally wordless when I first met him—seeing that perfect chiseled jaw of his and those stark blue eyes. It took my breath away. It was like he’d stepped out of a magazine.

My dad introduced us, Dawson went in for a handshake, I went in for a hug—because I’d temporarily lost my mind—and toes were stepped on. He was very nice about it, and my embarrassment wasn’t enough to put me off him. I don’t think much could, really.

My crush has ebbed and flowed throughout this year and had become nearly nonexistent with all the things in my personal life, but recently there’s been a new development: he’ssingle.

This is significant. Dawson has been dating Natasha since I met him.Natasha. I’ve only met her a handful of times, but I could never figure the two of them out. She just seemed all wrong for him. Natasha is super wannabe Instagram famous, and Dawson is more reserved … more introspective.

He’s also the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen in real life, with that beautifully thick, dark-blond head of hair and that gorgeously structured face. He shouldn’t be wasting that face at Cooper’s; he should be an actor or a model or something. That face is God’s gift to the world. But I’m grateful he’s not any of those things. Because, his looks and my sweaty pits aside, Dawson is a great asset to Cooper’s. He works hard and is dedicated to the company, and he runs the shop better than any other hire we’ve had.

My dad thinks the world of him. My mom too. She’d told me more than once that if the day ever came that Dawson was single, I needed to make something happen with him.

Well, he’s single now. Sexy and single. The day has come. And I’m going to go for it, since this is the first time we’ve been alone in my office since the breakup.

“I’ve got a situation for you,” Dawson says when he enters my office after finishing his conversation with Devon.

“Sure,” I say. My heart does a strange skipping thing again—clearly the extra time I had while he was talking to Devon did not help.

He’s wearing charcoal-gray coveralls, a white T-shirt peeking out underneath. His hair is perfectly styled—combed back with some gel to hold it all in place. His blue eyes crinkle on the sides as he smiles at me with perfectly straight, white teeth.

“Have a seat.” I put on my best professional demeanor, gesturing toward the black mesh guest chair facing my desk.

Dawson takes a seat, very cool-like—casually, where he does that thing that guys do, leaning back in the chair, legs spread apart. With his Converse-clad feet and coveralls he looks like someone from the past. James Dean, reincarnated.

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