Page 18 of Someone Just Like You

The guy at the counter called out, “Cinnamon raisin bagel with raisin walnut cream cheese and an iced cinnamon coffee with half and half!”

“That’s me!”

Timothy cocked an eyebrow. “Someone likes raisins and cinnamon.”

“Guilty. Do you?”

“Only when there’s a gun to my head.”

“Different strokes.” I shrugged.

“Everything bagel with cream cheese, tomato, and lox, and a small coffee, black!”

“That’s mine.” He gestured toward the counter. “Ladies first.”

After I paid, I waited uncertainly for Timothy. If our conversation wasn’t over, it would be rude to leave without saying goodbye, but hanging around might make me look desperate. I didn’t do desperate. I took a step toward the exit and stopped. I didn’t do rude either—conundrum.

“Raisin Girl!”

I smiled with my back still to him.

“Hold up.”

I turned around.

“You didn’t tell me your name.”

“It’s Molly.”

“Molly, like Molly Jones!” He cringed. “Beatles reference. I do that a lot, sorry,” he said, removing the New York Giants cap from his head and covering his stubbled face with it.

A delicious warmth flashed through me. “I don’t mind.”

He dropped the cap. “Do you not mind enough to want to hang out sometime?”

“I don’t mind the exact right amount.” Now outside, I tucked my bag under my arm and bent to pet an adorable goldendoodle chained to a pole. “Hi sweetie.Hi!” I cooed. “What a cute pupper!”

“Meet Eli.”

“This precious creature is yours?” I asked, while Eli slobbered all over my hand.

“Sure is.”

I stood and tried not to swoon. Not only was Timothy sexy, with his bedhead and scruff, but he had an adorable dog to boot. “I hate to randomly run into you and run, but…” I glanced in the direction of my apartment. “What’s your phone—”

“Can I get your number?”

We laughed together.

With goofy grins, we exchanged digits. Then, with one more scratch of Eli’s ears and a tentative promise to hang out soon, I headed home to eat, clean, and shower before Jude came over.

Ugh. Jude is coming over.

Chapter Nine

Iwas seventeenth-guessing the wisdom of inviting Jude to my home when the doorman rang to tell me he’d arrived. While I waited for him to make his way up the elevator to my ninth-floor apartment, my doubts propelled me to take photos of every surface in my six-hundred-square-foot apartment as insurance in case he did anything sketchy, like change all the clocks to the central time zone, rearrange my hanging paintings, toss my throw pillows out the window, and other Jude-like hijinks. I’d also be sure to turn down my sheets before sliding into bed later in case he left a fake—or heaven forbid real—tarantula under the covers. After all, this was the Jude Who Cried Truce.

A dog barked from the hallway outside my door.

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