Page 23 of Lovesick
“Really?” I drawled. My hand fell on top of an unmarked binder. “Please, tell me more.”
Her eyes tapered at my tone. “What are you up to, Lizbeth?”
“Nothing.”
“A lie. You have a new binder, which is scary in itself. And it’s a pink binder with glitter hearts. Oh, heavens, you aren’t writing a romance novel about me, are you?”
My eyes flew open. “No, but that’s the best idea ever!” I grabbed a pen, flipped the binder open to the first page, and scribbled a note.
“Most boring romance ever.”
“You just need to spice things up.”
“Whatisthat, Lizbeth?”
“It’s ... a social experiment.”
“From the computer coder?”
“Don’t stereotype me.” I nudged my coffee cup so I had room to sprawl the binder out. “I love people, and I love to code.”
“Fair enough. So, spill.”
“It’s a love binder.”
She blinked at me.
I rolled my eyes. “It’s not weird, so don’t even say it. And it’s notthatkind of love binder. I’m trying to define romance and love and prove they’re real through scientific data. So, I’ve written down quasi-romantic experiences, created a rubric by which to grade them, and put it on graph paper so I can score it in different capacities. Part of my research involves hearing from other people—not just women—on what they think is romantic.”
She shook her head. “Your brain makes mine shrivel every time we interact. Why are you doing this?”
“Let’s just say I’m trying to turn a skeptic.”
“Oookay.”
“The first step is to define romance, and then define love.”
“That’s easy.”
“Oh, really?” I drawled. “Go for it. Give me a one-line definition of romance, right now.”
She opened her mouth to speak, paused, then closed it again. The skin between her brows wrinkled. “Well ... maybe it’s not easy.”
“Ha!”
“Romance is ... you know ... it makes you feel special, I guess?”
“That was a question, not a statement.”
She shrugged. “I honestly haven’t thought of romance in like eight years. I have four children. Romance just doesn’t rank.”
“So?” I cried. “All the more reason to get some more of it in your life.”
Leslie tilted her head, a comical expression on her face that basically screamed,You have no idea what you’re talking about.
I leaned forward. “Look, I get it. I’ve never had kids. I don’t know what it’s like to be up all night and all day with screaming children. Or to share that much of yourself. So much of yourself that you aren’t sure there’s enough left over for your husband.”
Her gaze slowly softened. This was too easy. I’d read enough second-chance romances to be a professional at this.
