Page 45 of The Fun Part
Harper’s reaction is the same. She shoos them away. “Wrong.”
They look confused.
“Sorry,” I say to them, “her dad’s an identical twin, and she’s got daddy issues.”
The clean-shaven guy frowns. The scruffy one turns to me. “How about you?”
I consider. I’m not attracted to him, and now I can legit claim I’m enjoying the singles scene. Sounds like a go. “I’ll dance with you.”
He moves in close. “I’m Craig.”
I shift back. “Mackenzie.”
His twin calls, “Getting a drink!” before walking off the dance floor.
“What do you do?” Craig asks over the music. He’s not a bad dancer.
“High-tech security.”
“Cool. I’m in finance, but I’m not a finance bro. Ha-ha-ha!”
I’m about to say we don’t have to talk when he launches into a detailed description of his job, yelling to be heard over the music. I dance, keeping Harper in the corner of my eye. She’s dancing with a muscular guy wearing a light blue shirt unbuttoned to his navel. Six-pack abs, golden skin, slicked-back dark hair. He gets in close behind her. She turns, and they undulate body to body. Foreplay on the dance floor.
I face front. Craig finally stopped talking. I hope Shayla and friends get here soon.
“Can I get you a drink?” Craig asks, leaning in close.
“No, thanks.”
He touches my arm, and I want to recoil. “Want to go someplace quieter to talk?”
I shake my head. Harper’s arms are around her guy’s neck, his leg between hers. My mind flashes to Cal’s hands on my waist at the dance, firm and warm. And then night after night of big, competent hands roaming freely, learning my body, targeting all the right places.
“Excuse me,” I tell Craig. “Need to make a call. Nice to meet you.”
Craig frowns and works his way over to another woman. Guess he got the hint. I should’ve been interested in him. He seemed nice. Why am I at a club if not to meet someone new?
I skirt to the edge of the dance floor, keeping an eye on Harper. I check my phone. No texts from any guys I might know.
This is going to be a long night.
11
Cal
I’ve got to get Mackenzie out of my head. Visions of her long hair fanned out on my pillow, the smile that makes her blue eyes shine like she has a happy secret. For a while I thought I was her happy secret. Nope. Now she wants to fake date, and then she doesn’t even set up a fake date for this weekend.
Is she expecting me to set up a fake date? I don’t even know what qualifies. So here I am on a Saturday night in the city with some of my old coworkers, grabbing a beer at an Irish pub we used to meet at regularly. Conversation circles around who will make partner next. This is partly why I left. The insane competition and hours and for what? To work even more hours and then collapse from exhaustion, a heart attack, or worse.
Things changed for me at work when a partner in my firm got a late-stage cancer diagnosis. He regretted missing so much in life, always chained to his desk. That combined with memories of Mom’s own cancer struggle put me on a different path. A better path.
“How’s small-town life treating you, Cal?” Jack asks.
“Good,” I say. “I like being my own boss. Better work-life balance.”
“Yeah, but what a pay cut,” Jack says with a bark of a laugh.
The group, two men and two women, all nod and give each other looks. I’m sure they’ve all discussed me and concluded I’m crazy for giving up big money for what they see as a small life.
