Page 36 of Accidental Blind Date
Got off on the wrong foot? Seriously? The problem is that we got off at all! I had half a mind to ask him if he’s always this fake. If he always lies about who he is until he gets what he wants, whether it’s sex or real estate or whatever. I even almost asked him about Poppy and Delilah and whoever else pops up on his phone all the time.
But I didn’t. I couldn’t. Being in that car with him,my carwith him, had my tongue tangled and my head floating. Whichpissed me off. Not to mention the whole fishing in my bra stunt. I should have known better than to hide my keys there. I should have known he is just a man who takes what he wants.
“Fucking crazy,” I scold myself, shaking my head, shaking off the thoughts and walking into the living room. Technically, it’s still the same room. I live in a studio apartment and the only thing separating each “room” is double sided, cube bookcases and bamboo dividers. I wasn’t lying that I could afford my own place. But it’s mostly because the landlord of the building is a seventy-six-year-old man who used to go into the bookshop when my dad was still alive, and basically adopted our whole family as his own. Of course, I wasn’t going to admit that.
I also love my apartment, so there is nothing to defend.
I stop in the window which is covered in tweed beadwork instead of a traditional curtain. It’s just enough to make it harder to see inside without keeping the light out.
Never keep the light out, Libby Love.
My dad’s words ring in my head throughout the day, every day, almost the way well-learned scripture would. It’s both comforting and painful hearing his voice constantly, little jokes and reminders and intuitions. A lot of it, he said he got from my mom. I was young when she died, young enough that I only have a few, very short memories of her.
Sometimes I think I have more. But I think it’s because people came into the shop all the time and talked about her, so I don’t know what memories are actually mine, and what memories are stories that other people told me. But the one thing I love is that my dad was always full of love, even after loss. People talked about that too, about how even after the death of the love of his life, my dad didn’t lose his light. If anything, he worked harder to keep it alive.
I set the tomato plant on the sill and look down at it. It’s alive. Vibrant, green and strong. God, I only hope it’ll stay that way.
Half of hope, Libby Love, is believing in something you can’t see.
“I know, Dad. I know.”
My eyes catch movement outside as an Uber pulls up to the street. I watch as Dax climbs in. I also see his head tilt back up in my direction momentarily. I’m sure he can see me. I am sure we are looking right at each other, even if our faces aren’t visible. I wonder if we are thinking the same thing.
There is no denying what happened out there on the steps. We almost kissed. Whether either of us want to admit that or not. Our lips were close, close enough that if either of us so much as shifted our weight, they would have brushed.
But we didn’t. Which is good. Because I cannot get caught up in that man, no matter how good he looked. No matter how sweet he was pretending to be. I am not looking for love and even if I were, it wouldn’t be with that man.
I move away from the window and head into the kitchen. I grab a colorful glass from the drying rack (I only have two cabinets in my little kitchen and not enough room for all my glassware) and fill it with water. I chug it, knowing full well all the wine I consumed needs to be diluted if I am going to wake up for work tomorrow, and then I fill the glass again, returning to the window to water Tom.
The car is gone. Which is good. Because I need to stop thinking about Daxton Hemingway.
The next morning, Way With Words is buzzing. The whole street is buzzing with foot traffic. Weekends mean tourists a lot of the time. We are located in a shopping district where everything is cultured, old and charming. We are also less than a ten-minute walk from the Cheers Replica bar so it’s not uncommon for people to wander in. People who didn’t know we are here andend up leaving with a book they didn’t know they needed or a toy or even just a quirky sticker or bookmark.
But window shoppers aren’t the only reason the shop is extra busy today. We are crawling with construction guys. Outside, inside, even in the bathroom.
“What are they doing here?” I ask as I set down my coffee and my bag behind the cash wrap.
“Apparently they were hired,” Summer says.
“By who?” I ask though I’m not sure why. There are two people that could be responsible– my brother and my nemesis, and I am equally angry at both of them.
“What are they doing?” I ask, as one of the men measures the bookshelves against the wall, bookshelves my dad made by hand in his garage. “Excuse me! What are you doing?” I call out before Summer or Tom can say anything (the man, not the plant. I should probably change the name of my tomato plant now that I think about it).
No one seems to be able to hear me, so I weave through the customers and approach the two hardhat clad men. “Hello! Hi. What are you doing here?”
“We were hired to inspect the place, ma’am.”
“Hired by who exactly. Because this shop is property of the Sterling family. And I am Elizabeth Sterling, so I need to know what’s going on right now because frankly, you’re trespassing and you’re chasing away my customers.”
One of them hands me a stack of crumpled papers. “We have a contract to be here, ma’am. We were hired by…Kai? Sterling? And Daxton Hemingway.”
I nod, clicking my teeth. “Of course you were. Well, neither of them are here right now so I’m going to need–”
“Hey boss! This wall is weight bearing!” another guy in orange calls out from the other side of the room.
“Are you sure? Because the blueprint says it’s not,” the guy I am talking to calls back.
“I am going to need you to leave.” I punch out every word hard enough and loud enough to get his attention again. He blinks but I don’t. “Now.”
