Page 44 of Accidental Blind Date
“Is her name Delilah?” I mutter.
“Tess,” she answers.
I stop and hover over Summer’s phone screen with her. It’s a photo of Dax and a woman. She’s blonde, younger than him but older than me. They’re both smiling. She looks wholesome and he looks happy. A happy I haven’t seen on him before. He also has less gray hair.
“Must be an ex,” I say with forced disinterest.
“Unless she’s not an ex,” Tom says, and we both look at him. His expression shifts from indifferent to guilty. “What? Men like that, from my experience as a commonplace man, a four on the hotness scale as I’ve been told by many a Tinder woman, aren’t usually monogamous. He might be in a relationship.”
“Oh my god, he might be married!” Summer blurts out. “What a dick.”
“He’s not married!” I say. “I don’t think. I don’t know! Jesus, put your phone away. None of this matters and you know why? He means nothing to me. He’s just an asshole businessman who happens to be friends with my brother–”
“Who is almost kind of a jerk,” Tom mutters.
“And I don’t care if he is with Tess or Delilah or Poppy or anyone else because I am not involving myself with him anymore.”
Both of them stare at me and I’m worried the conversation isn’t over. Hell, even I don’t know if I believe me. But luckily, myphone buzzes with a text from Joni. I read it as I make my way to the front of the store to flip the OPEN sign.
Joni- Hey girl! Just wanted to make sure we are good for the bookfair.
Honestly, I almost forgot. Which is so unlike me. The elementary book fair is one of my favorite events of the year and I always make a point of helping out. Not only does it boost sales, but it also surrounds me with children, which is just icing on the cake.
Libby- Absolutely. Wouldn’t miss it.
Joni- Great, I’ll make sure the board knows. Any new adventures in Boss Land?
I purse my lips before taking in a breath and holding it. The whole point of this book fair is that I don’t have to see him. Or deal with him. Or talk or even think about him.
Libby- Nope. He’s still a dick.
I shove my phone back in my pocket. And as my usual patrons trickle into the store, I let myself forget about him. Because Daxton Hemingway doesn’t matter to me. He can’t.
I won’t let him.
Chapter 13
Dax
Sometimes when the going gets tough, the tough tuck it into their belt. Right now, it’s not just tough, it’s hard. Very hard. Hard enough that I opt for jeans instead of slacks simply because jeans are thicker and better at hiding things.
I can’t stop thinking about Libby. Obviously. Libby on the ladder, reaching for the top shelf. Her perfectly plump ass tight as she stretched herself just a few more inches. Her long, dark hair cascading in waves down the curve of her back. The way she looked when I spun her around to face me, took her by complete surprise and planted a kiss on her unexpecting lips.
God those lips. The woman is a biological enigma. She tastes like strawberries. Without fail. As a rule. And don’t get me started about how the rest of her tastes. If I let my mind wander there, not even double-ply Levi’s will keep my secrets under wraps, if you know what I mean.
I walk into the shop with a mission on my mind. First, a contractor that Kai hired is going to help me figure out the layout for the new book shelving. As charming as Libby’s hand-made, hand-painted shelves are, they’re not Hemingway and therefore, they’re not going to cut it. Not only that, but the scuffed oakflooring looks like it’s been here since the Boston Tea Party and that, too, is going to need a serious makeover.
And second, a construction contractor is meeting me to talk about knocking a hole in the wall, leading into the other building where a coffee shop is actively being built. My hope is we will have a nice archway separating the two and making it all feel like one, hopefully without compromising the integrity of the buildings themselves. God knows Boston real estate is old, especially on Beacon Street.
The moment I walk into the shop, I see her. Libby is wearing a black and pink floral dress that comes off her shoulders and flows down to just below her knees. With it, Converse. Because she’s her. And Libby is like no one I’ve ever met.
But while Summer and Tom aren’t here, we aren’t alone. There are no less than six men in hard hats, a little overkill, I admit, and in the middle of the store, a table has been set up with an entire flock of loud, energetic women.
Also, the whole place smells like cookies.
“Good afternoon,” I say, as I pass the cash counter where Libby is counting bills.
“Daxton,” she says curtly in between mumbled numbers.
