Page 92 of Scrooge and the Girls Next Door

“I haven’t minded.” It sounds flirtatious, but it’s true. She’s easy company.

“Still, I bet you’re a man who thrives on solitude.”

“That used to be true,” I murmur, thinking about how much less solitude I’ve had since the girls next door moved in, and how little I regret its loss.

“What do you mean?” she asks, and I realize it sounds like I’m referring to her presence in our shared office.

“Just that I’ve been more people-y lately, and it hasn’t been terrible.”

“I’ll take credit for some of that.” She tilts her glass toward mine in a light toast.

“As you should.” This conversation could not be going better if I had Paige feeding me lines through an earpiece, but I suspect it’s due to lack of nerves. That lack is due to no longer being invested in the outcome of this conversation. Strangely, this all seems to be even more enticing to Leigh.

I should ask Leigh out now. There’s no more shared office dynamics to worry about should a date go poorly.

But I don’t want to.

Why? Because Paige now has my attention?

She doesn’t want it. And without her explaining, I understand and accept all of her reasons. For as much as she still berates herself at some level for her impaired decision-making at eighteen, all the evidence I’ve seen suggests she’s done an outstanding job of making the best choices for herself and Evie since.

I need to respect that. And a future date with Leigh sounds better than mooning over a neighbor who has rightly corralled me into a “friends only” pen. What’s the term for that? Friend zone.

Very well.

I clear my throat, startling Leigh, who was in the middle of saying something I’ve missed. “Would you like to get dinner sometime?”

She takes a drink of her wine, eyeing me over the rim. “I would.”

“Will you be in town over the holiday?”

“I leave Sunday afternoon for Colorado.”

I smile. “They got their snow?”

“They did.”

“Tomorrow evening, then. Are you available for dinner?”

“I am,” she says, smiling like she’s amused by all of this.

I quirk an eyebrow at her. “Something funny?”

“You.” She taps her fingers against the wineglass. “You’re a surprise, Henry.”

“A good one, I hope.”

“We’ll see.”

Another woman in the psychology department joins us, and their conversation turns to shared students.

The rest of the night passes pleasantly enough. I speak when spoken to, and it’s less irritating than general social situations because I have shared professional interests with most of these people. Still, my mind wanders often to Orchard Street. How much food has been collected? What is Paige doing?

Am I supposed to tell her that Project: Makeover worked, and I now have a date with Leigh? I would dislike hearing that Paige has a date with someone. What if that UPS driver wears down her resistance? I scowl thinking of it until my colleague, a decently kind man from the sociology department, gives me a wary look.

“Did I say something wrong?” he asks.

“Not at all. My apologies. I allowed some stress at home to creep in for a moment.”

---