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  Jaylene couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Could this day possibly get any weirder? “You’re planning to stay at this until you marry the guy off? You can’t possibly think you’ll find someone for him. You must be kidding me.” That called for a refill.

  “I wish I was kidding.” Andy grabbed for a notebook and pen off of the coffee table and slid into the corner of the sofa. “So if it went that badly, I’m afraid I’m going to need to know every last detail. Top me up, too, will you?”

  Andy did look sort of pained. That was good. Because, job or not, Jay was going to describe her awful evening so Andy knew just how much she owed her. This ought to be good for a couple of more wine nights, and maybe even some cat-sitting while she was at her ex-roommate’s wedding next month.

  Pleased with the thought, Jaylene settled back into the cushions and began. “I got to the restaurant early. Because there was still a good half hour before our reservation, I thought I’d sit at the bar and grade some papers over a drink while I waited. It was a hot day, as you know, so I ordered a Sam Adams.”

  “Always a good choice.” Lacy grinned. “Sorry, go on.”

  “I was halfway through yet another tedious and mundane essay about how Catcher in the Rye changed this student’s life when this gorgeous man sits down next to me. I recognized him from the pictures right away. I hold out my hand for a shake—he doesn’t take it.”

  “I’m sure he didn’t notice,” Andy offered.

  “Oh, he noticed, all right. He stared at my hand and said ‘Jamie?’ in this curt tone that said he didn’t approve of my name.”

  Andy waved her hand dismissively. “He seems to have a thing about names fitting the way a person looks or acts. He calls me Drea. Best just to ignore it.”

  “Well, it isn’t my name, now is it? I told him he could call me Jay.” Because to hell with a guy deciding what a woman should be called. Maybe she needed to invite Andy to her monthly Femme Power group meeting. Anyway. “His gaze went from my hand—still just hanging there, mind you—to the beer. And I think that must have been the moment he decided I was gay.”

  Her story was interrupted by a guffaw from Lacy. “You? With the trail of broken-hearted men you’ve left in your wake? That’s rich. Andy’s boss is an idiot. I suppose he thinks only lesbians drink beer?”

  “Bingo.” Jay touched her nose. “He actually said something similar to that later on, but we’re still at the bar right now, me holding my hand out like an idiot, thinking he has to take it at some point because who does that? Well, he does that. He actually turned around and started walking to the table without ever acknowledging my unshook shake.”

  “Unshook Shake sounds like a song title.” Lacy grabbed her acoustic guitar and started strumming softly. “I’ll credit you, though.”

  “I wait a second before following him, because I have to grab the papers I was working on and stick them back in my briefcase. I get over to the table and he’s sitting in the shady spot. I try to scoot my chair so the sun isn’t shining directly in my eyes, but he says, get this, ‘I prefer you sit across from me.’” She took another swig of wine and shook her head. She still couldn’t believe she’d actually followed his instructions instead of insisting on another table, or better yet, leaving. But she’d been taken completely off-guard, and just sort of went with it.

  Also, the man was attractive. Beautiful men were definitely her weakness. Such a contradiction to the foundation of her being.

  She shook her head—if her thoughts spiraled into all the stupid things she’d done for beautiful men and the bitterness she had at herself regarding that fault of hers, she’d never get her story finished. “So the server drops off a glass of wine and an iced tea. That’s when I realize he’d ordered drinks for the both of us while I was putting papers away. And that he had taken the liberty of ordering me tea while he’s drinking something fancy enough to require the waiter to watch him sniff, swirl, and sip.”

  Andy scribbled something on her notepad. “I’m sure he was probably trying to impress you. Blake’s social skills aren’t super developed.”

  “It wasn’t impressive. It was a total dick move. If he was trying to impress me, he’d have ordered me a glass, too, so I could admire his taste.” She took a swallow of her wine, hoping to calm her growing irritation. It didn’t help. “Why are you defending him? You weren’t there. And ‘not super developed’ is a kind way to describe his social challenges.”

  “I’m not defending him.” Andy shifted her eyes as if just realizing that she had indeed been defending her boss. “I just think there are two sides to every story.”

  Not this story. Jay stared at Andy until the other girl dropped her eyes. She popped a cracker in her mouth, chewed, and swallowed the whole thing.

  Lacy prodded her on. “So did you call him on it?”

  Jay followed her cracker with a swallow of wine. “What do you think? I mean, I’m at a freaking loss here. Do I tell him that I feel he was being rude, or do I allow him to play the manly card and order me around a little?”

  “My guess is, your feminist ass wanted to call him out, but you didn’t want to reflect badly on my big, dumb sister. Am I right?”

  Jay touched her nose again with the bingo sign. “Pretty much nailed it.”

  Lacy plucked a few victorious strings and laughed. “Did he order your food for you, too?”

  “Um, yes. He very thoughtfully chose a large garden salad with grilled chicken for me. Oil and vinegar on the side. He himself enjoyed a prime rib and a lobster tail. Medium well. Like an asshole. You’re gonna spend that much money on a piece of meat and then have them cook all the flavor out?” Jaylene’s eyes flashed.

  Andy looked up from her scribbling. “Some people just don’t like bloody meat, Jay. And look at you. You’re teeny tiny. He probably figured you lived on vegetables.” She lowered her eyes. “Besides, some women would think that a man taking care of her is sweet.”

  Archaic was more like it. “Andy, seriously. What is this about? Do you have a thing for this guy?”

  “No! I told you—I have a decent amount of investment in him getting future dates.”

  “It seems the lady doth protest too much.” Jay smirked.

  Lacy grinned. “I know, right?”

  Andy’s jaw dropped. “Lacy! You know how I feel about the asshat.”

  Her sister shrugged.

  “So you admit he’s an asshat.” Jay found a certain amount of satisfaction with that, at least.

  “Like I said, his social skills need finesse. But there’s someone for everyone. Even the asshats. I just have to find someone to take this one.” Andy ran a hand through her long auburn curls. “So, could you please just tell me what happened next?”

  A part of Jay wanted to argue with Andy, not just because she doubted that there was a match for Blake Donovan, but because she also questioned whether there might really be a match for her.

  But that was a mess of a conversation that she didn’t want to start. Not when she had to work at seven in the morning. “Fine.” After another sip of wine, she continued on with the telling of her horrid date. “I was beside myself trying to come up with conversation with the man. We have practically no shared interests. He works out in a gym, by the way. No rough-terrain running. Which is lame, but anyhoo.” She watched as Andy noted that. “So I turned to the one and only thing any red-blooded Bostonian can discuss in the summer—I asked him what he thought about the Sox’s chances for the Series this year.”

  “Totes what I would have done!” Lacy contributed from the corner where she did appear to be writing an actual song based on Jay’s date.

  “He smirked. He smirked at me.”

  “Hmm.” Andy didn’t seem surprised by this.

  Jaylene sat forward in her seat. “And he said, ‘I just bet you’re a fan.’ Naturally, that pissed me off. Maybe even more than him not understanding that to keep this teeny tiny bod, as you call it, I require more than rabbit food for the miles I run a d
ay. So I was like ‘What does that mean?’ with my sweetest smile. And he said, ‘It’s pretty obvious I’m not your type.’”

  “Well, he’s right. You aren’t. I’m sorry, Jay.” Andy capped off the drinks, emptying the bottle.

  “Andrea Dawson, I am not his type. And I haven’t the slightest clue why you thought that I might be, but I can tell you that he was convinced from the get-go that he wasn’t my type because of his false assumption that I am into women. I am loud and proud about my feelings on equal pay for equal work. I protested in the streets for marriage equality. But for some rich asshole to tell me what my sexual preferences are—that’s just such a typical chauvinistic viewpoint.”

  “Blake, um, sort of prides himself on his intuition. No one has the heart to tell him he is wrong in everything but business. He just gets so … childlike and excited when he thinks he’s nailed someone. It’s cute,” Andy said, a half smile on her face.

  “Well I didn’t find it cute at all. So I’m a girl who drinks beer and enjoys sports. Why can’t that just be something that a blue-collar girl, born and raised in Massachusetts, might enjoy? Oh, no, this patriarchal alpha male immediately assumes that instead of being someone who could challenge and equal him, I must be someone who wishes to be him. Like a penis somehow equals success.”

  Jaylene was running out of breath, and could tell she was losing her audience. Perhaps she’d used variations on this speech a few too many times while convincing Lacy to sign petitions, attend sit-ins, or pledge in charity pub-crawls.

  “The point being, you two”—she pinned first one then the other with her eyes—“is that I wasn’t expecting Blake Donovan to be a feminist ally. But I was definitely not expecting him to be the ultimate male pig. And yet he was.”

  “Are you saying that just because he thought you were a dyke?” Lacy called from her armchair. She’d obviously gotten comfortable enough with the story that she was laying sideways, head across one arm of the chair, knees bent across the other, as she worked on her song.

  “That and he congratulated me for having such a feminine profession. Then he told me his wife would not have a job but would stay home and cook and clean.”

  Lacy paused mid-strum. “Is this seriously what your boss plans for his marriage, Andy?”

  Andy pulled a pillow down from the couch to brace behind her back. “I know it’s a bit … old-fashioned. He’s going to have to make some compromises before he settles down. Everyone does. At least he knows what he’s looking for in a woman. Do you?” She fixed her eyes first on Jaylene then on her sister.

  “Well,” Lacy said, sitting up, “I’m not looking for anything in a woman, and as Jaylene has unequivocally stated, neither is she.”

  “In a man, I mean. Do either of you know what you want?” Andy paused as if letting the question settle in the air. “Does what you want actually exist?”

  “It did.” Lacy’s words echoed across the room.

  Jay exchanged a glance with Andy who was very obviously berating herself for the comment. It was the reason Jay had stayed away from Lacy. It was too easy to say something that would remind her of her dead fiancé.

  “I’m sorry, Lace,” Andy offered softly. “I didn’t mean—I just didn’t mean it like that.”

  Lacy shrugged. But the chords she played next were minor ones, somber in tone.

  Not having any words of comfort herself, Jay swirled the wine in her jar as she contemplated Andy’s question. Did the guy she wanted really exist or was he a fairy tale? She didn’t want the controlling alpha male hero that all the women seemed to be into nowadays. There wasn’t a submissive bone in her body, though a part of her wondered if she might like it in the bedroom.

  Now that for sure was a fantasy—there’s no way she could marry her feminist ideals to any type of domination, even if it was just sexually. Was it even possible to find a guy who could admire her strength but still hold her when she needed to be held? A guy who would fight for her equality yet embrace her differences? A guy who would let her be a partner as well as a lover? Perhaps the real question was, could she ever let a man do those things for her? She was stubborn and independent, both traits that made it difficult to ever let someone in. It wasn’t like she didn’t want a man in her life—she did. Very much so. Just after all the failed relationships she’d gone through, it was difficult not to wonder if the problem wasn’t her.

  Was she too hard on men?

  In the midst of Jaylene’s self-examination she became aware of Andy staring at her with narrowed eyes.

  As if the woman could read Jay’s mind, she said, “Maybe you should go out with him again, Jay. I think you could see past his weirdness if you spent some more time with the guy.”

  Well, maybe she was too hard on men. But not that man. And if she had any hope of finding out if her type of guy existed, she couldn’t waste time with men who were definitely not her type. Men such as Blake Donovan.

  With renewed rage, Jaylene snatched the box of crackers from Andy’s hand. “You couldn’t pay me enough. And I can assure you he doesn’t want to date me again either. He accused me of having a men’s haircut. Are you listening, Andy? He referred to me as masculine. It was in the same conversation where he congratulated me on my profession. The guy is a complete and utter jerk. Good luck matching him with anyone.” She didn’t add that he wasn’t the first person who had referred to her as masculine. It wasn’t relevant information.

  “Now, I’m taking your other bottle of wine, and these crackers, and going home to lick my wounds.” She ruffled her pixie cut. “Also, I’ll be out of town for a week next month. You’ll be cat-sitting. Pookie’s diabetic, so you’ll have to do her insulin. Call me sometime, Lace.”

  Pleased with the look of chagrin on Andy’s face, Jaylene swept out of the apartment to the sound of Lacy’s laughter.

  With the door shut behind her, Jay paused before going down the stairs. The irritation she’d had about her bad date dissolved as she realized it wasn’t really Blake Donovan she was mad at. Or even Andy.

  She was mad at herself.

  Because she was a strong independent woman. She didn’t need a man. She didn’t need anyone. So why did she feel so lonely?

  CHAPTER 2

  Noah was bringing the last few stragglers in from his car when the cute girl passed him again. That shaggy haircut and tight dress were downright inspirational. He dropped his eyes. He also dropped a book from the stack in his left arm.

  “I got it. I’ll follow you in.” Her voice was deeper than he’d imagined it would be. Not that he’d planned on talking to her. If he had his way, he wouldn’t talk to anybody. Easier said than done, though. Tossing a glance back over his shoulder, he confirmed his earlier suspicion that this girl was going to be trouble. At least he’d sent his brothers home.

  “You can just put that … somewhere.” He gestured around as they walked through his open door. This was the worst part about having people over, knowing they were seeing all your stuff and wondering what sort of conclusions they were drawing about you.

  Everything he owned was different shades of gray. What did that say about him? That he was cold and depressed? He had been going for cool and modern, but maybe it didn’t translate. She set the book and her stuff down on a silver end table (scuffed) and wandered over to the steel bookshelf (ancient) to look at his literature collection (impeccable). She skirted a few unpacked boxes (beige) on the way.

  “Didn’t you just move in today?” she asked. “And you already set up your bookshelf?”

  “I, uh. Like things in a particular way.” He scratched the back of his neck and wondered if he should be offering her something.

  “I see that. Alphabetical order. You have great taste in books.…” She held out a hand.

  “Noah.” His large hand engulfed her tiny one, but her grip was surprisingly strong.

  “Jaylene Kim. Jay to my friends. And neighbors.”

  “Well. We are neighbors. Can I get you anything, Jay? I don
’t have much in the house, but there’s some … caramels, I think.” Caramels. Smooth. She laughed, though, and it was musical and he thought maybe he’d say stuff like that more often if he could hear it again.

  “Thanks, but I have an early day tomorrow. Work and all.” Was it his imagination, or did she actually look regretful? Sometimes it was hard to tell when someone was blowing you off.

  “Of course. What sort of work do you do?” He’d remain polite either way. And then stare at her ass in that dress while she was leaving.

  “I’m a teacher. My days start early. What do you do, Noah?”

  “I’d tell you, but I’d have to kill you. What grade do you teach?” He’d learned a long time ago how to deflect questions about his chosen career. Asking more questions of the other party was usually the best method. People in general loved to answer questions about themselves.

  It was a bonus when he was genuinely interested in the answer.

  “I’m high school English.” She absentmindedly ran a hand through her hair. “Hence my uncontrollable urge to check out everyone else’s bookshelves.”

  English. She literally couldn’t be more perfect. For one, an English teacher would never abuse the word “literally.”

  “Did they pass muster, then?” Of course they did. Noah Harrison knew books. He’d been an English major himself, after all, though he had zero desire to teach, or go into academia. He just liked to read. Reading didn’t require any social interaction. He reserved that for his professional life.

  Which reminded him—there was a beautiful woman inside his brand-new apartment. And here he was pretending to be social, when he had work to do. He should walk her to the door; he should thank her for carrying the book and escort her out. But he found himself fixated on her red lips, and anticipating her approval. Hoping for her approval.

  “You’re a Plath fan. Not many men are. I’m impressed.” She ran her tongue over those crimson lips, not lasciviously, but unconsciously, as if she were considering him. It was sexy as hell either way.

  “She was a brilliant writer. So raw, and honest. Not many women do that,” he said.