Once she’s gone, I go back to my desk, sitting down and rubbing my forehead. It’s only after I get the third circle done on my temple that I remember where my fingers have been, and I groan.

Well, not everything’s bad. Sure, I’ve got some more paperwork to do, and just out of habit, I’ll give the home office a call. After that, I’ll call Zoey. I can use this paperwork as an excuse for an actual date.

But first a hand wash . . . and a face wash.

Chapter 8

Zoey

The skillet on my stove sings merrily, little pops and crackles as the vegetables and butter I put in there a few minutes ago start to absorb the heat and cook. On my cutting board, I’ve got the freshly-cooked chicken ready for a slice and dice.

It’s all from my subscription box, a mix of regular food and organic farmer’s market stuff that costs a pretty penny. But it’s an indulgence I love, mainly because now I don’t need to go to the grocery store and deal with the odd looks and talk that’s not even behind my back anymore.

I just got tired of stopping by the meat section and getting bullshit like Hey, DDG! A little steak tartare on the menu tonight? or another witticism, Killing cows so you don’t kill anyone else?

I sigh, setting my knife down. At this rate, I’m going to be getting my entire life delivered via FedEx, and never talking to anyone at all. There are just too many idiots in the world who think my tragedy is their comedy.

Fine, so I haven’t always helped things when I’d replied to the snorting twat-waffle at the grocery store that I craved red meat when Aunt Flo is visiting and asked, with a fake-sweet smile, if he’d ever earned his red wings. I was hungry for fresh sausage that night.

Bitchy? Probably.

Crass? Definitely.

But why should I have to be well-mannered with everyone else when they’re not with me? It’s not like this sense of fatalistic weirdness just popped up overnight. Oh, hell no, it’s been the product of years and years of growth, layer upon layer built up like someone painting the same spot over and over until it’s like a little armored onion.

Blake Hale had some good manners and wasn’t scared off by your weirdness, my conscience reminds me. He was cute, too.

That’s true, but not helpful either. Not when I’m doing my best to not think about the sexy, smart, flirty man who makes me want to forget why I’m doomed to a life alone. Or at least pretend to be someone else for a little while.