She got all the way back to Cobble Hill, unzipped from her boots, had leftover Indian food heating in the microwave, before she finally checked her phone. She had a voice mail from her mother, who considered texting to be juvenile. “Mary, love, did you get my email? It was a forwarded invitation to Meryl Overshire’s singles event on the Upper East Side next week? It sounds like a classier version of speed dating. Now, I’m sure you’ll be one of the older participants, but Meryl assured me that—” Mary deleted the voice mail. She moved on to the three texts from her friends Fin and Via on a group chat they had together. And then there was one text from an unknown number.

She opened it up.

John Modesto-Whitford, the text said. Mary laughed at it. How boring! Not even a salutation. She hadn’t ever known before that someone could have a frowny name, but she could practically feel the scowl coming off of each letter. She was almost tempted to text him back a blur of flower emojis. Thirty-five party horns, confetti fireworks, sunshines and trumpets. She pictured him receiving a colorful emoji-filled text from her and scoffing, the V of his eyebrows pulling down so far his nose disappeared.

Instead, she just saved his number into her contacts, ate her Indian food and went to bed.

CHAPTER FOUR

FIVE DAYS AFTER the block party, John did a confused double take at his cell phone as he sat in his office slogging through paperwork at 6:00 p.m.

Elijah Crawford.

Why in God’s name was an unknown number texting him the name of his childhood bully? For one confused second, John thought that maybe Elijah Crawford was texting him and identifying himself. But from a Connecticut area code?

“Oh,” he muttered to himself once he’d entered the text and saw that he and the number already had a thread going. Well, not so much a thread, but a single other text that had just his own name. It was Mary Trace.

He blinked. Took a deep breath. He was a grown man. With a law degree. His heart should not be shivering in his chest just because he’d gotten an unexpected text from a pretty girl. A very pretty girl. Okay, the prettiest girl.

And the sweetest one. She’d have to be if she was willing to forgive him for his multiple social faux pas that he’d already committed. He hadn’t saved her number into his phone when she’d given it, simply because he hadn’t thought she’d ever actually text him. His conscience, poking at him after all the rude things he’d accidentally said to her, had made him offer up his services, but he hadn’t bothered to hope that she’d take him up on it. What woman wanted further contact with a man who’d already effectively called her desperate and old?