She purses her lips and wrinkles her nose, and for a split second of insanity, I pray that she’ll disregard my advice. She really doesn’t deserve him, if she’s that uncertain.

But then she smiles and nods. “Okay, you’re right. Let’s set up another meet.”

“Great! Yes.”

We chat a little more before I end the call. I flop backward onto my couch bed, knowing I should be happy, I should feel relaxed, rejuvenated, and recharged, but the truth is I’m experiencing my own version of the three Rs: relief, regret, and resignation.

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 11

MILES

I can pretend that Leanne’s memo is the main reason I went so many unpaid hours beyond Jude’s TITMH package to write that walking tour. Or that I felt threatened that Stella would take over the only staff writing position Leanne can afford right now. But the truth is I started working on it before the memo even came through.

The day after that disaster of a date, I took myself to Bree’s neighborhood and self-assigned a leisurely stroll, making a voice memo of places of interest as I did. I kept my eyes peeled because that was exactly the point: to show her something she might not have noticed before the tour. Not because I was keeping an eye out for the recipient of the tour herself. Of course not.

But I was a little unnerved at how intently I seemed to not be looking for her. Or how every flash of blond hair made me do a double take. Which was why once I had a solid idea of what I wanted to include, I took myself to Café Crudité to write out the actual script.

It took me two days to do it, mainly because I was interrupted by another new client—Clark—and had to go through his questionnaire and set up an initial meeting with him. Though at one point, another flash of blond hair at the café distracted me too.

But it wasn’t Bree. It was my nemesis au lait, whose hair isn’t even fully blond at all, but a confounding mixture of dark and light which—given the very little I know about her—actually seems somewhat appropriate. It was starting to get weird that I didn’t know her name, since she had become such a fixture of my time here. But I couldn’t very well go up and ask her now. “Hi, I’m Miles. Would you mind telling me your name? My inner monologue is running out of clever nicknames for you. By the way, has anyone ever told you your dimples are an exact fifty-fifty ratio of sexy and sweet? Thanks!”