Hey, it’s Cole. It was really nice meeting you today. If you change your mind about dinner, just let me know. I’ll be in town for a few days.

It’s sad that the fact that he came through on his word shocks me. Men never follow through with promises like that.

“I’ll talk to you soon, Miss Clark.”

Or threats. I grin. It was more of a threat.

I wrestle with myself about how to feel about this situation. I know that sending a text is literally the least you should expect from someone . . . but I didn’t expect anything at all. And without giving him a star for effort, it’s still nice. He was nice.

What would I do with a nice guy?

I laugh, then put the phone back down and pick up another shirt. I’d do all sorts of not-nice things to that nice man.

My laughter grows louder, and I’m sad that Val isn’t here to appreciate that line.

I fold the rest of Ethan’s laundry, making quick work of the hoodies that are in the bottom of the basket. All the while, my mind sticks on Cole.

Not returning his text took a monumental amount of self-restraint. My phone’s been a rock in my pocket ever since yesterday, begging me to deal with it.

But I haven’t, and it’s almost been painful.

There’s no use in starting a conversation with Cole. Why bother? You go out on a date with someone to test the waters, to see if you’re compatible. Our compatibility simply doesn’t matter.

I want a man with a good LTR score—someone who exudes the potential for a long-term relationship. Anything else is a waste of time. And Cole Beck screams waste of time. He needs to stay firmly in the forbidden, red-flag territory.

Red flag one: by all accounts, he’s nearly perfect. Handsome, sexy, charming—he’s the whole package. Men like that get way too much attention to settle down. Are there exceptions? Probably. But I’ve never met one . . . and I have met Charlie, who was about an eight compared to Cole’s ten, and he strung me along for eleven months.

Red flag two: He got my number from a bet with his best friend. If that doesn’t scream emotional immaturity, I don’t know what does.

Red flag three: He’s a professional athlete, which still feels hard to believe. His definition of a “diamond” is probably much different, and much dirtier, than mine.

Red flag four: His life is based on the other side of the country. “I’m a California boy, lover of sunshine and salt water.” Ohio doesn’t have much sunshine and has no salt water. Plus, I’m not about to even entertain the idea of moving Ethan away from his father, even if Jared is invisible most of the time. My boy loves his dad.

I just need to delete that message and forget about Cole Beck.

I blow out a breath, my shoulders tired, and stack Ethan’s clothes back in the laundry basket. I swipe my phone off the sofa and start to shove it in my pocket. But before I can, it rings.