The vow, p.12
The Vow, page 12
Abigail leans against the counter, licking her fingers. “Why do you want to start a company? Isn’t your blog going well?”
It’s not a blog. It’s an Instagram account, but you know what? It doesn’t matter. “It’s fine,” I say. “I mean, it’s the same as always.” I don’t bother her with the fact that my fans will probably flip out when my #HOTCOWBOY is replaced with Derek.
“Fine isn’t good enough?” She frowns. “What’s up?”
“No, I mean, it really is fine, but the thing is. . .”
I can hardly tell her that I’m trying to live like she lives, and do what she would do. If I explained my plan, she’d probably laugh in my face. Abby’s a top-rated lawyer. It took her years to work through law school, and years more of being an associate at a law firm. She did all that with kids, too. She’d never start a tiny company to make and sell cookies. No, she effortlessly makes perfect cookies in her free time. For fun.
I’m such a loser. What was I thinking?
While Abby washes her hands, her brow is furrowed. Clearly she’s trying to make sense of me. It’s hard for someone who’s so perfect to grasp the underlying motivation of someone like me. That’s my saving grace, the only reason she hasn’t figured me out yet. She can’t quite comprehend how pathetic I really am. “But if you—”
Misdirection is my only hope. “How’d the trail ride go with Steve?”
Her cheeks blaze red. Bingo.
“I mean, that’s not like you, to just take off like that.” A little bit of guilt can’t hurt, either. Remind her that she owes me for helping out last night. Not that I had to do that much.
“He, um, right at the end of the trail ride. . .”
Oh, no way! “Did he kiss you?”
If it weren’t impossible, I’d say her cheeks grow even redder. “He most certainly did not.” She straightens up, drying her hands. “But he did say something. . .upsetting.”
“Do tell.” Who cares about the cookies! I can’t believe I didn’t ask her about this before.
“Well, Gabe called, and—”
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know—”
She waves me off. “No big deal, only what he said was kind of funny, and I said he was cute. Normal mom stuff, right?”
I shrug.
“And then Steve says, ‘he’s cute like you, but with my luck, our kid would probably look as ugly as me.’” She inhales and gulps quickly. Like a gust of wind hit her in the face or something.
I blink. “What?”
“Our kid,” she says. “He said ‘our kid.’”
“Oh. Like, he’s already envisioning marrying you, or something?”
“I’m thirty-eight,” she says, clearly exasperated with me. “Why would he say that?”
“Are we saying our ages?” I ask. “Because officially, I’ll never admit that I’m forty-one.”
“Stop,” she says. “Be real for a minute. If your boyfriend of three minutes—”
“Whoa.” I bolt up straight and step closer. “Is he your boyfriend? Did you guys define things?”
She rolls her eyes. “Amanda! Try to listen. No, we didn’t talk about that.”
Now I’m really confused. “So you didn’t kiss, and you didn’t talk about your relationship or decide you’re, like, together, but he made a joke about future children and. . . Connect the dots for me. I think I missed something.”
“You wouldn’t care if your boyfriend, or your, whatever, your guy, commented on what your kids would look like?”
“First, Steve is not at all ugly.” I frown. “So clearly, he was making a joke. He has to know he’s stupidly good looking.”
“Okay.”
“And second, it was an offhand remark. He was just trying to be involved, and for someone with no kids, that’s kind of impressive. Most guys I’ve met would be running for the hills.”
I watch as Abby processes that, breathing in and out and nodding. Then she snaps out of it, her eyes widening, her nostrils flaring. “Did you set a timer for the cookies?”
It’s hard keeping up with her, sometimes. “Uh, no.” Actually, it’s hard all the time.
“I think they’re done.” She spins around and hits the button for the light in the oven. Sure enough, she’s right. When she pulls them out, they look perfect. She must have the nose of a bloodhound. A cookie-loving bloodhound.
“How do you do that?”
She shrugs. “Years and years of baking cookies.”
“That’s why you never set a timer?”
“Each batch of cookies bakes a little differently,” she says. “It’s safer to just be paying attention.”
I can’t even watch faithfully while my toast is in the toaster oven. “Well, for those of us born without a cookie-scenting superpower, I suppose good old-fashioned timers will have to do.”
She laughs.
I grab the bowl and cover it.
“What are you doing?”
“I’ll have to finish these later.” I put the bowl in the fridge.
“Oh, no, that’s a bad idea. First off, they’ll dry out. Secondly, they’ll pull the flavors from everything else in the fridge and taste a little funny.”
I laugh. “Non-bloodhounds will be unlikely to notice. I’ll take my chances.”
And now she’s silently judging me. “Look, I can’t bake them now—I’m meeting Derek in twenty minutes.”
“I wondered why you looked so dynamite.” She beams at me. “Good luck! Maybe he’ll talk about your future children.”
I chuck the oven mitt at her, but I miss.
Thanks to her, I’m in a good mood when I reach the Gorge for a date I’ve now rescheduled twice. Even though I’m five minutes early, he’s already there, his head bowed over a laptop screen. The Gorge is hardly impressive outside, and inside it’s even worse, like my grandma’s old 1950s home. But the stone fireplace isn’t bad, and the painting of the Flaming Gorge above it looks nice. It takes me a minute, but I frame up a decent photo.
With Derek’s beautiful olive complexion and tawny golden eyes, combined with that silky black hair—people might not even notice the setting. Since he’s looking at the computer and his face is occluded, I don’t even have to get permission to post it. I go ahead and toss the photo up and tag it #WORKING #SMOKINGHOT #EYECANDYFORLUNCH and #GQ. It’s not my strongest work, but Heather should be happy.
Because it’s not Eddy.
That’s my biggest problem with it, honestly, but I push that thought away.
“You made it.” When he smiles, Derek’s actually really handsome. He’s easily as good-looking as anyone I ever dated in New York. It’s not fair to compare him to Eddy—the only person I’ve ever dated who would have fit right in on any set in Hollywood.
“I’m so sorry for all the confusion,” I say. “I’ve had a lot going on.”
“Starting a new business is overwhelming,” he says. “If you want to talk through any of it, I’m your guy. I’ve been there a lot.”
“It’s not only that. We’re remodeling an old farmhouse, plus my kids just started at a new school.”
He freezes. “Who’s we?”
I laugh. “Sorry. That did sound dodgy. I’m living with my sister-in-law. We’re both widows. I can see where it might be a little nerve-wracking to ask someone on a date, find that she’s a little hard to pin down, and then hear her talk about remodeling something with someone else.”
He breaths a hearty sigh of relief. “Sadly, with the way my love life has been going the past few years, you having a husband or a lover or a side job as an escort would not surprise me.”
“Sounds like your dating past has been as exciting as mine.”
“I doubt you can really compare,” he says. “There’s a reason I’ve spent almost all my time starting businesses and then selling them. At least that’s something I’m good at—and have some semblance of control over.”
The way he keeps assuring me of his economic prowess is obnoxious, but. . .while he’s here, maybe I should pick his brain. “I doubt much of your business venture experience will help me with mine. Have you ever tried to turn a profit on baked goods?”
The waitress comes and takes our order.
“Baked goods?” He glances sideways. “Make sure you strike up a deal with these people immediately. I’ve been eating here way too often, and let me tell you, they could use a little more variety.”
I stifle a laugh. You never know who’s listening. “I’m sure their food is wonderful.”
“To answer your question, I’ve never owned a business in the food service industry, but I have learned that many principles are universal. For instance, if you start small, you’ll never really get big.” He shrugs. “Basic economics.”
“What does that mean? I’m asking as a woman who’s been making cookies in her own kitchen, so keep that in mind.”
His sideways smile is killer. “There’s nothing wrong with experimenting on a small scale. No one starts tinkering, or inventing, or manufacturing in a fifty-thousand-foot warehouse, but when you go in, go all in.”
“Okay, put that in terms that make sense to me. Let’s say my business model is to make cookies that cost me, without huge supply contracts, ninety cents to a dollar and ten cents a cookie, depending on the variety. What should I be selling them for?”
“It’s good that you’ve worked out your basic costs, but keep in mind that economies of scale will jack with all that. And of course, as your supply costs go down, your management costs go up.”
“Because I’ll need employees.”
“You should always be putting a value on your time.” He stops. “You did calculate that into your cookie cost, right?”
Oh, boy. The rest of the lunch turns into an economics lesson, and I realize that I know next to nothing about any of this. He explains that my decisions can’t be emotional ones, that I need to have a plan and regularly update it. He says that I should run everything past a partner, even if I don’t have one, so that I’m getting at least two sets of eyes to spot possible issues. He even offers to help me along the way, until or unless I have a partner or a financial backer.
But eventually, the food is gone, the advice has tapered off, and I realize lunch is over. When he stands up to pay the check, I stand too and throw my purse over my shoulder.
One more thing on my list done—lunch with the good-looking stranger—and only nine gazillion more to go.
“Hey, are you alright?” His golden eyes show genuine concern.
“Oh, it’s nothing.” I paste a smile on my face.
“You looked pretty upset.” Instead of walking toward the door, he pulls the chair out. “Don’t make me sit you back down and grill you.”
That actually makes me laugh. “Are you also a lawyer? Because that really reminds me of something my sister-in-law might say.”
“Not even close to being a lawyer,” he says, “but I started my life as a car salesman.” He holds up a hand. “Before you start with the painful jokes, I know car salespeople can be annoying, but I also learned how to read people pretty well. Something’s wrong, and I make it a rule never to end a date with someone I like if she doesn’t look happier than when she arrived.”
“Are you saying you’ll take me hostage?” I arch an eyebrow.
His warm grin tells me that I may be rusty and half-uninterested, thanks to my preoccupation with the wrong guy, but I haven’t completely lost all my skill at flirting. “Don’t tempt me. I’m barely off probation.”
“Please tell me that’s a joke.”
He sighs. “I do that—make questionable jokes a little too soon—but no probation at any point, ever.” He holds up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”
“Wow, you even did the fingers. I’m impressed.” I straighten my shoulders and hold up my hand, three fingers saluting. “On my honor I will do my best to do my duty—”
“You must have brothers,” he says.
“Two,” I say. “Though now, they’ll let anyone in.”
“I miss the good old days,” he says. “Where Boy Scouts meant only boys.”
“Oh, no,” I say. “Now that the meal is over, the true colors are coming out.”
He shoves the chair back in and offers me his arm. “That’s what dating’s about. You find out all my flaws and decide whether you can live with them.”
I take his arm.
“For instance, today I’ve discovered you’re quite adept at changing the subject when you don’t want to answer a question.”
I sigh.
“What had you looking so bummed?”
“Nothing, I swear. The date was great. It’s just that talking to you helped me see that I’m in way over my head.”
“You can call me anytime you need help.” He reaches for the door.
But it opens before he can push it, and I’m suddenly staring at Eddy. As I’m leaving a restaurant with Derek. Again. This is starting to feel like the elevators in Grey’s Anatomy.
I freeze, my brain realizing what I couldn’t quite put into words during the lunch I just had.
One year for Christmas, I got a new bike. I could tell it wasn’t new new, but it was new to me, and it was really nice. It had shiny chrome, a smooth purple seat, and perfectly round, perfectly serviceable tires. I was delighted to have that bike, and when I learned how to use it, it rode really well. The very first thing I did was ride it down the street to my best friend Rachel’s house.
When she came to the door, she squealed. “Yes! We both got bikes!” I rode around the front of her house to meet her in front of her garage. There, leaning a bit on its shiny kickstand, was a cherry red bike. It had oversized wheels with pristine tread. It had a bell, and a basket, and beautiful fenders covering its tires. It had the kind of shine that practically put your eye out.
My bike was nice. I was lucky to have it. I really liked it, even.
Until I saw Rachel’s bike.
After that, mine never really shone quite as brightly.
Eddy’s like that cherry red bike. Derek was a great date—maybe the best guy I’ve been out with since Paul died. Kind, handsome, smart, and even funny. But compared to Eddy, he’s just not shiny. It’s not only about their looks, though that’s the most obvious. It’s also his type of humor. His timing. His charm.
It’s hard to compete with a professional singer/guitar player who saves sick animals in his spare time.
And also, I’ve seen Eddy’s stomach.
His perfect, rock-hard, eight-pack stomach.
I gulp.
“Amanda?” Derek’s pulling on my arm.
While I gape idiotically at Eddy.
Who is grinning like the cocky rock star he is.
I lurch forward, nearly bowling poor Derek over.
“What would she need help with?” Eddy asks. “Because I’m from here, so she should try me first. I’m more likely to be able to help.”
“If she had a sick dog, sure.” Derek smirks, and it’s not a great look for him. “I looked into you, Eddy. I hear you’re the cow doctor around here.”
“I am,” Eddy says. “And you’re here looking for long-term contracts with ranchers for some high falutin’ beef company.”
“We do partner with Jonquil,” Derek says, “but I’m the Vice President of Processing and Supply for Highborn—a leather company. We’ve been so pleased with the quality of cattle in this area, and the quantity as well, that we’re considering building a processing plant here.”
Eddy frowns.
“I’d need to spend quite a significant amount of time here if we did,” Derek says, “once it’s established. While it’s being built, I’d be here around the clock.” He turns back to me. “In fact, I probably ought to look for a more permanent place to stay. Don’t you think? Maybe you should help me choose a place.”
“Wait, who decides whether to build a processing facility here?” I ask. “When will the decision be made?”
“I’m the one who decides,” he says, “and I think I just did.” He smiles at me. “Yep. I think it should be here.”
Eddy snorts.
Derek narrows his eyes. “I’m sorry, did you have something to say?”
I place a hand on Derek’s chest. It’s not unimpressive, but it’s not all flat planes and sharp lines like Eddy’s was. Not that I should be thinking about that. I’m supposed to be heading off any unpleasantness before it can start. “Let’s just go. Please.”
Derek’s still looking at Eddy when he swallows, but he nods sharply and turns away, thankfully.
“Hey, do you have a minute?” Eddy asks.
I glance pointedly at Derek, who’s moving, still holding my arm. I trip along after him.
“It’s about Roscoe.”
I yank my arm free. “I’ll meet you outside in a moment. I need to chat with him about my dog.”
Derek frowns, but he doesn’t argue. He even pushes through the door and lets it close behind him.
“That guy’s a real charmer.” Eddy’s scowling at the door.
“I like him well enough.”
Eddy laughs, all signs of anger gone.
“What’s so funny?” I put my hand on my hip. “Eddy.”
He sighs. “Nothing, just not as worried.”
“Worried?” My heart contracts. “About Roscoe?”
“What?”
“Didn’t you say you needed to talk to me about Rosc—”
“Oh!” Eddy slaps his forehead. “No, sorry. That was a lie to get him to leave.”
“Edward Dutton!” I spin around and push on the door.
His hand grabs my upper arm firmly, but not too hard. “Amanda, just a minute, please?”
It’s the please that gets me. “What?” I don’t turn around. I don’t look at his face. No matter what, it always softens me, and I’m officially annoyed.
“What would you need help with?” His voice is almost pained. “Are you alright?”
Oh, good grief. The plaintive note in his voice is my downfall. I turn back around. “I’m totally fine. We’re remodeling, as you know, and the girls started school—”
“And you’re starting a business?” Is that hope in his voice?
