you want. I'll help you move. And if you want to say the hell with everything and just get in the car and go to that flea market, find that perfect cabinet? Give me two minutes to shower.”
All the complicated emotions Sophia was feeling—her frustration with Maureen, decades of hurt and anger toward her father, and the complicated mix of everything she felt for Dave—swelled in her chest and rose up, filling her throat. She had to work hard to speak. She had to squeezeher words out, so she said as few of them as possible, hoping that Dave would understand.
“Kiss me.”
And he smiled at her as only Dave could smile, with a mix of amusement, chagrin, and what could only be called pure adoration. It lit him up, made his eyes even warmer, and took about ten years off a face that most people wouldn't call handsome.
But most people had never seen that smile.
“Or we could go with Plan D,” he said, and obeyed her command.
C HAPTER
T WO
T UESDAY
W henever Tracy Shapiro lugged her groceries home, she found herself wondering
what
she'd been thinking to get a two-year lease on an apartment that was a “mere” four blocks from a grocery store.
The idea had seemed wonderful. Red-dot savings and smart shopper specials, just a short walk away.
And four blocks
was
nothing when she was dressed in workout gear and her running shoes.
But in a skirt and heels, coming straight from work, her laptop bag over her shoulder, four blocks was torture.
Of course, it was her choice, so to speak, to take the bus to and from the Troubleshooters Incorporated office, where she worked as the company's trusty receptionist. Assuming that choosing
not
to take the bus and instead spending her entire paycheck on gas, having nothing left with which to buy food, and starving to death was a viable option.
And it was her fault entirely that she'd been unable to pass up this week's smart shopper special on a particularly healthy brand of soup, in microwavable containers that she could take with her to work. The walk would've been a pleasant one if she'd stuck to her plan of picking up only a bag of salad and some halibut to grill on George.
Foreman, that is. Not her other George—a thought that made her smile grimly.
If she'd had a hand free, she would've fished her cell out of her handbagand called her friend Lindsey, to leave a message on
her
cell about how she'd just realized her two favorite appliances were both named George.
She'd leave a message, because Lindsey was probably having dinner with her husband, Mark—while basking in his love and adoration.
Or maybe Lindsey would actually pick up the phone, starved for female conversation because
her
very best friend, Sophia, had slipped into dark-side-of-the-moon mode—that zone of zero communication that often happened in the first lustful, free-fall weeks of a new romantic relationship.
Sophia was too busy to talk to anyone because she was getting busy with Dave Malkoff
Tracy hadn't seen
that
coming. Not from Sophia's end, anyway. From Dave's, absolutely. But Tracy had always believed that Dave had a better chance of being struck by a random falling anvil or getting bitten by a radio active spider than of ever winning the pleasure of beautiful Sophia Ghaf-fari's company.
Dave had a relatively high nerd factor, sure, but he was a very nice person, and he wasn't unpleasant to spend time with. Tracy had cut his hair for him a time or ten. She'd taken him clothes shopping, too. And yes, they'd had a post-tailor-visit dinner—and several glasses of wine—at the Cheesecake Factory, and Tracy had let him know that if he'd made the suggestion, she would've gone home with him.
But he hadn't, so she didn't, and the moment had passed.
Which was just as good, because she didn't seriously like him, not that way. She was just looking for a distraction, which, yeah, sounded sluttier than it really was.
In her defense, at the time she'd been on the rebound from That-Creep-Michael, who'd gone
All the complicated emotions Sophia was feeling—her frustration with Maureen, decades of hurt and anger toward her father, and the complicated mix of everything she felt for Dave—swelled in her chest and rose up, filling her throat. She had to work hard to speak. She had to squeezeher words out, so she said as few of them as possible, hoping that Dave would understand.
“Kiss me.”
And he smiled at her as only Dave could smile, with a mix of amusement, chagrin, and what could only be called pure adoration. It lit him up, made his eyes even warmer, and took about ten years off a face that most people wouldn't call handsome.
But most people had never seen that smile.
“Or we could go with Plan D,” he said, and obeyed her command.
C HAPTER
T WO
T UESDAY
W henever Tracy Shapiro lugged her groceries home, she found herself wondering
what
she'd been thinking to get a two-year lease on an apartment that was a “mere” four blocks from a grocery store.
The idea had seemed wonderful. Red-dot savings and smart shopper specials, just a short walk away.
And four blocks
was
nothing when she was dressed in workout gear and her running shoes.
But in a skirt and heels, coming straight from work, her laptop bag over her shoulder, four blocks was torture.
Of course, it was her choice, so to speak, to take the bus to and from the Troubleshooters Incorporated office, where she worked as the company's trusty receptionist. Assuming that choosing
not
to take the bus and instead spending her entire paycheck on gas, having nothing left with which to buy food, and starving to death was a viable option.
And it was her fault entirely that she'd been unable to pass up this week's smart shopper special on a particularly healthy brand of soup, in microwavable containers that she could take with her to work. The walk would've been a pleasant one if she'd stuck to her plan of picking up only a bag of salad and some halibut to grill on George.
Foreman, that is. Not her other George—a thought that made her smile grimly.
If she'd had a hand free, she would've fished her cell out of her handbagand called her friend Lindsey, to leave a message on
her
cell about how she'd just realized her two favorite appliances were both named George.
She'd leave a message, because Lindsey was probably having dinner with her husband, Mark—while basking in his love and adoration.
Or maybe Lindsey would actually pick up the phone, starved for female conversation because
her
very best friend, Sophia, had slipped into dark-side-of-the-moon mode—that zone of zero communication that often happened in the first lustful, free-fall weeks of a new romantic relationship.
Sophia was too busy to talk to anyone because she was getting busy with Dave Malkoff
Tracy hadn't seen
that
coming. Not from Sophia's end, anyway. From Dave's, absolutely. But Tracy had always believed that Dave had a better chance of being struck by a random falling anvil or getting bitten by a radio active spider than of ever winning the pleasure of beautiful Sophia Ghaf-fari's company.
Dave had a relatively high nerd factor, sure, but he was a very nice person, and he wasn't unpleasant to spend time with. Tracy had cut his hair for him a time or ten. She'd taken him clothes shopping, too. And yes, they'd had a post-tailor-visit dinner—and several glasses of wine—at the Cheesecake Factory, and Tracy had let him know that if he'd made the suggestion, she would've gone home with him.
But he hadn't, so she didn't, and the moment had passed.
Which was just as good, because she didn't seriously like him, not that way. She was just looking for a distraction, which, yeah, sounded sluttier than it really was.
In her defense, at the time she'd been on the rebound from That-Creep-Michael, who'd gone
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