Sure Shot (Brooklyn #4)(20)

“It’s not all the way to exciting,” I hedge. “I don’t even know if he’s promising. Internet dating freaks me out a little. So I chose the most harmless guy from the pack.”

“What’s his name?” Becca demands. “You can learn a lot with a name.”

“Brian.”

“And what does he do for a living?”

“Something complicated and financial.”

“Ah,” they say at the same time. “Yeah, a finance guy will never murder you,” Georgia agrees. “So he’s got that going for him.”

“You say that,” Becca says, flopping down on the sofa. “But what if he is just posing as a banker on Tinder? What if he’s secretly an MMA fighter or the leader of a motorcycle gang?”

“Wow, I’m surrounded by conspiracy theorists.” I laugh. “Eric said the same thing.” I don’t mention that I’d actually be excited about meeting a fighter. I’d pick his brain about tactics inside the ring.

“Eric knows about your date?” Georgia asks. “That’s cute.”

“Yeah, I needed someone to know where I was going and with whom. But if I’d known I was seeing you two tonight, I could have spared him the involvement.”

Note to self: it’s less embarrassing to tell your girl posse your dating foibles than your business partner.

“Two dates in a row!” he’d hooted.

“We’re not speaking about that other incident,” I’d reminded him. “Don’t make me take away your plaque,” I’d said, pointing at the photo I’d hung on the wall with the caption Employee of the Month, Every Month.

He’d given me a cheeky salute. My dude friends are really top notch.

“Are you vetting this Brian over coffee?” Becca asks. “Or did you go straight to dinner?”

“Dinner,” I admit. “Everyone is more pleasant with food, right? As long as I’m eating a nice plate of pasta, I can be excited about anything.” That’s what I’m telling myself, anyway.

“We’d better get started on your nails,” Becca says, patting the seat beside her. “Get over here.”

“What?” I glance around at the half-finished shop. “Won’t it be another month until you’re open?”

“That has never stopped her before,” Georgia says, closing the cocktail shaker tightly and then giving it a shake.

Becca lifts a large tackle box onto the sofa and opens the top. “How about a sheer wine-tinted polish to go with that pretty top?”

“But I don’t know how to paint my nails.” And—fine—I have a bit of a complex about it. It’s one of those girly things that makes me feel like a freak. “When you grow up without a mother, there are certain skills you never learn. I never tried to wear heels until college. My makeup game is also weak. And I can’t cook. At all.”

Georgia looks up from pouring three drinks, and there’s understanding in her expression. “I’m a member of that same club. Sometimes it really messes with my head.”

“Really?” I squeak. And now I feel a little foolish, because I forget that there are lots of other women walking around who didn’t have moms.

“Yeah. Leo wants to have kids soon,” she says, topping up one of the glasses. “And I do, too. But part of me wonders if I’ll know what to do.”

“Nobody knows what to do,” Becca argues. “That’s half the fun. I mean—my sister and her man-child boyfriend are the most clueless people alive. And their kid is doing well.” She waves me over to sit beside her. “Put your hands on this towel. You’re not a nail biter, are you?”

“No way.” I show her my hands, and she grabs one to inspect it.

Georgia puts a drink into my other hand. “I know there’s no prerequisite for having babies. And Leo will be the best daddy ever.” She smiles at the thought of it. And I totally understand why—her husband is a sweetheart. “But I still worry. I lost my mom when I was six. How old were you?” she asks me.

“Almost two. My mom died of a drug overdose before it was cool.” I’ve said this many times before, in the same flip tone of voice. But I can tell from Georgia’s soft expression that she sees right through me. “Are you really going to paint my nails?” I ask Rebecca. “I hope you know that I can’t return the favor. Not unless you want it to look like a toddler did it.”

“Don’t you worry,” Becca says, shaking a bottle of something clear. “I am too bossy to let anyone else do mine.”

“This is true,” Georgia says with a shrug. “Cheers, ladies!” She holds up her glass. “To manicures and margaritas.”

We touch glasses, and I take a sip of limey goodness.

“I hope this date rocks your world,” Becca says as she strokes the polish on one of my fingernails.

“I’m not expecting magic,” I insist. “But I need to start somewhere. I need to meet men who are interested in a relationship.”

“But only if they’re sexy,” Rebecca adds. “I mean—I’m living proof that single, hot nerds exist. I married one.”

“Yeah,” I say with a sigh. “You might have gotten the last one, though. I feel there’s a mismatch between hotties and guys who want relationships.”