The Dating Proposal(3)

He scans the restaurant. This is the last empty one. “We can leave. We’ll find someplace else,” he says, and his voice is the definition of contrition. This is the Todd I knew—polite no matter what.

But I’m not letting him have the last word on breakfast. He might have gotten it when it came to marrying me, but he does not get to leave this place too. I put on my best professional smile. “Please stay. I was telling Amber that you haven’t lived unless you’ve eaten here. It’s the best.”

He glances at her, asking for permission. She lifts her brows, unsure, but I can tell she’s bending.

“It’s all good, guys,” I add, with a smile.

“Okay, then. We shall stay.” He reaches for a menu and scans it.

And I conduct a scan of my emotions.

There’s no stinging feeling in the back of my eyes. There are no tears I’m keeping at bay. There’s . . . nothing.

I want to break out in song.

I want to kiss the sky.

I am over him. Over him. Over him!

He closes the menu and shoots me the smile that had been part of my life for the better part of a decade. That patented grin that won me over when I first met him. “And how is everything with you?”

“Great,” I say, so brightly that it sounds fake, only it’s not, because what on the planet could be greater than knowing you’re over the weasel you almost married?

The waitress brings me my food. She turns to Todd and Amber. They order as I set to work.

As I eat and type, I beam inside.

This is the start of the next phase in my life.

Lucky bag, indeed.

When I’m through, I pay the bill, pack up my laptop, and say goodbye to Todd, Amber, and the last year of my life.

Hello, world. I’m back.

With a spring in my step, I head to my car, where I see a white piece of paper tucked under the wiper, flapping in the wind.

My step unsprings. A parking ticket? That’s not how parking karma works.

I turn around to peer up at the sign. I haven’t gone past the two-hour limit. I glance at the curb. It’s not red. There’s no hydrant nearby. I survey the block, and down near the corner of Hayes Street, the meter man is writing a ticket for a Prius. I grab the slip from my windshield and march toward him. Today is my lucky day, and I’m going to make sure it keeps being awesome.

In my best friendly, problem solver voice, I say, “Hey there! Can we chat about this?”

He turns around to face me, and I point to my car. He looks from it to the paper I’m waving, back to me. “I didn’t give you a ticket, lady.”

He walks the other way.

“I put that there.”

When I spin around, I’m face-to-face with the guy who shops at Barneys.





2





McKenna





Up close, he’s even better looking. His face is chiseled, his light-blue eyes sparkle, and his brown hair looks amazingly soft. I can’t help but give him a quick up and down perusal. It’s clear he’s completely sculpted underneath those clothes.

“Hey there. I saw you earlier when you parked.”

Parked.

Grr. Did I ding his car and not even realize it? I bet he protects that car’s paint job like a mama bear. I crane my neck to inspect, but the Lexus in front of my MINI Cooper seems dingless. “Did I hit your car?”

Laughing, he shakes his head. “No. Great parking job, by the way.” He flashes a million-dollar smile at me.

Have I slipped into an alternate universe? Hot men don’t compliment me on my parking.

I mean, I can park my ass off, but it’s not something that usually draws male attention.

“Why, thank you,” I say, jutting out a hip, figuring nice is the way to play off whatever I did to warrant a windshield note. “I’ve been hoping someone would notice my parallel parking skills.”

“Oh, I noticed. And I was duly impressed.”

He tips his forehead to the white slip of paper in my hand. “So what do you think?”

I furrow my brow. “Of this?” I hold it up.

“Yeah.” His smile is magnetic.

I open it. And it’s not a parking summons, nor is it a bitch, you hit my car-gram.

It’s something odder.

Something I never could have predicted.

“You’re gorgeous. Give me a call sometime. I’d love to take you out. The name is Steven Crane. I own Madcap.” His number is scribbled at the bottom of the note.

I stand there befuddled, maybe even as far as gobsmacked. “You’re asking me out?”

“I’ve seen you here most weeks. Been trying to get up the nerve to talk to you. Today you seemed to have a spring in your step, and I thought maybe it was a sign to finally go for it. I’m recently divorced, so I’m a little out of practice in the dating world. Hope it’s okay I left a note.”

“What do you know? I’m totally out of practice too.” I glance at his message and can’t help myself. I laugh with the incredulity of all this. I laugh again. A date. A stinking date. I don’t have dates. I have late-night sessions with Super Mario Odyssey and Fortnite. I have crying fests with my girlfriends over strawberry frosting–stuffed cupcakes. I share a king-size bed with a Lab-hound-husky.