The Dating Proposal(47)

I shake my head. “Don’t care. Not bothered. You know why?”

“Why?” Her tone is curious.

“He’s just one viewer. I can’t please everyone. I do a damn fine job at work, and that hasn’t changed since I started seeing you.”

“Oh. That’s good that you feel that way,” she says, sounding nervous, maybe surprised.

I get it. She’s not expecting this from me. I’ve made my concerns clear from the start. And I need to make it clear I don’t have them anymore. “What I’m trying to say is I’m over the trust issues. I’m not going to let them get in my way anymore.”

“You’re not?”

I laugh. “Why do you sound so surprised?”

“Sorry. I . . . just wasn’t expecting this right now. My mind is still in work mode.”

“No worries. We can talk tonight. It’s karaoke night. I’m going out with Cooper and some other friends. Would love to have you join us.”

“Sure. Just text me the details.”

My work line lights up. When I see the area code, I sit up straighter. “Shoot. That’s Zander Kendrick’s manager.”

“Go, go. I know you’ve been waiting for this call.”

I say goodbye and pick up the work line.

His manager is the chattiest fellow. He’s also in town and wants to have lunch to discuss the segment. Today.

We pick a place, and I tell him I’m on my way.

As I head out of the office, I send McKenna a text.



Chris: Heading to see Zander’s manager now about the segment. Gomez Hawks at eight p.m. See you there.





She doesn't answer right away, and when I reach the restaurant, she’s only sent one word.



McKenna: Sure.





No exclamation point. No smiley face.

Huh.

I note the oddity, but I don’t focus on it. Instead, I head inside and focus on the meeting I’d been hoping to snag for a month now.

Besides, women are hard to read, even once you’ve fallen in love with one.





29





McKenna





It’s no big deal.

I’m not rattled by that call.

Not one bit.

I don’t mean the viewer’s email. Chris is right on that score. You can’t let those things get to you. That comment didn’t bother him, and it doesn’t bother me.

I mean the BIG ISSUE.

The “I’m over my trust issues” issue.

My heart hammers, my pulse spikes, and holy shit, I’m sweating.

I don’t sweat. I’m not a nervous sweat-type person. But when I tug at my pastel-yellow blouse, it feels like it’s sticking to me.

I head to my bedroom, appraising it in the mirror as Ms. Pac-Man trudges behind. “Ugh. Yellow is my worst color. Why did I pick yellow today?”

She slumps down on her dog bed without comment. At least she doesn’t say I told you so. Surely she’s advised me against yellow.

Did I listen? Evidently not.

I unbutton it furiously, missing a button and cursing. “Stupid buttons,” I mutter.

Fumbling the traitorous button through the hole, I toss the shirt in the laundry and fan my face with my hand. Why is it so hot?

I head to the bathroom, grab a washcloth, and blot it over my chest and under my armpits.

“Breathe,” I tell my red-faced reflection.

Ms. Pac-Man’s nails scratch the floor as she follows me, tilting her head quizzically.

“What the hell is wrong with me?”

She quirks her snout the other direction.

“I don’t know,” I answer, my voice wobbly.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

I shuffle to my closet, snag a peach Free People top, tug it on, and force myself to take a deep breath.

Or rather, to gulp in air like a fish out of water.

That’s how I feel.

Like I have gills on land.

Like I’m flopping around on shore without legs.

I crouch to Ms. Pac-Man, my center of gravity, and give her a hug, searching for a fixed point when my world is spinning weirdly off-kilter. “I just need to do something familiar. Something I’m used to, right?”

She rubs her cheek against my chest.

“I’ll go to The Best Diner in the City. I’ll take a lunch break. All by myself. Good idea, right?” I grab my lucky bag, kiss her goodbye, and hightail it out of my house, driving to the diner.

I hunt for my usual spot, but the block is packed.

The next one is too.

Where the hell is my parking good fortune?

I spot a free space and jerk my car into it, marching to the diner and cursing karma for screwing me over. For deserting me when what I need is to sit down, order some food, and remind myself that feelings aren’t the devil.

Even though they are. They so are.

The hostess greets me by name, shows me to my regular table, and asks if I want a Diet Coke.

I relax my shoulders and visualize the knots of panic unknotting. I can do this. I can recalibrate to pre-wigging-out.

“Yes, please. And a house salad with French fries.”

“Have that out in a jiff.”