Good Time(3)

“Is this a good location for us to meet again next week?”

Yes. Yes, it is. Technically Carol was asking Meghan, but a coffee shop is really not the place for a life coaching session if you don’t want strangers to benefit from the session too.

“I can’t do Thursday next week,” Meghan replies. “I’m out of town on a business trip. Let me check my schedule and send you an email.”

Well, that’s that then, isn’t it? I’ll never know when they’re coming back and I can’t very well hang out at this coffee shop on the daily like some sad novelist with an allergy to working at home. I eye a woman at a corner table mumbling to herself as she types. Definitely not.

“The only other opening I have is Sunday morning at eleven,” Carol announces.

Problem solved.





Chapter Two





“Holy hell, who is that?” I stop dead in my tracks, causing Mark to slam into me from behind.

That’s not a dirty euphemism or anything, we’re fully clothed. Mark bumped into me because he was too busy looking at his cell phone to watch where he was going. It might also be because I abruptly stopped walking, but the pedestrian always has the right of way, so whatever. Granted, the pedestrian rule is for vehicles and people crossing the street, not for co-workers in hotel corridors, but I’ve always been pretty good at adapting rules to suit my needs.

“Payton, Jesus. Watch where you’re going.”

“Me? You’re the one who bumped into me!”

“Because you stopped walking in the middle of the hallway.” He looks past me and waves at the empty hall to indicate how idiotic my dead stop mid-hall was.

“I stopped exactly because I was watching where I was going,” I counter. “And I watched that guy”—I nod my head in the direction of the lobby visible from the second-floor balcony we’re standing in front of—“and decided to stop.”

“Watched that guy? Nice grammar.”

“Mark.” I pause, waiting until I have his full attention. “I need you to focus.”

“Focused.”

I really like Mark. I’m thinking about making him my work husband. It’s early days because this is only my second week of work, but so far it’s looking good. Sometimes when you meet the right co-worker you just know.

“Who is he?” I move closer to the balcony rail so I can better ogle my potential future husband. “The gorgeous one talking to Canon. Do you know? Does he work here?”

“No idea.”

“We need to find out because I might marry him and have his babies.”

“Really?” Mark questions, his voice filled with the undertone of not taking me seriously.

“Yes, really. It could happen. He looks like just my type. Tall, dark, handsome and hung.”

“Hmm,” There’s that tone again.

“What? You don’t think I’m his type?”

“I didn’t think you were the type, period.”

“What type is that?” I take my eyes off the gorgeous stranger to give Mark a glare. Just for a second though, because I can look at Mark anytime I want, and who knows if I’ll ever see my maybe husband again.

“The serious type. The type who cared about getting married. Just yesterday you told me most couples would be better off setting a pile of cash on fire and using the flames to roast marshmallows instead of wasting it on a wedding.”

“That’s only because we were working on the Johnson-McNally wedding and that couple would be better off setting fire to a pile of cash than wasting it on a wedding to each other. They’re both horrible. Also, I was hungry and I wanted a s’more.”

“Hmm.”

“Besides, it’s a well-documented fact that couples who spend less than one thousand dollars on their weddings are less likely to divorce.”

“A well-documented fact, huh?”

“Your lack of faith in me is uncalled for, Mark. I know things.”

“Sure, sure.” Mark pauses for a moment before continuing. “Where is this information documented?”

“I saw it on a video in my Facebook feed.”

“Your Facebook feed. That’s real news, for sure.”

“It looked pretty legit. It was a very professional video.”

“Hmm.” Again with the hmms.

“It could be true,” I insist. “It sounds logical. Possibly.”

“Based on that thousand-dollar rule every quickie marriage in Las Vegas should result in a long and happy union.”

“Who says they don’t?”

“Britney Spears, circa 2004.”

“Wow. You’re a real buzzkill, Mark.”

“Thank you. That’s how I introduce myself at parties. ‘Hi, I’m Buzzkill Mark.’”

“I wouldn’t lead with that. I’d save it for the end of the night when you’re prying cups from people’s hands because you want to rinse them out before recycling.”

“Your imagination must be a very entertaining place to be.” Beside me Mark props his forearms onto the balcony rail as he surveys the lobby with me.

“It really is, Mark. It really is.”

“So how is it that you’re in wedding planning if you don’t care about weddings?”