The Next Best Thing (Gideon's Cove #2)(110)

“Are you…seeing someone?” Marie asks, a suspiciously hopeful note in her voice.

I take a slow, long breath. “Um…I might be. It’s a little early.” My nails dig into my palm. “Um, remember that man who looked a little bit like Jimmy? The one who works for the supermarket chain?”

“Him? Oh, he seemed so nice, honey! And a little like Jimmy! I thought I was seeing things!” She pauses, and there’s a sniff at the other end of the line. “It was good to see him. I know he’s not Jimmy, but it felt good, anyway.”

I swallow. “I know what you mean.”

Five minutes later I manage to end the conversation and hang up gently. There’s the pebble. I try relaxing my throat muscles, let my jaw hang open and stick out my tongue. No improvement.

So it’s true. Ethan’s taking that other job. Good. That’s good. I clamp down on the part of my soul that wants to scream in protest. Can’t have everything. Let him go, Lucy.

With a sigh I pull a jar of store-bought spaghetti sauce from the cupboard. Tonight is my second date with Jimmy Lite—really should drop that nickname—and though I’m the one who suggested we stay in for dinner, I regret that now. Inviting a man to your place…there’s a certain expectation in that type of date, an expectation I have no intention of honoring. But the idea of going out to a restaurant was a little…tiring. Matt asked me to his place, but I preferred to stay on my own turf and reversed the invitation. I can handle Matt, and being involved with someone will help me get over Ethan. Again my heart protests, and again I shut it up. Can’t have everything.

So here I am, in yoga pants and a sweatshirt, not pulling out any stops whatsoever. Stop acting so pathetic, I urge my lazy-ass self. Matt’s perfectly nice. This is what you wanted. And so, obedient to a fault, I obey my orders, empty the sauce into a pan and pull out some breaded chicken patties to thaw. Not my best effort, but hey. Matt took me to a chain restaurant called the Olive Grove. He’s not a true Italian. Not like the Mirabellis.

An hour later I’m showered, changed and waiting. When the knock comes, I take a deep breath and go open the front door.

“Hi,” Jimmy Li—Matt says. He holds a bouquet of flowers and a bottle of wine.

“Hi,” I say, and to show that I’m completely normal, I stand on tiptoe and kiss his cheek. “Pretty flowers.”

“What a great place!” he exclaims, stepping in. “Wow. Have you lived here long?”

It dawns on me that with Matt—or any other guy I meet—I’m going to have to tell them everything. Every scab, every bump.

“About five years. Right after Jimmy died,” I say. “My brother-in-law found it for me. Jimmy and I had just bought a house, and…well. Would you like some wine?” I head for the kitchen without waiting for an answer.

“Sure,” he says. “Lucy?”

I turn around and look at him. “Yeah?”

“I think you’re really brave.” He smiles.

I suppress a sigh…so brave, that’s me. “Thank you.”

As I uncork a bottle, I picture myself with Matt DeSalvo. Maybe we wouldn’t live in Mackerly, but somewhere close. He’s polite and charming. I could even come to love him in that nice, arranged-marriage way. I take a slug of wine to try to loosen the tightness in my throat, then tell him about my sister and Emma, even whip out a couple pictures.

“Listen, Matt,” I say carefully, putting Emma’s picture back on the fridge. “Um…about our date. I didn’t want you to think, um…well, that because I invited you here, it meant…” I pull a face, hoping that a grimace will express there’s no way in hell you’re sleeping with me.

“Oh, no! No, that’s fine,” Matt says. “No, it’s nice. Taking things slow. Sure, Lucy. I’m on the same page.”

I’ve always hated that expression.

I serve dinner (cloth napkins and everything, I’m really trying).

“How is everything?” I ask after I’ve swallowed a few bites of the unremarkable meal.

“It’s excellent,” Matt say, grinning. “You’re a wonderful cook.”

“Thanks,” I answer.

After dinner, Matt helps clear. “Want dessert?” I ask, glancing in the fridge. Pear tarts with fresh nutmeg and lemon rind, whiskey reduction with a cranberry and ginger confit in the middle, pretty as rubies. Last night was our final pastry class. I didn’t make these especially for Matt—they were just available.

“Um, maybe in a little while?” Matt suggests, patting his stomach. “I’m a little full. Can’t eat like I used to.”

“Right,” I say, closing the door. “Well, come in the living room. Have a seat.”

Matt takes our wineglasses and brings them in. He hands me my glass, which I drain, then wanders over to the TV, glancing at my movie collection. The Bourne trilogy. Die Hard. The Hunt for Red October. Body of Lies. “You like guy movies,” he comments, sounding happily surprised.

“Yes, I do,” I agree.

Then he sets his wineglass down and looks at another case. “Your wedding?” he says, holding it up.

I jolt upright. “Yes.” God, hadn’t I put that away? Rather daunting, dating a woman who’s recently been watching movies of her wedding…