An Optimist's Guide to Heartbreak (Heartsong #1)(8)

I click send.

Me:



Thank you!





Sorry about that!





I’ll see you tomorrow!





:)





“Way too many exclamation points!” Alyssa yells in my face.

I lurch back, blinking.

“See?” she says, her long, sunny bob tickling her shoulders.

“Crap. I do sound excessively caffeinated. How do I unsend?” The text shows “read” almost instantly, so I massage my temples with my fingertips, hoping I didn’t completely botch this already. “He saw the exclamation points,” I grimace.

“Well, maybe he’ll think they’re charming. Maybe he—”

I’m already attempting damage control, shooting off another message.

Me:



Sorry, I was just excited.





I really appreciate the opportunity.





Frowning, I stare at the phone screen. “Now it looks like I’m upset. Exclamation points show enthusiasm.”

Panicking, I keep going.

Me:



Have a great night! :) :)





“Oh my God, Lucy. You’re making it worse.”

Alyssa whips the phone out of my hand, holding it hostage before I can act anymore unhinged.

I reach for the wine glass and start to chug, bouncing my feet restlessly on the rung of the stool. Swallowing three giant gulps, I suck in a deep breath. “Sorry. He’s my potential boss, and this particular position means a lot to me. I didn’t think I had a chance, but then he texted me about an interview out of the blue.”

“Ooh.” She purses her lips, eyeing me curiously. “What’s the job?”

“Answering phones at an auto repair shop.”

“That sounds terrible.”

“Well, I used to know him,” I explain. “He’s the owner.”

“So, he’s hot.”

I fluster, chewing on the inside of my cheek. “I didn’t say that.”

“Heavily implied,” she breezes. “Nobody desperately wants to work at an auto shop and deal with enraged customers who thought they were bringing their car in for an oil change, only to be slapped with a two-thousand dollar bill. Obviously, he’s hot, and you want to bump fuzzies.”

The sun has dipped lower in the sky, so only a hazy low light seeps in through the glass, but it might as well be a scorching fireball. “No.”

“What’s he look like?”

“Like he was this-close to getting a role on Sons of Anarchy,” I say, pinching my thumb and index finger together. “Tall and muscley, lots of tattoos. Scruffy and edgy. Steady scowl.”

Her eyes bulge. “You just described my future husband. Name?” She reaches for her phone, already in research-mode.

“Cal Bishop. He owns Cal’s Corner, the auto shop a few miles from my new house. I grew up with him when I was a kid, and—”

“Holy shit, Lucy.”

A phone screen is shoved in my face as I inch back, trying to see what she’s showing me. When the article comes into view, I read the headline: Local Man Buys Back Auto Shop Originally Owned By Late Father.

My heart swells with both pride and melancholy as a smile pulls on my mouth. I knew Cal and Emma’s father worked with cars, but failed to piece together that he first owned the mechanic shop. Sentiment prickles my eyes before a frown settles in, and I say, “Wait, how did you find that? I’ve typed his name into Google a hundred times.”

“Typed in ‘Cal’s Corner’ and scrolled down a bit,” Alyssa says, then shakes the phone as if that will help me see the image better. “But forget the article. Look at the picture. Your new boss. He was your next door neighbor you lost touch with, right?”

“That’s him,” I confirm, pushing her arm away. “‘New boss’ is presumptuous considering I don’t know how to phone properly. Did he reply?” I wring my hands together in my lap, then reach for the wine glass, which I realize is regrettably empty.

Alyssa glances at my cell phone that she set down on her side of the table. Shaking her head, she delivers the blow. “Nothing. He read them, but didn’t respond.”

“God, I ruined it.”

“He doesn’t look like a texter to me,” she notes, still ogling the photograph of Cal. Her muted berry lips pucker with appreciation. “Silent, broody. Probably owns a motorcycle. Definitely a beast in the bedroom.”

My skin flushes, and I reflexively start fanning myself with the bar menu. “He probably has a girlfriend. Or a dozen.”

“Very likely. I’ll happily jump in line.”

When I finally snatch my phone back—while confirming that Cal had, indeed, not returned my messages—Nash saunters up to our table with two fresh glasses of white wine. Dark green eyes catch the streaks of fleeting daylight, twinkling in my direction.

“Thank you,” I tell him, accepting the refill and gifting him with a shy smile.

He winks. “You bet.”

Nash is good-looking. Boyishly cute with prominent dimples and thick curls of caramel blond hair that resemble honeycomb.