Patchwork Paradise(25)

I still had no clue what to get Thomas for secret Santa, but I got my mother and my secretary sorted out. Rather sadly, I thought I’d actually miss the excruciating task of buying something for Sam. Maybe Thomas saw what I was thinking, because he squeezed my shoulder as we waited for Cleo to try on her fourth set of boots. He gave me a lopsided smile.

“Anyone would be lucky to date you,” he told me. “Whether you’re out of practice with kissing or not.”

“Hey!” I elbowed him, and he sniggered. “I’m a very good kisser, I’ll have you know.”

His hair slipped across the left side of his face, casting it in shadow. “Oh, I don’t doubt it.”

“What do you think?” Cleo demanded. We obediently looked down at her feet. The boots looked more like lethal weapons than footwear.

“I liked the other ones better,” Thomas said.

She looked at the boot graveyard surrounding her. “Which ones?”

“Any that don’t have metal studs and fifteen leather straps,” I said, and Thomas laughed even though Cleo looked really offended. “No, but seriously. No studs, Cleo. I liked those brown ones actually. With the smaller heel.”

“Me too,” Thomas said.

She looked mutinous for a second, then relented and sighed before she sank down and began to tug off the boots. “And they say you should go shopping with a gay man,” she mumbled.

Thomas rolled his eyes at me, and I grinned.

I had really enjoyed myself that afternoon. The sadness had hardly crept in and chilled the air.





I hate you, I texted Cleo.

If that’s what it takes, I’m okay with that.

I gritted my teeth and warily eyed the door of the Irish pub as it opened. An old man with a red nose shuffled inside and closed it on the torrential rain.

An Irish pub, Cleo. Of all places.

We can’t all be trendy like you. Maybe this is a good thing.

I huffed and sipped my sparkling water. I hadn’t wanted to sit there with a beer before knowing what Peter the veterinarian was going to drink, but in my extreme caution I was half an hour early and as nervous as a Victorian bride on her wedding night.

You’ll let us know if you go home with him, won’t you?

I AM NOT GOING HOME WITH HIM!

All right, calm down. Just be yourself. He’ll love you.

But did I want him to love me? Well, I sure as shit didn’t want him to hate me. I sighed and stuffed my phone in my pocket. I loathed dating already and my first one hadn’t even started yet. I’d gone through my entire wardrobe, hadn’t found a single piece of clothing that didn’t remind me in some way of Sam, and had hurried into town for a last-minute, freaked-out shopping trip.

In hindsight, the jeans I’d bought might’ve been a smidgen too tight.

The door opened again, and I held my breath. To be honest, it was like a scene from a horror movie—which felt pretty accurate. Thunder rolled in, a flicker of lightning outlined a tall, dark shape, the few patrons in the bar seemed to pause their murmured conversations, and then the door closed. Fire crackled in the hearth, its orange light returned, and the room felt cozy all over again.

I didn’t notice. My eyes were locked on the stranger who’d walked through the door. He was tall—oh God, was he tall—and handsome. I could see that from my little nook in the corner. He cautiously scanned the room as he unwrapped a huge scarf from around his neck. He took his coat off, fished his phone and wallet out of it, and hung it on the coatrack by the door. He shivered lightly, shook out his hair, and I could see the water flying. He was soaked through, poor guy. He checked the bar, checked his watch. His shoulders drooped a little. Almost knocking over my glass, I rose to my feet and hurried up to him.

“Peter?” I asked. He spun around. His tawny gaze landed on my face, and he didn’t try the hide the pleased little flicker in them when he took me in. “Hi.” I held out my hand. “I’m—”

“Oliver. Gosh.” He wrapped my hand in his wet one.

Gosh? “My friends call me Ollie, actually. Um, I’m sitting over there if you want to join me.” I tilted my head in the direction of the little table with the wraparound bench.

His eyes followed the movement, then landed on me again. He let go of my hand. “Sure. I’m sorry I’m late. There wasn’t a tram for twenty minutes, and it’s a fifteen-minute walk, so I figured I’d risk it.”

“You’re soaked,” I said. Why? Why did I say that? In case he hadn’t noticed?

“That I am.” He was staring at me.

“Shall we, um, sit down?”

“Okay.” He laughed a little bit when I turned and walked away, and I gave him a quizzical look as we sat down. “I’m sorry.” He shook his head and folded his hands in his lap. A droplet of rainwater ran down his fringe and plopped onto the table. “I quite honestly didn’t know what to expect. I’ve never been on one of these dates before, and you didn’t have a profile picture up or anything. I almost didn’t come.”

“Me neither,” I admitted. “I’ve never done anything like this before.”

He laughed. “The online dating? It feels so awkward.”

“Well, any kind of dating really.”

His eyebrows rose quizzically, but he didn’t ask when I didn’t explain. I appreciated that. “So how about we pretend we ran into each other here and you didn’t see my painfully awkward profile on that dumb site?”