The Magnolia Chronicles: Adventures in Modern Dating(45)

"I have to get home to my dog," I said.

Rob took a full step back, then another, leaving me in the lovely position of having my legs open at an obtuse angle and my dress rucked all the way up to my waist. Just lovely.

"Yeah." He bobbed his head. "Of course. You should—"

"Stop. Let me finish." I hopped off the island, twisted my hand around his open shirttail. "I have to get home to feed Gronk. He needs a good, long walk. There's also a late game tonight. The Sox are in Seattle." I gestured behind us, at the uncorked bottles. "And then there's all this wine. I wouldn't want it going to waste."

"Are you asking me to go home with you?"

I grinned at his freckled chest, the thick line of fuzz running down to his navel. "If that sort of thing interests you, yeah."

"It does," he replied.

"Would it interest you to spend the night with me?"

"Also, yes." He glanced away, barked out a laugh. "Was that all I had to do? Ask you to wait and then"—he snapped his fingers—"I get an invitation to your bed?"

"That might be an oversimplification of things," I replied. "And you should know you'll be sharing the bed with me and Gronk."

"I'm aware of the hierarchy in your life," he said. "No one ranks above that dog."

"Completely true, yes." I tapped my finger against his sternum. "But please don't interpret this as a request to stop talking about your dick. I don't know what I'd do without constant reminders about its specifications and skill set."

Rob skimmed his hands down my back. "I can't tell whether you're being serious or snarky right now."

"That's my charm."





Chapter Twenty-One





My date crossed his arms over his chest and declared, "Bullshit."

"What's bullshit?" I asked, my hands flat on the bar top. "What? Why?"

Riley Walsh shook his head and stared at the televisions suspended over the bar. We hadn't met up for drinks or a game in months but the stars aligned today. The Red Sox were in Tampa and a summer storm had dropped a dark blanket of clouds and fog over the city. Tampa was beating the piss out of the Sox and the bar was mostly empty, two conditions ripe for a review of my adventures in dating.

"You're with two guys—at the same fucking time—and you're trying to tell me they're both decent. I'm calling bullshit on that."

"And I'm asking why you're calling bullshit," I said, more than a little indignant.

Riley went on shaking his head as if he had an eternity of frustration to work out with that one motion. "Because, Gigi, sweetheart, I've known you for nearly five years and you've never once given me a reason to trust the guys you bring around. If anything, you give me reason to send them on a long walk off a short pier."

Few people were allowed to put my track record on trial without finding themselves on the receiving end of a death glare. Riley was one of them, Andy was another.

"They're different," I remarked. "I know I've said that before but it's true this time."

"You told me Peter was different." He held up his index finger, a sure sign I was getting a list out of him. God help me. Always with the lists. "Then we discover Peter has a wife and a kid, and he's awaiting trial for money laundering. Did you ever get paid for that last set of penthouse roof gardens?"

I groaned. "The Feds froze his assets."

"Uh huh. Yeah." He kept shaking his head. "Will they be calling you as a witness?"

"He's going to plead out," I replied. "No trial."

"That's a bright spot in the shitshow." He glanced up at the game and then back at me. "You told me that fuckbag who stole your dog had changed. You said that not too long before he stole your fucking dog, Gigi."

"And I was wrong," I admitted. "I know I've made bad choices, Riley."

He reached for his beer, getting in another head shake. "Really bad choices," he muttered. "I don't know if I can take on two dudes when this goes tits up."

"If," I argued. "If this goes tits up."

"Fine, if," he said with one more head shake. "All right, then. Tell me. What makes these two so fucking different? Why won't I be cold-cocking them one of these days?"

"Because they're—they're different, Riley," I argued.

He shifted on his stool, turning to face me. "I want to believe you. I really do. And it's not you I doubt. It's them."

I turned my attention back to the game. I didn't know how to explain that Rob and Ben were nothing like the men of my past. "Different" just didn't sum it up. But Rob and Ben weren't the only differences. I was different too.

I wasn't the same woman who'd dated a client despite a million warning signs.

I wasn't the same woman who went back to her ex after he'd "borrowed" her social security number to open credit cards and rack up tons of debt.

I wasn't the same woman who'd interpreted a collaborative professional relationship as hardcore flirting and attacked Riley's brother Sam with her mouth.