What Lovers Do(31)

“When did you start playing golf?” I ask.

“High school. I dated a girl whose dad was a caddy.”

“No joke?”

Shep shrugs. “No joke.”

“And your love of dogs?”

“Man’s best friend. It’s in my DNA.”

I laugh. “That’s fair.” This is hard. I want to dive into his past, his marriage, his divorce, but that will open the door for him to quiz me. If Jimmy doesn’t exist in Shep World, then maybe Millie doesn’t belong here either. “So, did you go to college?”

Shep sips his beer. “Nope. You?” He smirks.

I chuckle. “Nah. I just did the online optometry degree. You know, the one you can get with a weekend course for four hundred and ninety-nine dollars?”

“Is that so?” Shep tries to suppress his grin, playing along with me. “They let anyone be a doctor these days.”

“They really do. So … what did you do right after high school if you didn’t go to college?”

He shrugs a shoulder, looking so cool it’s having a very heated effect on me. “This and that.”

Do I want him to be serious? Do we have to be serious if this isn’t our real life?

With feigned deep concentration, I nod. “I’ve done a lot of that but not much this.”

“Finally…” Shep stands and heads to the grill “…a woman who just … gets me.”

I close my eyes and absorb the sun. “This is a good life. Think of all the hours people work for so few moments of true bliss.”

“The good life is Dr. Ryan in a swimsuit calling her time with me ‘pure bliss.’”

Without opening my eyes, I grin. “I was referring to the pool and the sunshine.”

“Were you, though?”

I peek open one eye as he drops the fish and steak onto our plates. “You’re awfully confident.”

“Hopeful.” He smirks, setting the plates on the table.

“Hopeful? What exactly are you hoping for?”

He heads back into the house and returns a minute later with a bowl of mixed greens, a bottle of salad dressing, and a loaf of French bread.

“I’m hoping Sophie Ryan agrees to be my friend again tomorrow.”

Twisting my lips, I bob my head side to side. “One day at a time.”

We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, sharing an occasional flirty grin as if we’re acknowledging all the tip-toeing we’re doing around conversations that normal friends would have on a weekend trip to Sedona.

“You know … you’re right,” I say.

He glances up, squinting.

“Midwesterners. We’re an interesting breed.”

One corner of his mouth quirks into a half smile. A reluctant smile.

Cutting my steak, I blow out a slow breath. “My dad used to over-greet people all the time. I don’t think he does it anymore. I suppose Californians aren’t into as much small talk. Every time my dad would pass someone on a walk or even just in a store, he’d greet them. I used to say, ‘Who was that?’ and he’d shake his head and say, ‘I don’t know.’ But you thought he knew them because it wasn’t just a quick, friendly ‘hi.’ It was more. ‘Hello, there. How are you doing today?’ As if a complete stranger is going to unload how they’re truly doing. They’re not. Not even Midwesterners.

“And usually, we’d be walking in opposite directions. Did he really expect people to stop and go into detail? ‘Hello. Since you asked, my wife is cheating on me, and I just found out I have prostate cancer. Thanks for asking.’ Hi. Just say hi. Right? Hi and a friendly smile is enough. It’s actually more genuine than the excess. Don’t force people to lie and say they’re fine. And don’t even get me started on how this sets you up for sounding like a fool when you leave the Midwest and everyone you pass does not say more than hi. I can’t tell you how many times someone has just said ‘hi’ to me and I’ve replied with ‘fine, thank you.’”

When I return my gaze to Shep, I realize he’s stopped eating. With the biggest smile, he seems to be hanging on my every word, completely enamored with me or my Midwesterner confessions. It’s an amazing feeling to have someone look at you like this. We click. That’s all there is to it.

“Hi,” he says after a long pause.

My grin matches his as I say, “Fine. Thank you.”

“It’s nice being with a happy person.” He rolls the bottom of his beer bottle in a circle on the table.

“What makes you think I’m happy?”

I’m not happy. My ex-boyfriend won’t get out of my house.

“It’s an aura thing. A definite vibe.”

I roll my eyes. “I get mad. Trust me. I get moody and angry.”

“Everyone does. But the sun never ceases to exist, not even on cloudy days.”

“So Millie was still shining when you divorced her; it was just a cloudy day.” It slips.

Dammit!

Why did I say that? We were doing so good.

Shep’s smile falters a bit. “Millie wasn’t and isn’t the sun.”

I scoff. “And I am?”

“Unequivocally.”