Chapter 5
Walking into Hudson Roasters, I have the distinct feeling that I’m walking right to my death. I don’t know why. It’s not rational. I don’t suspect Miss Jones is going to pull out a knife and stab me. It’s more that I’ve been putting up walls around myself since the day Natalie left—big, ugly force fields of solitude that keep most women far away—and I’m a little afraid that the one I spent most of the night dreaming about might have a really tall ladder.
I woke up in a sweat the moment her pink lips touched mine. It was ridiculous, and I blame it on my late-night texting with her. I didn’t mean to flirt. My only intention was to apologize and request a very professional meeting between the two of us to discuss the potential of purchasing one of her company’s dogs. All business. Very buttoned-up.
But the moment I pictured her green woodland eyes, the flirtatious replies rolled off my fingers like it was a newfound superpower. I wanted to make her laugh. Why?
Because I’m weak, that’s why.
But not today. Today I will be the epitome of professional. I am a neurosurgeon walking into the operating room. I’ve scrubbed up, gloves are on, scalpel is in hand, and I’m ready to extract only the information I need.
I open the door to the coffee shop and the scent of roasted beans hits my nose. I’ve already had two cups of coffee today because I woke up at 4:30 A.M. and couldn’t go back to sleep after my dream about Ev—Miss Jones, but I still plan to get another because no one likes that guy who shows up to a coffee meeting and then says he already had his coffee that morning.
I fall into line behind a man in a nicely tailored suit and wonder if I should have dressed up too. Maybe it would have aided my efforts of being professional with Evie—dammit—Miss Jones!
I’m looking down at my jeans and gray Henley tee when I feel a warm hand on my forearm. I turn and my eyes collide with a woodland forest. “Mr. Broaden, good morning.” Miss Jones is all business too. This is good. I’m definitely not wondering if her lips would feel as warm and soft in reality as they did in my dream.
“Miss Jones, thanks for meeting me. Can I get you a coffee?” I notice that she has the same binder from yesterday tucked under her arm. The dog is here again too. Maybe she brought him to give me a demonstration of his skills.
Something different, my eyes note without my approval, is that she’s wearing a pair of jeans with a rip on the thigh that shows a sliver of tan skin.
It’s fine. I’m fine. Moving on.
“I was actually going to ask you the same thing.” I frown at her, and so she adds, “I buy all my potential recipients a coffee during these meetings.”
“But did all your potential recipients insult you when you first met?”
She smiles and tucks her blond hair behind her ear. “Oh yes. You’d be surprised the number of times I’ve been likened to a man.”
I cringe, thinking back to that comment. The reminder that I was horrible to this woman hits me in the chest. “Right. In that case, can I get you a muffin as well?” I aim a smile at her, but when I realize it probably looks flirtatious I wipe it away.
“Chocolate chip, please.”
Once we both have our coffees and pastries in hand, we make our way to a table by the window. We sit down, and I note that her dog, Charlie, lies down at her feet without her even having to ask.
I honestly had no idea dogs could be that well-behaved. He’s huge. If he wanted to, he could be knocking over tables and swiping all the muffins off the barista’s counter, but instead he’s nearly invisible. It’s impressive the way he tucked himself at her feet, with half his body under the table. I wonder if Miss Jones was the one to train him.
She must see me staring at him, because she smiles down at him. “This is Charlie. He’s four years old and a major bed hog.”
I’m choosing to pass right over the thought of Miss Jones in a bed.
“Is he a potential dog you would match with my daughter?”
“Only if I meet my sudden unfortunate end today.” Her comment is so shocking that my eyebrows shoot up. She laughs and picks at her muffin, taking one small bite—a chocolate-chip-only bite. “Charlie belongs to me, not the company. He’s been my personal seizure-assist dog for the last three years.” Did she say seizure-assist dog? Charlie is her service dog? She sees the look on my face and continues, “That’s partly why I was determined to speak with you yesterday. I know exactly what it’s like to be in your daughter’s shoes. Although, I really shouldn’t have been so pushy.”
Oh, well, great. Now I really am an ass.
“I had no idea,” I say, still trying to absorb the information.
She laughs, and the sound trickles down my back. “Of course you didn’t. How could you have known when you wouldn’t let me say more than three words at a time?” Her smile slants.
I like that she’s not letting me off the hook easily. “Yeah. About that. I’m really sorry for the way I treated you. It wasn’t like me, and you kind of caught me on a bad day.”
“Said every jerk since the beginning of time.” Her mouth is still curved in the corner as she pinches off another chocolate chip.
“Is now a good time for me to start groveling?”
“It wouldn’t hurt. I’m hoping I can squeeze at least one more muffin out of it.”
Are we . . . flirting?And is it my imagination or is she giving me a look that says she’s taken off her suit jacket and rolled up her sleeves. Business forgotten. I contemplate buying her the whole display case of pastries.
There’s not one part of me that likes where my head is at. Miss Jones is capturing my attention like no one has since Natalie. It doesn’t feel safe. In fact, this has got to be how a bug feels right before it gets zapped.
I clear my throat after a sip of coffee burns my mouth and nod toward her binder. “I feel like I should be honest with you. I’m not completely sold on the idea of a service dog for Sam yet.”
“Okay.”She draws out the word like she can sense there’s more and doesn’t know how to respond yet.
“I just don’t want you to get your hopes up that I’m going to purchase a dog since there’s only a small chance that I will. Today I’m just hoping to get more information.”
She’s smiling at me curiously. “Mr. Broaden, this is twice now that you’ve made a comment implying that I am desperate for you to buy one of my dogs. Why is that?”
I tell myself to not say what I’m thinking, but it doesn’t work. “I’ve seen the average price of one of your dogs. They cost a fortune. I can only imagine that the commission is enough incentive for you to pressure me into buying one.” Wow. I had no idea I could be any ruder to this woman than I already have been. Turns out, I had more left in the tank than I suspected.
Miss Jones’s eyes are surprisingly full of amusement—looking at me like I just ate cat food, thinking it was caviar. She leans forward, resting her elbows on the table as if she’s about to tell me a juicy secret.
“Jacob—Can I call you Jacob?” I consider telling her to call me Jake but decide against it and just nod. “To continue your metaphor, these dogs are not used cars I’m trying to move off a lot. They are highly trained animals that enhance the quality of—and often save—the lives of those living with disabilities. They do cost a lot of money to purchase, but that’s only because it costs an enormous amount to care for a service dog. Not only do we have to pay a breeder, but the extra health tests that a service dog has to undergo are not cheap.”
I open my mouth to say something—anything—but she’s apparently revoked my talking privileges, because she plows on. “And then there is food, grooming, training equipment, and the teeny-tiny salary that my colleague and I make in order to eat. And if you still don’t believe that I’m not making commissions off our dogs, I will be happy to show you my checking account, and you’ll be impressed to see that the total is exactly the same as my age.”
At this point, I’m wishing I could crawl under the table and disappear.
She still doesn’t give me a chance to talk (not that I blame her). “I’m not in this for the money. I train and match dogs with recipients because Charlie gave me an independence and security that I thought I would have to sacrifice when I first started having seizures. I want others to have a chance at that same security.”
I know she’s telling the truth. I can see it in her eyes. They are like perfect open windows to her soul. Her passion is contagious, and I wish I hadn’t made that stupid comment about the price of the dogs. I knew she wasn’t making money off them. I think I’m self-sabotaging because I’m scared of how impressed I am by her. Trying to talk myself down from liking her too much or something.
I drag in a deep breath. “I’m not sure how many times I’m allowed to say I’m sorry to someone in a single sitting . . . but I’m going for the record. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything I said a minute ago. I’m just . . . looking for reasons to not get a dog for my daughter.”
“Can I ask why you’re here, then? What made you text me and schedule another meeting?”
There are two answers to that question. I’ll only give her one of them.
“Ever since Samantha was diagnosed with epilepsy about a year ago, she’s changed. She used to be so vibrant and outgoing, and now she’s closed off. She doesn’t smile as much, and she’s acting out in ways that seem too grown-up for a ten-year-old.”
Miss Jones grins. “Like breaking into your email and impersonating you to get a meeting with a service dog company?”
I smile back and nod. “Like that. And yesterday, when I turned you down for the meeting, Sam wouldn’t speak to me all the way home and then slammed the door on me after we got there.” I can’t believe I’m telling her all this. And the way she never looks away has me wanting to shift in my seat. “Anyway . . . this has been the only thing she’s shown any excitement or interest in since learning of her condition, so I thought maybe I should at least hear you out.”
Miss Jones holds my gaze. Her eyes narrow slightly, and I wonder what she’s seeing. Her head tilts, and some of her hair spills over her shoulder. It’s curled in long, loose waves today, and before I can tell my brain to stop it, I wonder if she’s curled it for me.
No, dingus, she didn’t.
“You’re not sleeping, are you?” Her question is so out of left field that my head kicks back.
How does she know that? And why is she asking?I’m curious where she’s going with this, so I answer honestly. “No. I wake up every hour almost to go check on her. I wanted her to sleep in my room with me, but she refused. Says my room is too boring.”
In a desperate moment early on, I went to the home improvement store and almost bought three cans of bubblegum-colored paint for my walls before I chickened out.
“Does she spend most of her time in her room by herself?” she asks, and I nod, feeling so damn guilty. “And I’m guessing you’ve probably stopped letting her go to her friends’ houses?”
How could she possibly know that? Suddenly, I’m in an interrogation room, and she’s just grabbed the light and shined it in my face. It’s searingly bright.
“But I still let her invite them over,” I say, and there’s definitely a defensive edge to my tone.
“But you’re a single dad, so I’m guessing that some of the other parents haven’t been too excited about that prospect.”
Okay, who is this woman? Does she have a crystal ball shoved in her purse somewhere?
I lean forward. “Do you think that’s why none of her friends have come over?” I never even considered that could be the reason.
Miss Jones smiles, but I don’t feel patronized by it. More like, I feel as if she sees me and understands something. Something that even I don’t know yet.
“Most likely, you’re not doing anything wrong. What you just described about your daughter’s actions is normal in my experience.” Her words help me breathe for the first time in a year. “Samantha has had life as she knew it ripped out from under her. Her peace of mind is gone. Her friendships are gone. The small amount of independence she had probably gained from growing up is gone.”
Her mom is gone.
“But it doesn’t have to be that way,” she continues. “I am a perfect example. Charlie has given me the ability to live alone with confidence that if I have a seizure, I’m going to be taken care of. And I know that thought sounds daunting to you right now, and you’d probably like to shrink your daughter and put her in your pocket so you can always watch over her, but believe me, you won’t be doing her any favors. She needs freedom. She’s not broken, and she can live a full, independent life like her friends with the help of a dog just like Charlie. If you give your daughter back some of her independence, she just might feel like coming out of her shell again.”
Shoot.Just like that, Miss Jones becomes Evie in my mind.