Off the Wall

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Nori

My tombstone at Serendipity Gardens will probably read something like the following:

Here Lies Eleanor Sinclair.

Beloved friend. Sister. Barista.

Tried filling her love tank. Got stuck on empty.

No more dating for her.

Okay, just kidding. I’m not that much of a pessimist. But I’m not an optimist, either. I prefer to think of myself as a realist. I examine the evidence presented and respond accordingly. Which is why I refuse to wave the white flag on finding Mr. Right. I can’t give up now. Not when so many precedents for happily-ever-after are thriving around me.

Like my older brother, who’s been blissfully married to his high school sweetheart since the dawn of time. And my best friend, who’s planning a wedding with a man she met only five months ago. Even the seventy-year-old owner of the coffee and tea shop I manage has found the love of her life.

Twice .

Hayden—she’s the friend who’s engaged—keeps pushing me to get a profile on MatchYou because the whole dating app thing worked for her. And also for her cousin. Plus her neighbor’s uncle’s … niece?

Wait. No. That’s not quite right.

Either way, she’s got a list of once-upon-a-time singles who found their happily-ever-afters on an app. “The proof is in the pudding,” she’s fond of saying. And let’s be real. I do love pudding.

Especially chocolate. But I don’t trust some virtual matchmaker to find my one, true soulmate.

For the record, I’m aware plenty of people live full and happy lives without a so-called better half. I’ve just always seen myself with a partner. Like my brother, Easton, found with his wife, Rebecca. Like my parents and their legendary love story. Both couples got married at twenty years old. That’s a two and a zero. Seriously young.

As for me, I turned twenty-seven three days ago. Which means I’ve got approximately one year to find a man who’s legitimate husband material so we can spend approximately twelve months falling in love, then approximately fifty-two weeks engaged, and boom.

Wedding bells before thirty.

I mean, is the idea so ridiculous? Finding love by a milestone age is the premise behind an overwhelming number of romcom movies and novels. And this is why I’m currently suffering through the very last setup I’m ever going to accept.

Why?

Because tonight’s dinner has been an absolute nightmare. Worst. Date. Ever.

My score? 0 out of 10. Do not recommend.

All we’ve done is order drinks, but if you google the word “miserable” right now, the first image will be of me at Vincenzo’s Ristorante with Warren Snuze .

“It’s pronounced SNOOZE,” he explains. “Like the button.” Then he actually tucks his napkin into the V-neck of his T-shirt. The fabric is thin, white cotton. Closer to an undershirt than anything else. And there are tufts of chest hair peeking out. I offer him an awkward smile as our server returns with our drinks. She’s got a sleek blonde ponytail, and she’s not on a date with Warren Snuze.

I’ve never been more jealous of anyone in my life.

“Can I interest you two in a couple of starters?” she chirps.

Couple. Ugh.

Warren glances up from his menu and flashes her a smarmy grin. “We’ll split the escargot. With extra garlic. And an order of marinated octopus.”

Wait. He’s ordering for me?

I feel like this could be romantic if it weren’t for all the chest hair.

And yes, I want to be the adventurous type, but I can’t help picturing the early-morning snails oozing across the courtyard of my apartment building. Even with extra garlic, I don’t think I can eat escargot.

As for the octopus, that’s even worse.

Hayden and I took a tour at an aquarium in Boston last year, where we learned that octopuses are super-intelligent. Or is it octopi? Either way, the guide said they’re almost humanlike in their ability to relate to the world and understand their circumstances. No judgment to people who eat these creatures, but I don’t want to put something smarter than I am in my mouth.

“I think I’ll just have the mozzarella sticks,” I say, hoping some deep-fried hot cheese can salvage this evening.

“Mozzarella sticks?” Warren lets out a snort of disdain. “Kinda predictable. ”

“They’re very popular,” our server says brightly. “And what would you like for your main courses?”

Warren puffs out his chest at her. Extra hair. Extra pompousness. “How’s the chef’s pajata Romana tonight?”

“That’s a rare order, sir.” She tips her head, and her ponytail swings. “I haven’t actually tried it.”

“ Never ? Hmm.” Warren sounds awfully condescending for a man in an undershirt. He snaps his gaze to me. “Pajata Romana is a delicacy in Italy. I’m guessing you haven’t heard of it.”

I glance down at the menu and read that pajata Romana is a stew made from the intestines of milk-fed calves.

Milk-fed calves?

Hot bile rises in my throat.

Never. Ever. EVER.

“You know what?” Warren slaps his menu shut. “Let’s live dangerously. I’ll give it a whirl.” He snatches my menu and passes both over to the server. “And the lady will have the same.”

“Excuse me.” I cough in protest. “But the lady will not.”

“Ah, come on, Nori.” Warren splays his hands. “Don’t be like that.”

“Sorry.” I apologize to our server, wincing on the inside and out. “But I’d like the chicken parmesan. Please.”

She offers me a tiny smile in solidarity. “Our chicken parm is delicious.”

Under his breath, Warren says, “Lame.”

Whoa. He’s saying I’m lame? Warren Snuze might be the pottiest pot to ever call a kettle black.

I should’ve trusted my gut and turned Mrs. Chamberlin down when she suggested this setup with her grand-nephew. But she’s such a sweet old lady, and one of the best customers at Serendipi-Tea. That’s the tea and coffee shop I manage. Mrs. Chamberlin loves that I always add smiley faces to the travel cups below her name. Which is Pearl, by the way. Pearl Chamberlin.

Great-aunt of Warren Snuze.

But I’d trade every single smile I’ve ever drawn for a magic wand to rewind time and say no to this date. Too bad that kind of magic doesn’t exist in real life, despite all the rumors surrounding The Serendipity. That’s the apartment building where I live. It’s in Serendipity Springs. And for decades, stories have circulated throughout New England about the wonders of the place.

The residents here report being luckier than the national average. We’re supposedly healthier too. Not to mention more prone to falling in love. According to the locals, this burst of unexplained goodness has something to do with the water.

Like, literally. The springs here are serendipitous.

True or not, this legend was one of the reasons my brother and his wife moved us to Serendipity Springs right after they got married. I was four years old at the time. They were barely twenty. But they tied the knot early in order to become my legal guardians. It was the only way to keep our family together.

And we needed all the love and luck we could get.

The previous owner of The Serendipity—Galentine Valencia—heard our family’s story and reached out to offer East and Becca ridiculously low rent on a place in her building. And she never raised the price. Not once in all these years. Our two-bedroom apartment is the only home I can remember. And the three of us have lived there ever since.

Well, up until six months ago.

That’s when East and Becca moved back to Boston so they could be closer to her parents. They’re getting older and they need more help now. (Becca’s parents, I mean. Not Becca and East. )

And honestly, I feel so bad.

First my brother got stuck raising me. And since he and Becca had enough on their plates becoming insta-parents at twenty, they never ended up having kids of their own. Instead, they stuck around Serendipity Springs so I always had a home base to return to. Even now that I’m a fully grown adult, they still spend way too much time worrying.

You lose one job in New York City, and suddenly everybody hovers. Forever.

Or maybe that’s just me.

The thing is, I felt terrible enough about the bookstore chain I couldn’t save. But I came back to Serendipity Springs ready to prove I can stand on my own two feet. I’m trying to move forward. East and Becca?

Not so much.

They were afraid my tea shop salary might not cover the rent and expenses on a two-bedroom apartment, and they probably aren’t wrong. So I found a solution. Hayden moved in, and I’ve been splitting costs with my bestie. Perfect, right?

Until MatchYou introduced her to her dream man. One Hallmark movie later, and Hayden Warner’s going to be Mrs. Jasper Perkins next month.

No more roommate for me.

“You all right?” Warren’s frowning at me from across the table.

I swallow past the lump in my throat. “I guess I’m just not feeling very well.”

“Hold on.” He digs in his pocket. “I always carry a pack of Tums.” That’s actually sort of kind of him. But how often is heartburn an issue that the man brings antacids on a date?

“Thanks, but it’s not heartburn,” I tell him.

“Gotcha.” He makes a move for his other pocket. “I have GasX too.”

“On second thought,” I choke out, “I’m feeling better already.” I force a small smile that probably looks more like a grimace. Then I send up a silent prayer that my friend, Keeley, will call me. She lives one floor down from Hayden and me at The Serendipity. She offered to interrupt this date at the ten-minute mark with a fake emergency.

You know. In case this date was disastrous and I wanted to escape. Or die.

Check, check, and check.

But I told her the fake emergency call has to be the oldest trick in the book. Bordering on cliché. Also, I figured going into my date prepared for it to be awful wasn’t exactly the best attitude to inspire a positive outcome. But mostly I didn’t want to lie to the man I was having dinner with. I hate lying. To myself and to other people.

At this point, though, I’d probably commit perjury on the witness stand to get out of spending one more minute with Warren Snuze.

I just don’t want to hurt poor Mrs. Chamberlin’s feelings.

From across the room, a busboy dressed in black approaches with a basket of fresh rolls. As he reaches our table, my mouth waters at the scent of warm garlic bread. If I get busy cramming all those delicious rolls in my mouth, maybe I can avoid any more conversation with Warren.

Bonus points for the garlic breath that will prevent him seeking a goodnight kiss.

Unfortunately, Warren waves the busboy away. “No bread for us.”

“Wait!” I yelp. “YES, brEAD FOR US!”

Who in their right mind doesn’t want bread at an Italian restaurant? One of the reasons I was excited to try Vincenzo’s in the first place is that their baskets of garlic rolls are bottomless.

“Your appetizer is already breaded,” Warren says, rolling his eyes. “Don’t you think that’s enough? ”

“I guess,” I mumble, and the busboy shrugs, disappearing along with all my hopes and dreams of warm rolls.

Warren swirls his Chianti around the glass, then he takes a noisy sip. “I like to watch my carbs,” he says.

Me too, I think. I like to watch them enter my mouth, and I love every single one of them.

“I’m totally into keto these days,” he adds. “Except for the wine, of course.” He takes another healthy gulp. “I eat mostly meats, cheeses, and fats. And let me tell you, my abs notice. The ladies do, too.” He sets down his glass to pat his belly, and my skin officially crawls. I’m going to need some mind bleach to erase my thoughts about what’s lurking under that undershirt.

Warren narrows his eyes. “Something wrong?”

“It’s just that … I’m not really into dieting.”

“I wasn’t either.” He puffs out a breath. “Until I signed up for MatchYou.”

I stifle a snort. MatchYou is the same dating app Hayden used to meet Jasper. I can’t wait to tell her how much she and Mrs. Chamberlin’s grandnephew have in common.

“I’ve also got profiles on Chem Finder and SoleMate,” Warren says.

“SoleMate?” I wrinkle my nose. Sounds like some kind of foot fetish site.

“Yeah, it’s new. I’m on three different apps.” He bounces his eyebrows. “Don’t want to put all my eggs in one basket, if you know what I mean.”

Unfortunately, I know exactly what he means, but I don’t want to think about Warren Snuze’s figurative eggs.

Mercifully, I’m saved by the server, who appears with our appetizers. Warren dives right in to his octopus and escargot. As a shiny circle of oil spreads around his mouth, the queasiness in my stomach kicks up a notch. I’m watching him eat with a mixture of curiosity and horror, when he plucks an escargot from its shell with a tiny fork and extends it across the table.

“Go ahead.” He nods at the greasy, buttery offering. “Eat one.”

“No, thank you.”

“What’s the problem? My aunt says you’re a good sport, Nori. Are you calling Auntie Pearl a liar?”

“Of course not.” I square my shoulders, but maybe Warren’s right. What if his V-neck undershirt and chest hair sent me into bad attitude land before he had a chance to show me what a lovely man he is? Warren Snuze could be a perfectly wonderful person who just happens to enjoy eating milk-fed calves and octopus. “I am a good sport,” I insist.

“Good girl.” He flicks his fork until the escargot falls with a wet plop onto my empty bread plate. Then he snatches one of my mozzarella sticks and drags the hot cheesy goodness through the ramekin of marinara sauce.

I shift my gaze to the buttery snail, and my insides officially roil.

Good sport or not, I might actually throw up if I try to ingest that. But Warren’s not letting the issue go. “Don’t waste it,” he says, cheese dangling from his lips.

“Fine.”

I’m a good sport. I’m a good sport.

I slowly slip the escargot into my mouth, and—nope. There it is. My one-way ticket to the vomit express. I’m about to hurl, when a ringtone sounds in the pocket of Warren’s coat. While he turns around to dig for his phone, I spit the escargot into my napkin and drop the whole greasy mess onto the floor under my chair.

“It’s Auntie Pearl,” Warren announces after a quick glimpse of his screen. Then he rejects the call and pushes the phone back into his coat pocket.

“But …” I pull down my brow. Warren’s aunt isn’t exactly a sp ring chicken. She’s definitely a … winter chicken. And I’m worried she could be having some kind of emergency. Apparently, I’m more worried about her than her actual nephew is. “Shouldn’t you see what she needs? It could be important.”

“I know why she’s calling.” He pushes the rest of the mozzarella stick into his mouth, then talks while he chews. “I told her to give me a ring twenty minutes into our date.” A strand of cheese trails down his chin. “You know. In case the two of us weren’t hitting it off.”

So he used the oldest trick in the book.

Warren Snuze is a cliché.

“She said there was zero chance I wouldn’t like you—but I said if I was going to take you to dinner, I needed an escape plan in case I knew at first sight I wouldn’t be interested. But you’re attractive enough.”

I’m attractive enough ?

Warren Snuze, with remnants of marinara and mozzarella all over his face, might be the least attractive person on the planet. If I didn’t care about Mrs. Chamberlin, I’d get up and walk out of this ristorante right now.

“And, oh yeah.” He swipes at his chin, then forks up a piece of octopus. “She also told me you live at The Serendipity.”

Great. Thanks a lot, Auntie Pearl.

“That’s what made me say yes to this date,” he admits. “I was curious to see if the rumors were true. You know. If there’d be something … extra special about you.”

“Nope,” I say with a shrug. “Just me.”

“That’s all right.” He gulps down the octopus and hunches over his plate, like he’s about to let me in on some kind of secret. “I’m already getting more action than I can handle from the dating apps.” He glances around, lowering his voice. “You wouldn’t believe all the action.”

You’re right about that, buddy .

“I haven’t gone out on a second date yet,” he says, straightening again. “But that’s only because I haven’t found The One yet.” He puts “the one” in finger quotes. “Still, I figure I’m on the right track. If I keep going, eventually something good will hit. There’s lots of interest out there, believe me. Lots of swipes.”

“Congratulations, Warren. That’s just so … great.” I press my lips together to keep from laughing.

“Yeah, well. Great for me maybe, but maybe not so great for you.” He plucks the napkin from his undershirt to mop at his oily face. “Because once I do meet The One, we won’t be able to keep dating.”

“That would be terrible news,” I nod, biting back a smirk. Warren doesn’t notice.

“Sorry to interrupt,” a deep voice rumbles.

I look up and take in the tower of a man standing above me. His eyes are a mix of gray and blue, like the ocean or some other beautiful body of water. Unfortunately, I recognize those eyes. They belong to my new neighbor. The one Hayden and I secretly call Dr. McMuffin.

I know. Ridiculous nickname. But he earned it.

One morning, shortly after he moved in, Hayden and I were at the mailboxes and he came rushing through the lobby with a half-eaten Egg McMuffin in his hand, and he flew right past us without saying hi. We were waving, ready to welcome him to the building, but he totally blew us off.

And that’s not all.

He was wearing scrubs with a Springs Memorial Hospital ID badge clipped to his pocket. He always wears scrubs when he’s coming and going, so it’s obvious he wants everyone to know he’s a doctor. He’s one of those types, with an ego even bulkier than his muscles.

Yes, we get it, sir. You’re a big deal. Way too good to stop and talk to a tea-shop manager and a middle-school teacher .

That was two months ago, and I’ve managed to completely avoid him ever since. Until now, that is. The man is looming over me, making this already bad night even worse. And for the first time ever, he’s wearing something other than scrubs. Gray suit. Navy shirt. Blue and gray. Like his eyes.

Ugh.

Beside him is a stunning blonde. She’s in a silk dress and heels, and clutching an expensive bag. Of course Dr. McMuffin’s girlfriend is rich and gorgeous. The man may be a snob, but he’s got this whole Glenn Powell vibe going for him. His dark caramel locks sweep off his forehead, angled to one side in a style that appears casual but probably takes a lot of effort. I’ll bet Dr. McMuffin uses an actual hairdryer and mousse.

See, Nori? You were so right to steer clear of him .

“I think you may have dropped this,” he says.

“Oh.” I lower my gaze, and my stomach fills with dread.

In his giant man-hand, he’s holding the crumpled napkin that’s wrapped around Warren Snuze’s escargot.