Chapter 3 #2
I was dreadfully lonely after we lost David.
Having a companion to help me raise the kids and run my life would have been amazing.
But romance? That wasn’t something I could conceive of.
And so far as I know, there aren’t a lot of people signing up to help raise kids and keep you company without romance.
I did try. A little bit, anyway.
After David, I went on exactly six first dates, which all ranged from underwhelming to awful.
Dating just felt … wrong. And not in the sense where I felt as though I were betraying David or his memory.
More like I would be sitting across the dinner table at a restaurant, trying to carry on a conversation, when all I wanted was to be anywhere else.
Anywhere at all. With my kids or my friends or at home scrubbing the baseboards or dusting ceiling fans.
So I just … stopped trying. Over time, the idea of finding another husband was less fantastical and more of a milestone in life I’d flown right by.
It was in the rearview mirror, not a destination ahead.
And until I had my first face-to-face encounter with Tank Graham—a very brief exchange at his daughter’s wedding when I delivered the cake—I hadn’t so much as felt a stirring of romantic feelings toward anyone.
Which made the flurry of giddy feelings when Tank smiled at me today seem extravagant, almost too much.
I hadn’t felt butterflies in so many years that at first, I mistook the sensation for nausea.
When Tank first left me alone in his loft, I had to remind myself of the quote from Sleepless in Seattle where I’m more likely to be struck by lightning at my age than to remarry.
Even if I know that the quote was from a flawed study.
Whether or not the stats are true, I remind myself of the way I felt on those first dates I went on.
And this is the reality check I needed to get my head on straight.
The likelihood of catching the eye of a man like Tank Graham—handsome, rich, famous—is definitely lower than being struck by lightning.
But Chelsea will take this idea and run a marathon with it if I don’t stop her.
“No—I do not have a crush on Tank. And he’s not here. I’m not sure why I was whispering. It just feels weird to be here alone because—wait. Hang on.”
I thought I heard the door on the street level shutting. His loft, like mine, has a locked entrance at street level, then another door at the top of the stairs, each with separate codes. Now, I definitely hear the sound of footsteps on the stairs.
He’s coming back! A cheer goes up among the butterflies in my stomach and suddenly, I wish I had a net to catch and release them somewhere far, far away from me.
“I’ve got to go!” I whisper.
“Mom!” Chelsea says. “You can’t go now—just when this is getting good! Hang on and—”
I hang up on her just as there’s a knock. “Come in,” I say, though it feels weird to say that in a place that’s not mine.
Tank punches in the code and walks inside. Like some kind of wild reflex, I toss my phone to the other end of the couch.
Looking, I’m sure, totally guilty. Of what, I’m not sure. I even feel guilty, though I’ve been very good since Tank left me.
I resisted any and all urges to be nosy.
Despite the way I’m tempted to poke around, I didn’t do more than give the place a cursory look.
Basic-level, non-invasive snooping. I did not open a single closed door, cabinet, or drawer.
I didn’t even look in the fridge—and he told me I could.
I also didn’t do more than peek into his bedroom from the doorway.
Like the rest of his place, it’s clean, modern, and somewhat masculine with dark wood furniture and a navy comforter.
“You don’t need to ask for my permission to enter. This is your place!” I remind him.
“I know. But I didn’t want to walk in just in case you weren’t …”
His words falter to a stop, and I think we both seem to realize at the same time the logical conclusion of that phrase: in case I wasn’t decent.
Like there would be any reason for me to be traipsing around his loft pantsless.
I’m blushing, and I swear, there’s color in his cheeks too. Maybe I’m not the only one who can’t seem to locate the right words.
Tank abruptly turns and heads straight to the open concept kitchen, where he fills a glass of water and tips it back, gulping until it’s gone.
I do my very best not to watch the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he drinks, which would probably be considered some kind of invasion of privacy. Possibly bordering on creepy behavior.
He sets the glass down and wipes his brow. Clearly, he’s spent the time since he left either inside the hot building across the street or out in the sun, maybe looking at the AC unit outside. I hadn’t paid much attention to the unseasonably warm weather we’ve been having until the AC died.
“Would you like something to drink?” Tank asks, seemingly recovered.
“I’m fine. Really. You don’t need to worry about me.”
Of course, now that he mentioned water, I realize I’m incredibly thirsty. Whether because he’s trying to be overly hospitable or because my desire to not be a burden is being broadcast across the room, Tank pulls a bottled water from the fridge.
He carries it over to the couch and holds it out. “Just in case,” he says with a smile that’s a little too knowing.
I thank him but set the bottle on the coffee table rather than opening it. Because I feel a stubborn need to act like I wasn’t lying about not being thirsty.
What is wrong with me?
Tank takes a seat on the opposite end of the sectional, then leans to one side, pulling my phone out from underneath him.
“Looks like you misplaced this.”
And for a moment, I think that maybe I got lucky and he didn’t see me throw it. Then his smile widens and he winks.
Winks!
My embarrassment is so strong that if dying of it were possible, I would simply vanish in a puff of smoke where I sit. A case of spontaneous human vaporization triggered by fatal humiliation.
Instead, I smile blithely, ignoring the wink, and take my phone from him. “Thanks. So, how’s it looking over there?”
“Unfortunately, not so great,” Tank says, and my stomach drops.
“Let me guess—it won’t be fixed today?”
He shakes his head. “Probably not until next week since it’s Friday. The parts he needs are on backorder. There’s a chance it could be sooner, but it will be Tuesday at the earliest. Possibly not until Thursday and Friday.”
I let this sink in—and I do mean sink.
It’s not just the loss of sales for those days, but the loss of momentum.
Maybe momentum is a strong word. I’ve been barely getting customers through the door, but sales have picked up the tiniest bit the last two weeks.
I’ve started getting repeat customers, which feels like a good sign.
Potentially being closed for a week feels huge.
Not to mention the fact that I don’t have anywhere to stay. Being a perimenopausal woman in an apartment with no air conditioning is not what I’d call viable living conditions. I don’t have hot flashes—yet—but I’m hot all the time, like my own personal thermostat is running low on batteries.
I guess if I’m not able to bake, I could go stay with Chelsea and Mason in Austin, but it’s not ideal. None of this is.
Also, I can almost hear John’s I told you so if he gets wind of this.
Not for the first time, I question whether I was grossly overconfident in attempting to start a new business and a whole new life at my age.
Maybe I should have continued teaching, despite how exhausting it had become.
I should have stayed in the house I finished paying off a few years ago.
In the safe, comfortable world I originally built with David.
But no—that doesn’t sound right either. I needed change, but maybe it didn’t need to be such a big, risky one.
“I have a solution,” Tank says now, dragging me partly out of my downward spiral.
“More of a proposal, really. And since you already look ready to argue, I’ll just lay it out here.
Before I came back up here, I talked with Kalli at the coffee shop.
She said her pastry case is yours for as long as you want to sell things.
And since it’s too hot to use your bakery kitchen, you can have mine to use.
I looked it up, and with the cottage food laws, that should be fine.
My kitchen isn’t as large or as fancy as yours, but it will be nice and convenient since you’re staying here until the AC is fixed. ”
I stare at Tank, processing. That was a lot to take in.
As though he’s fully aware that my knee-jerk reaction to accepting his help is to say absolutely not, he continues on.
“I probably don’t have the right kind of appliances, but I’m happy to buy a mixer or whatever if you let me know what you need.
My kids are always complaining about this being like a bachelor pad.
” He pauses, studying my face. “What’s wrong? ”
Is it clear that I’m internally freaking out? It must be, if he’s asking.
I clear my throat, then reach for the water, taking a quick sip as I try to gather my thoughts and tell the overeager butterflies that now is not a time to flutter. This is simply a helpful offer from my landlord since the building where I work and sleep is currently uninhabitable and unworkable.
Nothing more.
Even if it feels as though he’s gone out of his way to do more.
“I don’t need to stay here, if that’s what you’re worried about. I have a new house just outside of town I could stay in,” he says now. “This place will be all yours for as long as you need it.”
“Tank—” I shake my head, interrupting myself. “I’m sorry. I feel a little odd calling you that.”
“You can call me Theo,” he says. “If you want. But not Theodore. Please.”
I smile. “Theo. I guess I’ve gone all these years without knowing your real name.”