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I won’t admit it to Ophie, but I’m disappointed. As we were driving away from the winery on Sunday, I was already regretting not getting Kel’s number or giving him mine. The butterflies that took over my entire gastrointestinal system when I got that first text still haven’t subsided.
But also, I don’t want to make it too easy on him. If he really wants to take me out, he better ask me nicely.
DILF Pickle: That’s a really good point. Are you free on Thursday next week?
Me: Thursday sounds good. Are you okay to come to me? I probably shouldn’t drive that much so soon.
DILF Pickle: Absolutely. Have you ever been to Tope?
Ophie runs out to pick up dinner for us from our favorite Italian restaurant while Kel and I text back and forth working out the logistics and eventually settle on a plan.
I spend the rest of the night directing one of the events I’d been hired for from the couch. Thank god this one was really only catering, and Alyssa and I have worked together at her hotel so many times, she can guess what I would say before I can say it. My presence on the ground would have been nice, but wasn’t strictly necessary—especially once I explained to Alyssa what had happened.
Ophie blows back in, the scent of garlic, cheese and carbohydrates filling the condo. I wrap up my text to Alyssa while my sister unloads our dinner on the coffee table. Once it’s all arranged, she drops into the easy chair beside our couch. I’ve been slowly acquiring and upgrading my furniture, replacing the items Frank and I picked out together with items that are more contemporary but still feminine. Frank had always wanted everything to have a slight Asian flavor to it, which used to baffle me but wasn’t worth the fight to outright oppose.
“Mags, I’ve been dying of curiosity all week, because you seemed a little sadder than usual. But now you’re all—” she drops into the Carlton for a moment, making me laugh—“you have to tell me about this guy. I wanna know about whoever’s got you hiding that goofy smile. I haven’t seen you this excited about a guy since…well, you know who. Is this potentially more than just a one-night stand?”
I stall by taking a bite of the baked ziti, god’s gift of pasta, cheese, and tomato filling my senses. The third-degree burns to the inside of my mouth are totally worth it. I know Ophie means well, but I don’t want to be giddy over a man. Ever since Frank, I’ve done my best to keep my tendency to fall fast and hard in check. The last thing I need is someone worming their way into my hard-fought peace.
“He works at Sunshine Cellars—I don’t know exactly what his job is, but he seems to be pretty much running all the growing and viney…stuff. Honestly, he seems to do a little bit of everything. I assumed he was the owner’s son, but that isn’t the case.”
“Isn’t this the same guy you were so mad about a few weeks ago? The one who didn’t like you being in his vines? What changed to make you all swoony?” Ophie hands me a piece of garlic bread as she talks, which I shove in my mouth to give me time to think.
“We didn’t exactly get off to a good start, you’re not wrong. And I’m not swoony. But you should see him with his kid—”
“He has a kid?” There’s a sharp undercurrent to Ophie’s question, and I wince. I know what she’s thinking.
“It’s not like that.” It’s totally like that. “Yes, he has a little girl and is totally adorable with her, but that’s not the reason I kinda like him.”
Ophie just raises an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Really. He’s got this Oscar the Grouch exterior, but I know somewhere inside is a man who takes care of his people. And I like that.”
“And the fact that he has a kid has nothing to do with that?”
I shovel another bite of cheesy deliciousness into my face before I answer. “I won’t say I don’t already have a soft spot for his daughter. And I won’t deny that the part of me that assumed I’d be happily married and pregnant by now is intrigued. But he’s just…I don’t know what else to say, except he seems like a really good man. And I want to know if that’s real or if I’m just projecting.”
Ophie chokes on her ravioli. “Do not Jerry Maguire this shit, Maggie. Promise me you won’t hang out with his kid again until you know for sure how you feel about him as a person.”
“I’m not going to fall in love with his kid first. I’m not going to fall in love, period.”
Ophie just stares at me, one eyebrow nearly touching her hairline.
“I’m not.”
“The box of baby clothes I know you have stashed in Mom and Dad’s attic says otherwise.”
It’s my turn to choke on my food. “Those are Daisy’s and you know it.”
Ophie points her fork at me, a string of melted cheese flapping off the end as she accuses me of being baby-crazy. Again. “And you insisted on saving them when Marcus and Ava outgrew them. Daisy isn’t having any more kids.”
“Me being practical by saving some of my niece and nephew’s baby clothes doesn’t mean I’m going to turn into some baby-stealing whacko. Olive is seven anyways, so there.” I end the discussion with a very mature double middle finger.
Ophie laughs—she’s never been able to stay mad at me for long. “Prove it to me. Tell me what you like about Olive’s dad.”
“Kel.”
“Kel? What is that a nickname for? Kellen?”
