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He exhales in a burst. “The words ‘shallow’ and ‘diva’ were tossed around.”
I silently agree with Maya. A few weeks ago, Whitney offered Lila and me autographed headshots while she was waiting for Tom.
Autographed. Headshots.
From the co-anchor of a six am local news show.
In a town with two stoplights and three times as many farm animals as people.
Lila had glanced at me with a look of “Is she for real?” on her face, something that did not go unnoticed by Whitney, who’d snatched her photos up and stalked off at Lila’s polite declination.
Maya’s assessment is spot-on.
“How are you and Whitney handling it?”
“Whitney pretends not to notice while Maya finds creative ways to not-so-subtly insult her. The other night at dinner, she detailed each point of a five-paragraph essay she wrote, contrasting the uselessness of fleeting beauty against the enduring resilience of character and intelligence.”
I fight a smile, thoroughly impressed with Maya’s ingenuity. “Maybe the three of you can work through this.” Tom could do a lot better than Boobzilla, but I want him to be happy, and his daughter hating his girlfriend is a no-win situation for him.
“I don’t think either of them wants to.”
“I’m sorry. Can I help?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t think so. Thanks, though.” He returns to sorting colorful therapy bands before glancing up. “By the way, I was informed I needed to invite you to dinner tonight.”
I grin. “You were informed?”
He nods. “By two very insistent females. Maya and Skyler are making spaghetti.”
“I’ll be there.”
He chuckles. “Maya said you’d agree as soon as you heard the word spaghetti.”
“I'd have agreed anyway, even without my weakness for pasta. What time?”
Tom shrugs. “Seven-ish? My chefs are a bit unreliable. There’s a distinct possibility we could end up ordering pizza.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
My day passes quickly. I provide therapeutic massage to five regular clients, all disabled vets between twenty-five and forty years of age. I schedule six new VA referrals and send updates to physicians, working through the papers stacked precariously on my desk. I’m hanging up the phone at the front desk just before closing when the door opens and a familiar figure saunters in. Shaggy blond hair brushes the collar of the white linen shirt clinging to his muscled chest. Steely blue eyes twinkle above his crooked nose, and he flashes me his trademark lazy grin.
“Charlie,” he purrs, “you look beautiful today.” He leans on the counter, his eyes fixed on mine.
I smile. “You say that every day, Blake.”
He winks. “Because it’s true.”
“You’re a shameless flirt. You know that, right?”
Blake Wilson is the most flirtatious man I’ve ever met. He’s good-looking, and he knows it. He’s also extremely appreciative of the feminine form. I’ve never seen him meet a female without complimenting her. It doesn’t matter if she’s eight or eighty, hot or homely. He finds something attractive in each one, whether it’s how her scarf brings out the color of her eyes, the way her smile lights up a room, or how her clothes hug her curves. It’s surprisingly charming, even if it does scream man-whore.
“It isn't flirting if it’s true.”
I roll my eyes. “Tom should be done in a couple of minutes. You’re welcome to wait in the reception area in the rehab gym.”
He ignores my blatant dismissal. “I prefer the view here.”
Blake is Tom’s assistant boxing coach at the center for disadvantaged youth. He’s also a life coach – one of those annoyingly positive people who yammer on about visualizing what you want and seizing the day and making your dreams come true. Maybe that’s why he’s so persistent in his flirtation. And in all honesty, despite his constant stream of compliments, part of me enjoys it when he drops by, because I’m guaranteed a self-esteem boost.
