“Yeah, you gonna give it?” he asked, a new twinkle in his eye. “You were always like an expert in that area.”
I settled in front of the computer, bringing up his email account for him. This was another real way I could help, to prove that I wasn’t here to swing through while being a shit son or a shit friend.
“I’ve been called a bit of a Casanova in my day.”
Though one sexually charged almost-kiss with Fiona had me walking around with fucking stars circling around my head.
I clicked on a string of messages from Angela at the top of the screen.
“This is her second one, but I was too nervous to open the first,” Pop admitted.
“I get it,” I said. Remembered my embarrassing finger-guns incident. “Want me to read it?”
“Sure, yeah.”
Clicking it open, I scanned Angela’s first email, which was friendly. She lived in Brooklyn, had two grown sons with wives and children, and loved her urban rooftop garden. Her second email was short and to the point, and the honesty in it reminded me of Fiona and her quest for love.
It’s okay if you don’t write me back. I understand how hard it is to make a connection these days. I lost my husband ten years ago, but my desire for romantic love and partnership has recently re-appeared in my life, and I am now looking for a special someone to make me laugh and drink coffee with me on my front stoop. From your profile, you seem like a kind man with a love for his son. That’s all I’m looking for right now—a kind man with a love for family who’d like to get to know me a little better.
My throat tightened. Usually this kind of swoony, romantic stuff sent me packing. But this woman believed in love so much that even after losing her partner, she still believed she could love someone and be loved by someone. Even though it had to be scary, right? I pictured telling this story to my mom and her scoffing—sounds like a recipe for pain to me.
“She seems very nice, and very friendly, and wants to meet casually and get to know you better,” I said over my shoulder. He squinted, reading the screen. “Good thing I uploaded that picture of you where you look normal and not like a murderer.”
He made a grumpy harrumph sound. “Maybe she won’t like me.”
“Pop.” I smiled and nudged him. “You haven’t even met yet. Give her a chance, yeah? I’ll write the email. You tell me what you want to say.”
“I might need some help with the words.”
“I’ve got words,” I said. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Nice words. Romance words,” he said, smirking a little.
I laughed. “Excuse me. You ask me for my help and then accuse me of not having any romance words? Ask anyone. I know some romance words.”
“I can confirm that Max doesn’t know a single romance word.”
Fiona appeared in the door of the office. Those same stars exploded across my vision. Her golden hair was loose and wavy around her shoulders. She wore a long, light-pink dress and sandals—she looked relaxed and happy, like she was on her way to a picnic date at Central Park with some douchebag named Brett.
In her hands was a colorful bouquet of flowers.
“See? Fi knows what I’m talking about,” Pop said.
“Uhhhhh.” Apparently, that was where I was now whenever Fiona entered a one-mile radius of my location. I’d debated calling her a hundred times last night, to clear the air over whatever had happened in Mateo’s garage. Now she was showing up like an actual dream come true.
“Are you just saying hi?” Pop asked.
Suddenly shy, Fiona extended the bouquet of flowers my way. “I thought I’d bring Max flowers to congratulate him on his new job.”
No one had ever gotten me flowers before.
I took them from her hands, remembered how awful and awkward things had been after I’d taken that call. There was a card, stuck between two white daisies. I flipped it over. In her perfect handwriting, Fiona had written: Congratulations on your new job. I’m so happy for you.
And beneath that: P.S. You did a great job of convincing me last night. My crush on you is now bigger than ever.
The message she was sending slammed into me like a truck on the highway. My eyes shot to hers, and I was rewarded with a smile so pretty I almost dropped the flowers.
“Do you like them?” she asked.
“I do.” My voice was hoarse. “More than you realize.”
Her smile broadened. I knew goddamn well what Fiona wanted from her next relationship. And that meant, if I was craving her kiss and up all night thinking about her and having minor sweat attacks and doing finger guns and forgetting how to say words, then—
Holy shit, I wanted to date Fiona.
“So is there something I can help with?” she asked, turning to Pop. I set the bouquet down, carefully, before checking in with Pop for his comfort level.
He gave a short nod. “Yeah, that would be okay. You’ve got nice words.”
I stood up, gestured to the chair for Fiona to sit. She brushed past me, releasing her scent of warm sun and fresh strawberries.
“Are you writing a love letter?”
His laugh was part grimace. He toed his boot against the floor. “I met a nice woman online through a dating website. Max has been helping me reply to her emails since I’ve never been good at this dating thing and I’m definitely not good at emails.”
“I’m happy I came by. I think I can come up with a better, more romantic email than Max any day.”
I leaned against the desk next to her, crossed my arms. “That a challenge, Fiona Quinn?”
She was clicking around on the screen. “Not a challenge if it’s the truth, Devlin.”
Pop actually chuckled.
“No fuckin’ respect around here,” I said, swiping my thumb across my lip. A loud voice that sounded like the beer distributor called up the steps. Pop walked to the door and poked his head out, yelling down a shorthand I no longer understood. While he was distracted, I tapped Fiona’s chair with my foot.
“You don’t think I’m good at romance?”
She gave me a cheesy, happy smile. “Convince me.”
I didn’t hesitate to grip the back of her chair. Slowly dip my mouth to the smooth shell of her ear. “You take my breath away. I barely slept again last night. You know why?”
I heard her quiet gasp. “Why?”
“Because I can’t stop thinking about you.”
I sat back up and held out my hands as Pop ambled back in. “Are we sending this email or what, old man?”
“Don’t rush me,” he grumbled. “What does Fiona think I should say?”
I looked down at Fiona. She was holding her fingers to her lips. They were trembling. “Princess?”
She brightened, snapped out of her trance. “Let me think for a moment. Get the creative juices flowing and such.”
It was goddamn affirming to know that smart and successful Fiona seemed to be losing it as well. I clenched my own trembling fingers around the edge of the desk.
She typed rapidly, and thirty seconds later waved my dad over. “Angela seems really nice, by the way.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Are you seeing anyone these days, Fi?”
She bit her lip. “Maybe.”