The F-Word

“Black. Two sugars.”

“What’s my favorite sport?”

“You mean, like you play soccer in Central Park on Sundays? Or that sometimes you watch English rugby on the big flatscreen in your office when you’re supposed to be doing paperwork? Or that you drive all the way to Massachusetts for every Patriots home game even though the Giants and the Jets are both New York teams because you think it’s wrong that they both actually play in New Jersey?”

I am impressed. I tell Bailey that.

She shrugs, draws a little further away and begins trying to smooth back her hair, which is impossible because it started to rain a while ago and I have the windows of the truck down and it’s obvious that Bailey’s hair is turning into a mass of curls.

How come I never knew that before? That she has such soft-looking curls?

And how come she’s giving me this smug look?

“And what do you know about me?” she asks.

“A lot.”

“For instance.”

I think. I think harder. And I realize that what I know is that she’s smart, that she has a degree in business, she has a mom in upstate-wherever-it-is New York. Oh. And she has a nasty cousin named Violet.

Crap.

That’s all I have.

“See?” She folds her arms and the smug look grows even more smug. “You don’t know a thing about me, Mr. O’Malley. We could never fool my family for an hour, let alone an entire weekend.”

An entire weekend? I must have said the words out loud because the smug look disappears and is instantly replaced by one that says forget the whole thing.

“Uh huh. Friday evening through Sunday afternoon. So, thanks for the offer, but—”

“Today is Tuesday.”

“So?”

“So, that gives me four days.”

“Four days to do what?”

“To get to know you.”

“It’s more like three days,” Bailey says, “and it’s impossible.”

Logic tells me she’s probably right. It tells me that you can’t really learn a lot about someone in so short a time. Even if you could, logic also tells me that as much as I love my own family, long weekends spent with family can be, you know, daunting.

On the other hand, I already made an offer. And I’m not a guy who backs down. Added to that, I am into winning. The lady might know how I take my coffee and my sports, but it’s evident she doesn’t know that.

I turn away and shift the truck into gear.

“How do you take your coffee?” I ask.

She heaves an exasperated sigh. “Really, sir—”

“Light? Black? Sugar? Sweet’N Low?” I pull onto the ramp, check the mirror, step on the gas and merge onto the highway. “Just don’t tell me you take it without caffeine.”

“I drink tea,” she says, “as if it matters.”

“What kind? Green? Black? Orange pekoe?” I feel her staring at me and I flash her a grin. “I’m not a complete barbarian,” I say. “I know what tea is.”