I close my eyes and absorb the sun. “This is a good life. Think of all the hours people work for so few moments of true bliss.”
“The good life is Dr. Ryan in a swimsuit calling her time with me ‘pure bliss.’”
Without opening my eyes, I grin. “I was referring to the pool and the sunshine.”
“Were you, though?”
I peek open one eye as he drops the fish and steak onto our plates. “You’re awfully confident.”
“Hopeful.” He smirks, setting the plates on the table.
“Hopeful? What exactly are you hoping for?”
He heads back into the house and returns a minute later with a bowl of mixed greens, a bottle of salad dressing, and a loaf of French bread.
“I’m hoping Sophie Ryan agrees to be my friend again tomorrow.”
Twisting my lips, I bob my head side to side. “One day at a time.”
We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, sharing an occasional flirty grin as if we’re acknowledging all the tip-toeing we’re doing around conversations that normal friends would have on a weekend trip to Sedona.
“You know … you’re right,” I say.
He glances up, squinting.
“Midwesterners. We’re an interesting breed.”
One corner of his mouth quirks into a half smile. A reluctant smile.
Cutting my steak, I blow out a slow breath. “My dad used to over-greet people all the time. I don’t think he does it anymore. I suppose Californians aren’t into as much small talk. Every time my dad would pass someone on a walk or even just in a store, he’d greet them. I used to say, ‘Who was that?’ and he’d shake his head and say, ‘I don’t know.’ But you thought he knew them because it wasn’t just a quick, friendly ‘hi.’ It was more. ‘Hello, there. How are you doing today?’ As if a complete stranger is going to unload how they’re truly doing. They’re not. Not even Midwesterners.
“And usually, we’d be walking in opposite directions. Did he really expect people to stop and go into detail? ‘Hello. Since you asked, my wife is cheating on me, and I just found out I have prostate cancer. Thanks for asking.’ Hi. Just say hi. Right? Hi and a friendly smile is enough. It’s actually more genuine than the excess. Don’t force people to lie and say they’re fine. And don’t even get me started on how this sets you up for sounding like a fool when you leave the Midwest and everyone you pass does not say more than hi. I can’t tell you how many times someone has just said ‘hi’ to me and I’ve replied with ‘fine, thank you.’”
When I return my gaze to Shep, I realize he’s stopped eating. With the biggest smile, he seems to be hanging on my every word, completely enamored with me or my Midwesterner confessions. It’s an amazing feeling to have someone look at you like this. We click. That’s all there is to it.
“Hi,” he says after a long pause.
My grin matches his as I say, “Fine. Thank you.”
“It’s nice being with a happy person.” He rolls the bottom of his beer bottle in a circle on the table.
“What makes you think I’m happy?”
I’m not happy. My ex-boyfriend won’t get out of my house.
“It’s an aura thing. A definite vibe.”
I roll my eyes. “I get mad. Trust me. I get moody and angry.”
“Everyone does. But the sun never ceases to exist, not even on cloudy days.”
“So Millie was still shining when you divorced her; it was just a cloudy day.” It slips.
Dammit!
Why did I say that? We were doing so good.
Shep’s smile falters a bit. “Millie wasn’t and isn’t the sun.”
I scoff. “And I am?”
“Unequivocally.”
Silence.
More silence.
It takes me several moments to find a breath let alone find actual words.
“You’re a nice friend.” It’s all I can manage, and as the words slide past my lips, they feel cheesy and generic. Unequivocally inadequate.
“I really am.” That smile … he’s so self-assured, and I’d say arrogant, but it’s not really arrogance at all. Shep’s playful. I adore that about him. This friendship might ruin me for all other men. Does he know this? Is it secretly his intention?
“Why are you not married?” he asks.
That came out of the blue. He’s poking holes into my perfect little bubble.
“Uh …” I stab my fork into my salad.
“What’s wrong with you?”
I snort and wipe my mouth. “Why does something have to be wrong with me?”
I’m a gullible, overly sympathetic, fool for love.
Shep doesn’t ever need to know that.
“My expectations are apparently too high.”
“Sexual expectations?” He’s a relentless tease.
Favoring self-preservation, I ignore his question. “I think I just prefer to be with someone who has a purpose in life. Who has initiative. Who does his part in life.”
“Maybe the men you’ve been with have decided you’re their purpose in life. You should feel flattered.”
“In that case, I fear there’s a fine line between feeling flattered and feeling suffocated.”