Best Laid Plans

“He didn’t think it was perfect enough.”

I peer behind me, impressed with the spread she packed, from the wicker basket, to the wine and the glasses, all the way to the cloth napkins. Damn, this woman is a thorough planner and some kind of sweetheart in the girlfriend department. Inside the basket, I spot a container of hummus and three kinds of olives, along with the almonds and more cheese and crackers.

My stomach rumbles. “Any man who doesn’t realize the value of you, almonds, and olives doesn’t deserve to have lunch, breakfast, or dinner with you. Ever.”

“Thank you.” Her whispered voice is soft and pretty.

Hell, even with her splotchy, tear-stained cheeks, she’s still so damn pretty.

Fact is, I thought she was lovely to look at the night I met her a year ago, shortly after I moved to town. Pretty and witty and sharp, but very taken, so I didn’t think twice about her.

Today, she’s still pretty, and now she’s single.

Wait.

Chill the hell out, Brain. It’s not cool to think a woman is pretty when she’s crying her eyes out over another man.

I wipe those dickhead thoughts from my head. I don’t want to give David competition for the dickhead prize.

“You really think he doesn’t deserve me?” Her tone is wobbly.

“I know he doesn’t.” I point at the food. “Every decent man knows when a woman makes you a picnic, you damn well better eat it, and you will most certainly enjoy it.”

A small smile seems to sneak across her face. “It was a nice picnic.” She unleashes a sob again, tripping over that adjective. “Nice. He said I was too nice. Who’s too nice? How is it possible to be too nice?”

I set a hand on her lower back, gently rubbing. “Nice is what we should all aspire to be.”

She breathes heavily, clenches her jaw, and nods fiercely as if she’s deciding she’s done with tears. “Exactly, and my picnic is awesome, and he doesn’t deserve it.”

“No way. He doesn’t even deserve a cracker that fell on the ground or the cheese from my chest.”

Her lips quirk up, and she laughs in spite of herself, it seems. “Don’t tempt me, Gabe. Now I want to serve him sweaty cheese and dirty crackers if he ever shows up for a wine and cheese night at the store,” she says, and I picture the bookshop she owns in the center of town.

“It’ll be our little secret that you have such a naughty side.” Her eyes seem to sparkle appreciatively when I say that word—naughty.

I gesture to the meal. “This delicious spread should not go to waste,” I say, hinting not at all subtly, since I’d like a bite of some of these goodies. “Don’t know if you’re aware, but I have had a bottomless appetite since I was born. I can pretty much always eat.”

“And I like to reward hearty appetites.” She grabs a slice of cheese and a cracker then hands them to me. “This picnic is definitely not for any recipients of the Dickhead of the Year Award.” She gives a tough little lift of her chin.

“That’s the spirit.”

I smile widely at her, then pop the treat into my mouth. After I chew, I declare it the best cracker in the land.

It’s a cracker, for fuck’s sake.

But Arden is smiling again.

And that’s the least I can do.

I don’t know David from Adam. I don’t know their relationship whatsoever. But I know this: the woman made him a meal, put on a pretty dress, and placed her heart on this red-and-white checkered blanket.

However he ended things, leaving her like this was a jackass move of the highest order. If he didn’t have the sensitivity to know that, the least I can do is show her that some men do have the common courtesy to enjoy a feast prepared by a good woman.

Grabbing a napkin, I dab at the remnants of tears on her cheeks, and she whispers her thanks.

We dine, and we chat, and I steer the conversation to innocuous topics. “Favorite cheese? If you had to pick one cheese for the rest of your life, what would it be?”

She shoots me a you-can’t-be-serious look after that question. “Are you trying to be cruel and unusual?”

I laugh, waving it off. “You’re right. Having only one kind of cheese forever and ever does sound like a fresh new hell.”

She nudges me with her elbow. “Exactly.” She rolls her eyes. “Next thing you know, you’ll be trying to get me to choose only one wine for the rest of my days.”

I hold up my hands in surrender. “I’ve learned my lesson. I swear.”

“Good.” She lowers her voice. “For the record, it’d be a white.”

“Ah, so you do have a favorite wine?”

“Not a wine-for-the-rest-of-my-life, but I do prefer whites. You?”

“Beer.”

She laughs, and it’s such a better sound than the sobs.

A little later, I’ve polished off more cheese and crackers, along with some almonds and olives, and Arden has nibbled on a few strawberries and grapes.

“Let me walk you to your car,” I tell her, after she packs up her basket. “Little red Honda down by the trailhead?”

“That’s mine.”

A few minutes later, I open the driver’s side door for her and then reach around to set the basket in the back seat.

I wag a finger at her. “Now, don’t let him get you down, you promise me?”

She nods and smiles, but it’s an apologetic one. “I’ll do my best. And thank you, Gabe. You helped so much.”

“I’m glad I was there. I’m glad my chest was there too, so you didn’t knock any robins down with that sniper aim of yours.”

She laughs then winces. “I’m sorry about that. Sorry you had to see me crying too.”

“Don’t think twice about it. Just promise me this: don’t let any jerks win your heart again.”

She holds up a pinky. “I promise.”

I’ve never pinky sworn before, but now seems as good a time as any. I wrap my little finger around hers. “There. It’s a deal. I’ll be looking out for you.”

“I appreciate that.”

When she takes off, I turn around, pick up the pace, and resume my run, trying my best to think of other women. Like the cute little brunette from Whiskey Hollows I met the other night at a barbecue, or the leggy redhead from the gym who asked me to work out with her.