“So what should I tell Blair?”
Tell him to take a flying leap. Or her. Sophie had no idea what gender her mother’s beloved hairstylist was, and she really didn’t care.
“Mom, I’ve got to go. I have another call coming in.”
“You do not. Who is it?”
“Good-bye, Mother. I’ll see you Sunday,” Sophie said, hanging up before her mother could attempt to launch her next campaign for Sophie’s betterment.
She tapped her phone against her chin as she surveyed her bedroom. There were now more clothes discarded on her bed than there were clothes in the closet, and she still didn’t know what to wear. For that matter, she didn’t even know what this date entailed.
Michael seemed like a decent enough guy. He was one of Will’s friends from college who’d just moved to the area, and Will wouldn’t set her up with a creep.
And yet, she hadn’t heard from him once since he’d first called to ask her out, despite his promise that he’d call with more details. He’d probably forgotten, since, being a guy, he had about three wardrobe options to choose from instead of a thousand.
She glanced at the clock on her nightstand. She had two hours until he was supposed to pick her up. Would it scream “high-maintenance” if she called and asked where they were going? A restaurant was a restaurant, but what if he was one of those creative types who had planned a picnic? She certainly wouldn’t be able to think about getting romantic if she had the Seattle spring breeze blowing up her cute skirt.
Screw it. Finding his number in her phone’s address book, she took the plunge.
The creaky voice that picked up was so unlike the masculine voice she remembered that she had to double-check that she’d called the right number.
“Michael?” she asked.
“Yeah?”
“Hey, it’s Sophie Dalton.”
A pause.
“Oh shit.”
Sophie closed her eyes. “You’re sick, huh?”
“More like half-dead. I haven’t moved in two days. I completely forgot about our date.”
Sophie began hanging up dozens of shirts. The only thing she’d be wearing tonight was her sweats. “No worries,” she said. “You can’t help being sick.”
“Still, I should have called,” he said with a nasty cough.
“Please. You sound like a tuberculosis patient. I’m sure you had other things on your mind.”
Like dying.
“I’ll call you later this week for a reschedule?”
“Absolutely,” she said with as much enthusiasm as she could muster. “I hope you feel better.”
Sophie tossed her phone into the pile of clothes and sat on the edge of her bed. She waited for the expected rush of disappointment.
It didn’t come.
If anything, she was bummed that it was the first sunny Saturday of the year and she had no plans. But she was oddly indifferent to being dateless. Michael was probably a nice enough guy, but if she was honest with herself, she’d only agreed to go out with him for one reason.
To forget The Kiss.
It had been almost two weeks since she’d nearly jumped Gray’s bones in the office, and the two of them had been circling each other like wary cats. He’d retreated behind a mask of ice, and Sophie had responded like a petulant four-year-old, needling him in every way that she could.
But neither one had mentioned what happened that night. Just like they hadn’t mentioned the dinner at his house, or the emergency room visit that had followed. It was like two eighth graders who couldn’t have a straight conversation and needed a mutual friend to pass notes.
Except there was no mutual friend in this case. And they weren’t immature eighth graders. They were scarred, wounded, emotionally crippled adults.
Who could not be more wrong for each other.
Sophie’s phone began to vibrate, and she groaned as she dug it out of the pile of halter tops and miniskirts. Probably her mother calling to remind her not to swear on the first date. Or any date.
Finally finding her phone, Sophie stared down at the name and number.
Definitely not her mother.
“Hello?” she asked. This had to be a pocket-dial.
“Sophie.”
Not a question. He’d called her intentionally.
“Gray,” she replied, relieved that her voice sounded calm. “I am not coming into the office on a Saturday, I don’t care how far behind you are on your plan of taking over the world.”
“That’s not why I’m calling.”
“Oh,” she said, flopping back on the bed. “Finally got up the courage to use my call-girl service, then, huh? I’ll have you know, I’m not cheap—”
“Would you like to come to a dinner party tonight?”
All of Sophie’s snark flew out the window and she sat up in confusion. “You mean like a date?”
He cleared his throat nervously. “Well, I mean, there’d be other people there. My friend Ian and his wife. Maybe their son, although I think he might be off at a birthday party or something.”