I avoid the dog park, and basically the entire park in general, for the next week. Working at the animal shelter helps keep me busy and my mind off things. Him. Well, mostly, but I haven’t been on any walks this week, either. Call me a coward, but I don’t care.
Besides, I’m not afraid of Hunter.
Actually, I’m terrified by my reaction to him, by how disturbingly nice it was to be held like that. For a man’s hand to protect instead of hurt. A strong arm to prevent me from falling instead of holding me down.
Who am I kidding? Being held by Hunter was more than nice, more than great…quite simply it was exquisite. For a brief moment, I felt normal, safe, and protected. For a brief moment, I was a woman being held by a man.
Until I wasn’t. Until all I could feel was Penn’s hand, Penn’s arm keeping me prisoner while he corrected my behavior, my forgetfulness…or my breathing too loudly.
Memories threaten to rise, but I swallow them down, along with another glass of wine.
“Yoga pants, wine, and Sweet Home Alabama on Netflix. What more could a girl ask for?” I mutter before grabbing a handful of chocolate-covered almonds and scarfing them down.
Today the rest of the furniture I ordered was delivered and assembled. No more sleeping on an air mattress. No more eating over the kitchen sink. No more sitting in a beanbag chair to watch television. Now I’m the proud owner of a sofa, loveseat, bed, kitchen table and chairs, along with end tables. Best of all, I picked out everything myself without anyone else’s input.
Adulting is fun!
There’s a loud crash and I start. The familiar beeping sound of a large truck backing up reminds me that it’s trash day. Slumping deeper into the cushions, I shove more chocolate-covered almonds into my mouth.
Adulting sucks when you’re a single woman without a…crew, entourage? Squad? I can’t keep up with the latest term for “group of friends.” I don’t even have enough friends to form a triangle.
Gah. I’m lame.
Yet, I’m dying for them. Worse, I admitted it to Hunter, of all people, and practically begged him to be one. I hate the way Penn made me resent being vulnerable. I hate the way I’m scared of opening up to people, of letting them in and attempting to have a life.
Most of all, I hate not knowing who I am now.
Placing my wineglass down on a coaster on the coffee table, I pick up the remote and turn off the television. It’s really hard to get into second-chances-at-love stories when I have no desire to ever get back together with mine.
My sister is a famous romantic suspense writer. Her books have been made into movies, and she’s even married to an honest-to-goodness movie star. Best of all, he loves her, worships the ground she walks on, and basically will move heaven and earth to make her happy. Don’t get me started on my brothers—all four of them. Each one is married to the love of their life. Not only that, they’re protective of them. Respectful. Encouraging. All the things I assumed I was getting with Penn.
Now I know better. I know that’s the kind of love I won’t ever find—if I ever want to attempt to find it again.
Besides, my standards are simultaneously high and low, which makes them unattainable. High—the guy will be utter perfection. Low—doesn’t hit or call me nasty names.
In other words, I want a man who doesn’t exist.
—
Monday morning shows up without my permission, but another day spent at the animal shelter is another day without completely feeling like a loser.
“You’re doing a good job here,” Saylor says as we walk to the parking lot. “But you don’t seem very happy today.”
“I’m not very happy today, but it has nothing to do with work,” I mutter, glancing at her.
Her dark brown eyes are sympathetic. “You’re not happy with who they picked for the next Dancing with the Stars cast, either.”
Her reply makes me pause. Trust Saylor to take away my true worries. “That was announced this weekend?” I ask, and she nods. “I’ll have to check it out when I get home.”
“When the season starts, we’ll totally have to have a viewing night each week.” She lightly punches me on the shoulder, and it’s all I can do not to flinch or want to fight back. “Popcorn, chocolate, bacon-topped items, and we can totally invite Hunter to watch, too.”
The mention of Hunter makes my heart skip a beat. Or two thousand. “He’s a fan?”
“Not as much as we are, but I once heard him and his partner, Dwight, discussing the costumes,” she replies.
“Sure they weren’t discussing the lack of material for the costumes?” I ask drily.
Saylor snort-giggles. “I’m sure they were, but that’s a start. We can reel Hunter in with talk of costumes, and then—”
“I’m not interested in Hunter.”
“Why not?” Her brow creases. “He’s very handsome, courteous, and kind, and he helps old ladies cross the street.”
“Then you date him.” The thought of Saylor and Hunter together makes me uncomfortable.
“Not into cops,” she says cheerfully.