27 Ways to Find a Boyfriend

by Tapscott, Shari L.

  “So by the end of the week then?” I say, meeting Carter’s eyes.

  His lips twitch, betraying the fact that he’s enjoying himself. “That’s right.”

  “Great.” I’m staring at his mouth. Stop staring at his mouth. “I’ll let Lydia know.”

  “Wait,” he says before I can walk away. He lowers his voice—not enough it’s completely obvious he doesn’t want everyone else to hear him…but enough that everyone else won’t hear him. “Are you going to the cooking class tomorrow?”

  I stare at him for too long before I answer. “I don’t know. Are you?”

  Honestly, the community center is the last place I ever want to go again.

  He tilts his head ever-so-slightly. “I’ll go if you go.”

  I’m going to self-combust right here. I’ll be nothing but a pile of Addison ash on the shop floor, and it will be all Carter’s fault.

  Tell him you have to wash your hair. Tell him you have to catch up on your cross stitch. Tell him you’re flying to Peru. Tell him anything.

  “I’ll go.”

  Anything but that.

  A satisfied smile replaces the smirk. “Great. It’s a date.”

  “It’s a cooking class.”

  He raises a brow and then turns back to the Buick. “Call it whatever you like.”

  20

  I’m late. So late, in fact, I should probably go home. What’s the point in showing up two minutes after class starts? I mean, I’ve missed most of it anyway, right?

  “Hey,” says a guy about my age in a red lifeguard jacket as he walks from the pool doors. He runs his hand through his shaggy surfer hair. “You’re that girl who crashed in the lobby a couple weeks ago. You okay? We heard you had to go to the hospital.”

  Yep, I should definitely head home.

  “I’m fine, thanks,” I say, faking cheer. “Totally okay.”

  I also ditched the heels tonight. You better believe I wasn’t going to risk a repeat of that lovely little incident.

  “You’re the reason we bought the new sign.” He jabs a thumb at the bright yellow “Caution—Wet Floor” sign in the middle of the lobby.

  Well, that’s super. I’m officially in that group of people who are the reason there are warnings on shaving cream, hairdryers, and scissors.

  “That’s great,” I tell him.

  “The managers were worried you were going to sue.”

  I’m aware. I got a phone call, and they offered to pay my hospital bill.

  “No worries.” I give him a nod of polite dismissal and continue to the back.

  “Hey, you’re dating Gio, right?” he calls.

  My perky smile becomes rigid, and I turn back. “Not exactly.”

  He processes the information for several seconds and then flashes me a mischievous smile. “You should come to the pool sometime. I work most evenings.”

  I give him a look so incredulous, he looks a little unsure of himself—which, of course, makes me feel awful. It’s not him though. He’s fine, I’m sure.

  But seriously, what the heck? For the last eight years, it’s like I’ve been in a dating Sahara, and now I’ve stumbled into an oasis of available males. Maybe Jessa was right. She’s always said I needed to put myself out there more, get out of my comfort zone.

  Or, you know, fall for the wrong guy so that when all these other opportunities present themselves, I’m so hung up on him, I’m not interested. It’s kind of like being in a long drought, and the day you wash your car, it rains. Because that’s the way life works.

  “Maybe sometime,” I say, trying to make up for the look I gave him…and yet not lead him on.

  His smile returns, and we have one of those awkward moments where we don’t say anything, and I really want to leave.

  “Well…I’m already late…” I gesture toward the kitchen door.

  “Right.” He smiles. “Better get in there.”

  And I do just that. Quietly, I open the door, trying not to draw attention to myself.

  “Addison!” Stella the Cookie Lady exclaims when I slip inside. “How are you? We’ve all been so worried.” She turns to her blue-haired companions. “Haven’t we been worried?”

  They all murmur enthusiastically, but I’m too preoccupied with a certain empty stool to notice.

  Carter isn’t here. Why isn’t he here?

  I assure them I’m fine, feeling like a complete idiot. Gio hovers toward the front of the room, looking uncomfortable.

  “Hey,” he says when we can avoid it no longer.

  “Hi.”

  The chef is truly handsome, with his too-long hair and moody eyes. But he’s just not Carter.

  Where is he anyway? Since the class is going, I resist the urge to check my phone. It seems like a rude thing to do while Gio is talking, and I’m not that desperate to see if Carter left a message explaining his rather ominous absence. He probably just forgot.

  I go to my station, and Gio continues his lesson. I’m trying to pay attention—I really am. We’re making tiramisu today, and since I could happily eat that every day of the week, it would be a good thing to know how to make. In fact, it would be the only thing I’d know how to make that didn’t come from the refrigerated or freezer cases of the grocery store.

  And that seems like a win. If I could master one thing, then who cares about the rest? I’ll be the cool, confident, single woman who makes amazing tiramisu.

  And eats it alone.

  You’re losing it, Addison.

  That thought is confirmed when I casually angle down to pull my phone from my purse as Gio goes on about espresso and cocoa powder.

  There are three missed calls and a text—all from Carter.

  I give up on paying attention to the lesson and unlock my phone. Just as I’m opening the text, Gio sets the class free and heads my way.

  I’m not going to make it tonight—

  “I’m sorry about the other night,” Gio says from across the counter.

  I reluctantly pull my eyes from the text, trying to hide my disappointment.

  “It’s my fault,” I tell Gio. “I should have insisted we reschedule. I knew I was going to be poor company.”

  Though I have to admit the date went far worse than even I could have predicted.

  “I was thinking we could try it again?” He comes around the counter and begins assembling the ingredients. “Maybe just us this time?”

  I watch him prep, happy to let him do his thing. “Gio… you’re great, and I—”

  He groans, but he manages to do it with a smile. “Take pity on me, I beg you. Spare me the speech.”

  It’s as close to a joke as I’ve heard him make, and it eases some of the painful tension.

  “But it really isn’t you. I just happen to already like a guy,” I admit. “And our relationship is complicated.”

  “Have you told Carter how you feel?”

  I stare at him. “I didn’t say it was Carter.”

  Gio snorts. “You don’t have to say it. I have eyes. You like him; he likes you. What’s complicated?”

  And for reasons unbeknownst to me, I end up spilling everything, and I mean everything. I’m pretty sure he’s sorry he asked.

  He hands me the beater after he finishes whipping the mascarpone cheese. “How old are you, Addison?”

  I take a lick of the sweet cream and nearly die from the perfection of it. “Twenty-four.”

  “And you have your own place, so it’s not like you still live with your dad.”

  He doesn’t phrase it like a question, but I answer anyway. “Yeah.”

  “Forgive me, but why are you so worried about it?”

  “Because he signs our paychecks.” I frown, licking the rest of the cream off the beater. “And I guess I want him to know I respect him—that family is as important to me as it is him. For the longest time, it was just the two of us. It couldn’t have been easy for him.”

  “But tell me you don’t think he’s being unreasonable.”

&n
bsp; “No, he is. But I know it’s because he wants to protect me. He wants me to be happy.”

  “Are you happy?”

  I meet Gio’s eyes. “Not particularly.”

  “Why don’t you talk to him, tell him how you feel?”

  “Carter?”

  “No.” He chuckles as he layers all kinds of dessert goodness into a long rectangular dish. “Your dad.”

  I shake my head, appalled by the very thought. I said I respect him—not that we’re ready for a heart-to-heart. That sounds like the most dreadful, uncomfortable discussion ever.

  “Maybe if he knew what was going on, he’d lift his rule for the two of you.”

  That’s going off the assumption my dad is a reasonable man. Which he’s not.

  “I don’t know…”

  “Or maybe you could give Carter a shot and see how it works out before you involve your dad. That way, if you crash and burn, you won’t have to go through the pain of telling him.”

  That actually doesn’t sound half bad. It’s not like Carter and I are dating. We’re not anything, really. Why involve Dad too soon? What would I even tell him? Hey, Dad, quick FYI: Carter kissed me. I’m probably going to kiss him again. Just wanted to give you a heads up.

  I don’t think so.

  And there’s an above average chance Carter is going to get bored in a week or two, and then he’ll move onto another girl. As much as that thought settles like a rock in my stomach, it’s hard to argue—especially considering he couldn’t even bother to make it tonight.

  “You’re probably right,” I tell Gio.

  Instead of answering, he acknowledges with a nod and puts me to work. Two hours later, I walk out with a fully-made tiramisu and instructions to chill it overnight when I get home. I’m not sure I’m going to wait that long.

  I turn the corner, dipping my finger in the sweet cream, when I spot Carter. I come to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk and firmly tell my heart to slow the heck down.

  But how can it when the man is right there, leaning against my car like he hasn’t a care in the world, holding a bouquet.

  “Taking a side job in flower delivery?” I say when I reach him, eying the absolutely gorgeous bunch of pale pink peonies. Darn Carter for choosing something more original than roses.

  He hands them to me. “I thought it might be wise considering I intend to dabble in rule-breaking at my current job.”

  Flutters. Lots of flutters.

  I accept the bouquet with my free hand and resist the urge to bury my nose in the fragrant blooms. “They’re pretty, thank you. Though I have to say I didn’t peg you for a flowers kind of guy. Couldn’t find a bouquet of Venus flytraps?”

  “Believe me; I tried.”

  I laugh, glad things haven’t changed that much.

  “They reminded me of you,” he says, and his tone is a little different—it’s a little smoother, a little deeper. A little intoxicating.

  I shoot him a quizzical look. “Why?”

  I’m sure I’ve never mentioned liking peonies. In fact, I don’t think I realized until this very moment how much I love them. Now they’re officially my favorite, and that may or may not have something to do with Carter. The dreamy sunset, and the way the evening wraps around us like a warm embrace, doesn’t hurt either.

  Carter pushes away from the side of my car, invading my personal bubble of space but in the best way. His hand finds my hair, and I nearly groan as his fingers barely brush against my neck. “At Jessa’s wedding, you smelled like heaven. I walked into the shop, poked around a few flowers…and then I found these. They reminded me of the perfume you wore that day.”

  Before I can get any crazy ideas—like tossing the flowers and the tiramisu in the car, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt, and crushing my mouth to his—he drops his hand and steps back, giving me room to think.

  “You made that?” He jerks his chin toward the tiramisu.

  I blink, startled by the change of subject. “I sprinkled the cocoa powder on top, so sure; I think you could say I basically made it.”

  He shakes his head, smiling to himself, and then says, “Your dad caught me as I was walking out the door. Trevor sent him some photos of the roadster, and he wanted to go over my ideas. I didn’t know how to get away.”

  “Did I ask for your alibi?”

  “I tried to call several times.”

  “I know. It’s fine.” I hold up the dessert. “I have this, after all. If I’d known you weren’t going to be here, I wouldn’t have shown up.”

  Getting too much pleasure out of that, he smirks. “Is that right?”

  Biting my lip, I give him a noncommittal shrug.

  “Do you think we could drop your very skillfully cocoa-ed tiramisu by your house? I want to take you somewhere.”

  “Somewhere like where?” I push the tiramisu into his hands and rifle through my purse for my keys. I’m a ball of nerves, and I fumble the ring twice. I know it’s ridiculous to be this flustered, but that doesn’t make the jumpy feeling go away.

  “To get ice cream. The shop doesn’t close for two more hours, and I believe we have an outstanding appointment.”

  I finally look at him. “Okay—but let it be known you’re asking me out.”

  His eyes crinkle with his smile. “Noted.”

  Carter ends up following me home. Cocoa is overjoyed to see him, and I leave the two of them in the living room as I put away the dessert and find a vase for the flowers.

  I give the cream and coffee confection one last longing glance before I close the door. Overnight is such a long time. But tiramisu can be a proper breakfast, right? I can have a little piece in the morning and pretend it’s a perfectly respectable coffee pastry?

  “Do you want to take Cocoa?” Carter asks, wandering into the kitchen with the dog on his heels.

  I glance over from the sink, where I’m filling a vase, and find Cocoa staring at me with big, pleading eyes. He obviously wants to come with us—either that, or he wants a lamb treat. I know he’s fond of them because last week, he managed to steal an entire bag and eat every last one.

  “I think he’d like that,” I say.

  I fuss with the peonies for a bit, cutting the stems and arranging them just so. I expect Carter to tease me about it, but he just sits on a barstool, patiently waiting for me to finish.

  After deciding I’m more comfortable with Cocoa riding in the back of my car than Carter’s pickup, I slide into the driver’s seat and sternly tell myself this is no big deal. We’ve ridden in the same vehicle dozens—no, hundreds of times.

  The only thing different about tonight is that Carter might kiss me before the evening is over.

  “Are you going to stop at the stop sign, or hope it turns green?” Carter teases from the passenger seat when I almost barrel through a four-way stop.

  I push thoughts of kissing far, far from my mind. Thankfully, Carter launches into the story of how Miguel, one of our mechanics, ended up in our favorite emergency room this afternoon.

  “The drill slipped, and he—” Carter cuts his story short as we get near the new shop.

  It looks like it’s a pretty busy place, but I’m not sure why that would catch his attention.

  “Tad’s here,” he says, answering my silent question.

  It’s fully dark outside now, and the ice cream shop is lit up, making it possible to see inside. Tad and several of his college friends sit at a booth next to the front window. I pass the parking spots at the front and park around the corner.

  “What do you want to do?” I ask him.

  Tad’s a nice guy—he wouldn’t rat us out on purpose. But it wouldn’t be great if word of us hanging out together got around the shop. There’s only so many times Carter can tell my dad he has a GTO he’s trying to sell me.

  “How about I run in and pick it up, and then we eat in here?” Carter offers.

  “Sure,” I say. “That sounds nicer anyway.”

  “Yeah?” he asks, smiling as he
leans in.

  “Yeah.”

  For a minute, I think he’s going to give me one of those soft, multipurpose goodbye/hello/good morning/good evening/I-missed-you-while-you-were-in-the-bathroom kisses that couples dole out like campaign tokens—the nauseating ones that make everyone around them roll their eyes because they’re secretly jealous.

  But instead, he asks, “What kind of ice cream do you want?”

  “Surprise me.”

  He groans, but his eyes are bright. “This is one of those messed up girl tests where you decide how compatible we are by what I choose for you.”

  “That’s right—don’t mess it up.”

  After watching me for a second, he sits back. “You enjoy cookies and cream, but it’s not your favorite. You like the marshmallows in rocky road but hate the nuts. You think chocolate swirl and mint chip are a waste of time because neither has enough chocolate, and you don’t like fruit flavors that pretend to be healthy.”

  I watch him for a moment, trying to hide my surprise. “Yes, but what’s my favorite?”

  He gives me a cocky smile as he steps out.

  “Carter,” I say before he closes the door.

  He pokes his head back in, and I lean across the console, meeting his eyes. “You like anything with chocolate and peanut butter, and even though you’re twenty-eight years old, you still top it with gummy bears—which is nasty, by the way. Sometimes, if you’re feeling adventurous, you’ll add a drizzle of caramel sauce—but never butterscotch because you say it’s a sad imposter.”

  He studies me for a moment, and a thrill travels my spine when I realize I’ve knocked him off-kilter too.

  “Gummy bears are good when they’re cold,” he finally says. “I’ll be right back.”

  21

  I come back to the car with two cups of ice cream—both chocolate peanut butter. One is covered with gummy bears, and the other has one lone red bear artfully positioned at the top of the scoop.

  Addison watches me, smiling when I hand her the ice cream.

  “So, how’d I do?” I ask, taking a bite of my own.