by Maria Geraci
Annie had always found that expression uncomfortably itchy, but she nodded in agreement.
Sam DeLuca sat across from Kelly, wearing jeans, a blue shirt and a delicious-looking five o’clock shadow. Gone was last night’s suit and tie and look of complete terror. Right now, he seemed more annoyed than anything else.
“So, Sam,” Kelly said, “are you aware of the reaction you’ve gotten from last night’s episode?”
“Not really. What are people saying?” He grimaced. “Or do I not want to know?”
Kelly laughed flirtatiously. “Sam! America is officially in love with you. Women have been flooding the network’s website trying to get your phone number. You do know that Twitter crashed last night?”
“Sorry?” he said uncertainly.
“No need to be sorry. Sam, what do you have to say to the women of America?”
“Not much. I’m just a regular guy. I mean, I’m not anything special.”
Bridget sighed. “Is this guy for real?”
Annie had to admit, there was something incredibly appealing about Sam DeLuca’s reluctance to soak up the spotlight.
“Not just good-looking but humble as well.” Kelly’s eyes glittered with anticipation. “Sam, what would you say if I told you that I have the goods on you?”
“I’d say someone in the Texas Correctional System has a big mouth,” he said, deadpan.
Kelly laughed. “Good-looking, humble, and a great sense of humor. Okay, Sam, it looks like I’m going to have to tell our viewers all about you.” She looked into the camera to address the audience. “Hannah, girl, you missed out. Sam DeLuca doesn’t work in a gas station. He owns one. Or to be more specific, he owns a chain of them.” Kelly turned back to Sam. “Big B Gas and Oil was founded by your grandfather, the one and only Cyrus Byrd, and you’re the company’s CEO. You graduated from Texas A&M with your undergraduate degree, then went on to earn an MBA from Harvard. Isn’t that right, Sam?”
He shifted around in his chair. “It’s true. I work for the family business.”
“The family business that’s worth billions of dollars,” Kelly shot back.
“It’s a public company, so our figures are transparent.”
Bridget gasped. “He’s like … a billionaire.”
“Most likely not,” said Annie. “That’s the company’s worth, not his.”
Bridget playfully punched her in the shoulder. “Well, there you go. You found his fatal flaw. He’s only a millionaire, not a billionaire.”
“What’s it like being the grandson of one of Texas’s most colorful characters?” asked Kelly. “Is it true that Cyrus Byrd once walked into the Texas State Senate with a shotgun, threatening to shoot anyone who voted against him on a drilling bill?”
“That sounds like my grandfather,” Sam said without any emotion.
Kelly tried the question from a couple of other angles, but Sam dodged them with the same skilled vagueness he’d used earlier.
“This grandfather must have been a real hoot,” muttered Bridget.
Annie silently agreed.
“Enough about your family,” said Kelly. “Last night you described your perfect woman as someone who gives you the zing.” She leaned forward in her seat. “Can you be a bit more specific?” It was embarrassing the way she was practically hitting on him in front of the entire country.
“Not really.”
“Oh, c’mon, Sam. Throw me a bone. I’m not letting you go until you answer.”
A flash of annoyance crept into his eyes. Annie knew exactly how he felt. If she looked up Busybody Faux Journalist in the dictionary, Kelly Seacrest would pop up as the definition.
“Look, I just want a nice girl who gets along with my family, doesn’t mind a guy who works too much, and thinks Texas is heaven.”
“I might just be your girl, Cowboy.” Kelly giggled suggestively.
“No wonder you’ve been watching this all day,” said Bridget. “This guy is too good to be true.”
“I know.” Annie snapped her laptop shut. “He’s kind of perfect.”
“Perfect for you, you mean. Annie, you have to Tweet him.”
“You want me to Tweet him? I don’t even know him. What on earth would I say?”
“How about, ‘Hey there, loved you on Single Gal.’ Or, ‘Hey there, loved you on Good Morning, USA,’ or you could just cut to the chase and say, ‘Hey there, wanna marry me?’”
Annie laughed. “For a minute I thought you were serious.”
Bridget glared at her. “I am serious.”
“I have a boyfriend, remember?”
“You mean Walter? Annie, honey, wake up and smell the coffee. You and Walter have been dating for four years. You’re what? Thirty-one, thirty-two? You’re not getting any younger, you know.”
“I’m twenty-nine, and Walter and I haven’t been dating for four years. It’s only been three.”
“You’re not thirty yet? You act older. Look, Walter is a nice enough guy, if you like vanilla ice cream, which is perfectly okay when you put it on top of apple pie or a big fat gooey brownie, but night after night, all by itself in a bowl?”
“Walter is not vanilla ice cream. At the very least he’s … pistachio.” Pistachio? Where had that come from? Annie didn’t even like pistachio ice cream.
Bridget made a face. “If you say so.”
“I do say so. Walter doesn’t believe in debt, and neither do I. He’s still paying off his law school student loans. Once that’s done, he’ll start saving up for my engagement ring.”
“He sounds like a bundle of fun. Be honest, Annie, when’s the last time Walter surprised you? Or did something romantic and spontaneous? Something that twisted your panties up in a wad? In a good way,” she added, wagging her brows up and down.
Twisted her panties up in a wad? That sounded even worse than the crackers in the bed scenario.
“Walter is very spontaneous.”
“Oh, yeah? Like how?”
Annie searched her brain, trying to come up with an example. “Just the other night, we made plans to go see that new action hero movie he’s been waiting for, and then when we were in line to buy the tickets, he changed his mind and we went to see the one about the bank robbery. How’s that for unpredictable?”
Bridget let out an exasperated sigh. “I give up. That was a no to the coffee, right?”
“No coffee, but thank you for offering,” Annie said, sounding a little too prim for her own ears.
“The coffee was just an excuse to knock on your door and see what you’ve been doing all day. Don’t expect me to ask again.”
5
After wasting half her day gawking at YouTube videos of Sam DeLuca, Annie powered through the work on her desk, answered all her emails, then dashed out to her car. It was ten after six, which meant she was thirty minutes off schedule. Every Tuesday night at exactly six, she and Walter had dinner at The Miramar Café, where they both ordered the meat loaf special. It was Walter’s favorite. And hers too, of course.
The diner was located in the small downtown section of Old Explorer’s Bay, facing the roundabout that featured the town’s iconic statue of Pedro Menendez de Aviles, the Spanish conquistador credited with founding their city. Annie parallel-parked in front of the café and was about to go inside when the flower shop across the street caught her eye. Beneath a red and white striped canopy, buckets of daisies adorned the sidewalk leading up to the shop’s door.
She mentally debated whether the daisies were worth keeping Walter waiting. She was already late. Surely a few more minutes couldn’t hurt. Before she changed her mind, she crossed the street and opened the door to the shop. An overhead bell tinkled, signaling her arrival.
Paula Simon, the shop’s owner, looked up from her laptop. “Annie, what a nice surprise. How are things at the car dealership?”
“Good, thanks.”
“You know, you were so right about investing in that money market fund. My accountant says it’s the smartest thi
ng I’ve ever done.”
“Glad to hear it.”
Every four years Paula exchanged her car at Esposito’s for a barely used one-year-old model. And she always paid cash. That is, until this past year, when Annie had arranged for her to get a customer loyalty no-interest loan and recommended Paula invest the cash into a no-load money market fund. Annie had set up the loan program to entice buyers with excellent credit scores, but she’d been happy to give Paula a bit of free financial advice on the side.
“Did you come here to tell me something about my loan?” Paula asked. Now that Annie thought about it, she’d only actually been inside the flower shop once since coming back to town four years ago. She ordered flowers twice a year—Mother’s Day and on her grandmother’s birthday—but she always called those orders in.
Before Annie could tell her what brought her into the shop, Paula’s daughter, Celeste, came in from the back room, picked a remote up off the counter, and turned on the overhead TV. “You have to see this! He’s on another talk show.” She noticed Annie. “I hope you don’t mind, but Mom and I are kind of obsessed with this guy.” Celeste was eighteen and in her first year at the local community college.
Paula grinned sheepishly. “I’m old enough to be his mother, but I can’t seem to help myself.”
Annie looked up at the screen where Sam DeLuca sat on a couch facing Ellen DeGeneres. He had on the same jeans and blue shirt he wore for the morning show, only his five o’clock shadow was more pronounced. He looked grumpy, but somehow it only made him seem sexier.
“Sam,” Ellen said girlishly, “do you have any idea what a sensation you’ve caused?”
Sam shrugged like he was embarrassed. “I’m not sure why anyone would care about me. All I did was go on a reality dating show and get kicked off the first night.”
Celeste squealed. “Isn’t he dreamy? I mean, for an old guy. And those eyes! Twitter crashed last night after he got kicked off Single Gal. Personally, I think Hannah is missing brain cells to have sent him home.”
Paula gave Annie an amused look. “Old guy” isn’t exactly how Annie would describe Sam DeLuca, either. Paula picked up the remote and muted the TV. “I’m sure Annie didn’t come in here to watch us gawk like a couple of fools over some guy on television. Besides, I’m taping this. We can watch it later tonight.”
“I saw this guy,” Annie said, “last night at Mom’s. We were supposed to have a book club meeting, but apparently, everyone’s a fan of this show Single Gal.”
“Well, if they weren’t before, they are now. Gas Station Sam is all anyone can talk about,” Paula said. “I hear he’s guaranteed a spot on Dancing With The Stars or even as next season’s Single Guy.”
Celeste put on her best teenage pouty face. “I wish I was old enough to apply for the show. I’d Tweet him, but he has absolutely no social media presence. Can you believe that? No Facebook. No Twitter. No Instagram. Nothing. How is anyone supposed to get in touch with him?”
“There’s always the old-fashioned way,” Paula said to her daughter.
Celeste stared at her mother with a blank expression.
“Letters,” Paula clarified. “You know, that’s the thing you put in an envelope with a stamp that gets delivered by the post office?”
Celeste wrinkled her nose in distaste. “You mean write to him on paper? Nobody writes letters anymore, Mom.”
“I do,” Annie admitted, “to my grandmother, even though she lives just a few blocks from my parents. She loves going out to her mailbox and getting something besides bills.”
“We all do,” Paula confided. “So, Annie, what can we do for you?”
“I saw the daisies outside, and I couldn’t help but come over.”
“Pretty, aren’t they? Are you looking for someone special? Your mother? Or a friend?”
“They’re for me. I think they’ll look nice in my office.”
“Funny, I didn’t take you for the flower-buying type.”
“What type did you take me for?” Annie asked, more curious than insulted.
Paula flushed. “I didn’t mean it to come out like that. It’s just that you’re usually so practical. And, you know, flowers die.”
“You should get that guy you date to buy you flowers,” said Celeste.
Paula discreetly elbowed her daughter into silence, but nonetheless, Annie caught the motion. “Walter isn’t the flower-giving type,” Annie said.
“Some men aren’t.” Paula wrapped up a bouquet of daisies and handed them to her. “I always say jewelry is best.” Then, as if realizing what she’d just said, her cheeks went pink.
Annie gritted her teeth and paid for the flowers. This made three subtle and not-so-subtle (in Bridget’s case) references in the past twenty-four hours to what Grams liked to call “That Unfortunate Incident.” What was wrong with people in this town? If she was over Russell dumping her, then they should be too.
On her way out the shop door, she turned to wave goodbye to the women, but they’d already put the volume back on the TV and were too engrossed to notice her.
She jogged across the street to the café, where Walter was waiting for her in the same booth they sat in every Tuesday night. He appeared deep in conversation with Connie, their favorite waitress, so despite Annie standing just a couple of feet away, he didn’t notice her. Annie took a moment to study him. Walter didn’t have Sam DeLuca’s ruggedly classic good looks, but so what? He looked nice in his white shirt and tie. Serious. Dependable. Neat. His suit jacket, as usual, was carefully folded on the seat beside him.
Annie decided to make her presence known. “Hello. So sorry I’m late. Hi, Connie.” She leaned down and kissed Walter on the cheek, then laid the daisies on the table and scooted across the padded bench to face him.
Connie gave her a friendly smile. “Hey, Annie.” Connie was a staple at The Miramar Café. She’d worked here for her uncle Milo since she was sixteen, baked all the diner’s pies, and always remembered everyone’s order without having to write it down. She was a year older than Annie. Pretty, with chin-length curly red hair and big blue eyes. “I’ll be right back with your drinks. And congratulations, Walter,” she said before heading to the kitchen.
Annie waited until Connie was out of earshot. “What’s she congratulating you about?”
Walter tapped his wristwatch. “I was just about to call you. Is everything okay at work?” He looked at the daisies, then scowled. “You haven’t forgotten that I’m allergic to flowers, have you?”
“Oh! Yeah, so sorry.” She picked up the daisies and set them next to her on the seat. “The flowers are for me. I thought they would look nice on my desk. And everything at work is fine.”
Connie came back to set two glasses of iced tea in front of them. “Meat loaf is on its way.”
“Thanks, but I think I want to shake it up this week,” Annie said. “Bring me the fish instead.”
“Sure thing. Do you want—”
Walter cut her off. “She’ll have the meat loaf.” Before Annie could dispute that, he said, “Babe, remember what happened last time you ordered something different? You instantly regretted it and kept trying to pick the meat loaf off my plate.”
“I know, but I’m in the mood for fish tonight. Grilled, lemon on the side,” she said to Connie. “No tartar sauce, please.”
“You got it.” She winked at her, then left to put in their order.
“First, you’re late, then the flowers. And now you don’t want the meat loaf?” Walter acted as if she’d ordered plutonium off a secret menu. “What’s going on?”
“What do you mean what’s going on? Just because I got flowers for myself and I don’t want the meat loaf doesn’t mean I’m in the middle of some kind of … quarter-life crisis.”
He frowned. “Who said anything about a crisis? I just know that if you don’t order the meat loaf, you’re going to regret it.”
She took a sip of her iced tea. Walter had a point. She loved the meat loaf here at The Miramar
Café. What was she doing? Ordering the fish and getting daisies that were going to die in a few days anyway? It was all so unlike her.
This was all Bridget’s fault. Riling her up over that Gas Station Sam character.
I want someone who’ll make me laugh and laughs at all my stupid jokes. Who doesn’t mind that I wake up grumpy and don’t like to talk until after I’ve had my coffee and work the crossword puzzle. I want to feel that zing you get when you meet the woman you know you were meant to spend the rest of your life with.
Pretty words, sure, but they were probably something he’d memorized ahead of time. Sam DeLuca wasn’t real. He was just some Internet sensation made famous by a reality dating show. What was real was sitting right in front of her.
“You’re right,” Annie said. “I should have ordered the meat loaf. Do you think it’s too late to change my order?”
As if on cue, Connie brought them their plates.
Walter switched them around. “Annie will take the meat loaf. I’ll have the fish.”
Connie looked between them. “You sure?”
Walter nodded.
“Thanks, but you don’t have to,” Annie said, feeling guilty.
“Not a problem,” Walter said, right before smothering the fish with ketchup, which effectively sealed the deal since Annie didn’t like her fish with anything except lemon. Before he started in on his food, he cleared his throat and reached out for Annie’s hand. “Forget about the meat loaf. I have something important I want to talk to you about.”
What was—Oh my God.
This was it.
Well, it couldn’t be it-it. She knew Walter well enough to know that he wasn’t about to get down on one knee on their regular Tuesday night dinner date. He was more romantic than that. At least, she thought he was. Maybe he was going to talk about engagement rings. Or—
“I can’t believe I’m going to say this because I thought this wouldn’t happen for at least another year or two, but sometimes in life, you just have to go for it. You have to take the bull by the horns and the hell with everything else. Because if you don’t, someone else will come along and before you know it, you’ve lost the most important thing in your life.” He squeezed her hand to emphasize his point.
