Which was good, because otherwise she’d be flinging herself on Alex’s lap and ha**ng s*x with him under the chess tables in front of Au Bon Pain in Harvard Square.
Not that he knew she’d do that.
Here she found herself, walking to a lovely coffee shop that sold lattes she enjoyed, and made macchiato the exact way Alex liked them—
Stop that! she told herself. Quit relating every. Single. Thing in your life to Alex.
The green mug was a welcome diversion. A panhandler held it, and it looked suspiciously familiar. Huh. How weird.
As much as she wanted coffee, the local juice bar caught her eye. Her stomach growled; she’d forgotten breakfast. How about a fresh juice? On impulse, she walked in, noting with amusement that the greenery in the vegetarian café matched the lush palm tree pattern painted on her fingernails. After ordering something yummy made from carrots, ginger, apples, and other stuff, she sat down near a bookcase covered with books patrons could read while they enjoyed their food.
She did a double take.
A string of romances—the same books, including The Highlander’s Heine—filled one shelf.
Wait a minute.
Wild hands flailed through the window, followed by a big pouf of yellow hair. “Hey, Josie!” Darla screamed. Quickly, Josie jumped up and ran outside, hauling her half-drunk juice with her.
“What are you doing? Following me?” Josie asked, drinking more.
“God, no. You’re way too boring. I went to that clothing store where you buy clothes by the pound. Did you know they made stilettos in a men’s size sixteen?”
“It’s Cambridge, Darla. Of course they do.”
“I got them!” She pulled out a pair of gold high heels that looked like something Gene Hackman wore in The Birdcage.
“Why? Is Trevor turning out to have a secret you need to share?”
“No! And even if he did, it wouldn’t matter.”
“Fair enough. So why buy the sandals?” A slurping sound from the bottom of her drink told her it was done.
She crinkled her nose and gave Josie a long, slow eye roll. “Because they were there, and I think they cost a couple dollars.”
“Just because something’s there doesn’t mean you need it.”
“Gold. Stilettos. Men. Can. Wear,” Darla said slowly. “Besides, they cost less than that overpriced grass water you’re drinking.”
“Speaking of which, Darla, do you know why the exact same set of romance novels your mom won is sitting in there?” She yanked her thumb toward the juice cafe.
Darla brightened. “I asked them if they wanted them. Figured I’d spread the wealth!”
“And will you spread the wealth with those shoes?”
“Like what? Give them to a shoeless man? Of course.”
“Make sure you find a matching gold belt. Only fair.”
“Have you heard from Alex?”
“Way to deflect,” Josie muttered. “As a matter of fact, yes. We’ve been texting.”
“Texting? That’s it?”
“We’re taking it slow.”
“Are you sexting?”
“No. Ewww.”
“Nothing’s ewwww about sexting, you prude,” Darla argued. They began to walk slowly toward the coffee shop.
Josie snorted. “I am so not a prude.”
“When will you two actually decide to get over yourselves and get together?”
“When I figure out how to get over myself.”
The coffee shop was a long, narrow store, and the counter always was three people deep, waiting to order or hanging out to get their drink. On a whim, Josie ordered a macchiato while Darla just got a regular coffee.
“Macchiato?”
“I’m trying something new.”
“I’ll bet that’s Alex’s drink.”
Josie turned away and said nothing. A guy selling a newspaper that donated money to the homeless wore a red t-shirt that was a little too familiar. The logo was—
“Darla, are you handing out t-shirts, too?” She pointed.
Darla’s eyes lit up as she took her coffee from the barista. “That’s Juan! He sells that Spare Change newspaper all the time. I gave him a bunch of Mama’s winnings.”
“I’m glad they’re being put to good use,” Josie said, laughing softly.
Juan gave Darla a quick wave as they left. Headed home, Josie took a sip of the macchiato and screwed up her face. Too dark for her. It needed milk. The flavor was pleasant and she could appreciate the artistry of good coffee, but for her a latte meant comfort. Not just a shot of tasty caffeine. Chucking this macchiato back was a simple affair, and maybe that was the secret: a doctor on long shifts could appreciate the quality, but get it pumping through his bloodstream ASAP.
“When’s the new office ready?” Darla asked.
“Sometime next week. We need to meet up with Laura in the next few days to go over everything. I can’t believe you haven’t met her and Mike and Dylan yet!”
“A sick baby makes the world stop,” Darla said sympathetically. Jillian had come down with a light fever and a stuffy nose and Laura’s world ground to a halt. Nothing serious, Laura assured her, but it meant the three new parents were up day and night, with no time for anything but Jillian.
Meanwhile, the plans for the new business cranked on. A boutique dating service that would spread through word of mouth and very careful targeted advertising, using customized software to help people find not “The One,” but “The Two.”
Darla and Laura loved it.
“I hope Jillian’s feeling better today,” was all Josie could think to say as they paused at a stop light. This part of Cambridge had a patchwork quilt of sidewalks made of bricks, some asphalted, and some concrete. Architecture was mixed, too, from boring brick buildings to 1800s gabled homes and everything in between. As they got closer to Inman Square, the streets got a little less clean, the weeds a little more overgrown on the patches of grass that poked up between pavement, and the stores were decidedly less chic.
“Me too,” Darla added. “By the way, you need to find yourself two guys real quick.”
Halting, Josie gawked at her openly. “I need to what?”
“How can you work for a threesome dating service and have any credibility if you’ve never had a threesome, Josie?”
“How do you know I never—” Clamping her mouth shut, Josie bit off the words.
“I see,” Darla said quietly. They walked for three blocks in complete silence. Great. Just great. Now Darla thought she needed a threesome to run the business. And Darla now knew about Josie’s sex life. Could the day get any worse?