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  The crinkly-haired woman who’s giving my dad, the mutt, and me a tour of the newly opened Wagabond Hotel gestures to a king-size bed where my dad’s pooch would be lucky enough to lounge in the lap of luxury when my dad takes a trip next month.

  I gawk at the plush accommodations for the canine. “Can I please stay here?” I flash my best smile and hold up my hands like they’re paws.

  My father pats my head. “Have you been a good girl?”

  “I’ve done all my obedience training.”

  “Then I’ll consider it.”

  “He likes you so much better than me,” I say to Mister Dog, who wags his tail and generally shows off how completely cute he is.

  Crinkly-haired woman suggests letting him try the accommodations.

  “Go to the bed,” my dad says, pointing to the mattress.

  The pup bounds over to the bed then curls up on it. Spoiler alert—Mister Dog is a pampered prince.

  “I want to come back in my next life as your dog, Dad.”

  My gray-haired father laughs then tells the woman he’ll make a reservation. We head to the front desk, and as she enters his info into the system, I pet Mister Dog’s silky head and ask my dad if he’s ready for his trip. He’s always wanted to tour famous ballparks, and he’s finally doing it later this summer. I found him a group of other seniors to go with to visit Camden Yards, Yankee Stadium, Fenway Park, and others. “Are you looking forward to your trip?”

  “Definitely. Are you sure you don’t want to go along?”

  I wave a hand. “Nah. You know all those Viagra-popping septuagenarian dudes would hit on me.”

  “Then it’s best I keep you away from those old geezers,” he says with a smile, and I pump a fist quietly since he’s happy today.

  I convinced him to take the trip, and I even paid for it as a birthday gift. I told him, too, I would keep Mister Dog with me for the ten days of his extravaganza, but he said he didn’t want to cramp my style. Honestly, beyond “pajama couture,” I don’t have a style to cramp, so I wasn’t worried, but in the end, he’s choosing a peanut-butter-Kong lifestyle for his pooch over kibble at my house. I’d do the same.

  After he books the room, he sighs heavily as we leave the dog hotel.

  “What’s wrong?” I brace myself for today’s Sad Moment brought to you courtesy of our sponsor, the Suckitude of Death.

  “The wildflowers bloomed this morning,” he says, resignation in his tone.

  I draw a deep breath. “She would have liked seeing them.”

  “I took a picture. I wanted to send it to her. How ridiculous is that? There’s no place to send it.” His voice falters.

  I squeeze his shoulder. “It’s not silly, Dad.”

  He swipes an unseen tear away as we walk to his car, Mister Dog gamely trotting by his side. “I keep thinking of her every day. Missing her so much still. When will the missing stop? Shouldn’t it have stopped by now?”

  “It’s grief. It comes and goes on its own time frame.” A pang of guilt stabs at me. My grief for her loss is mostly gone.

  He inhales deeply and nods, then shifts his focus. “Tell me how the show is going. I can’t wait to see the next season.”

  My chest squeezes. “Great. So great. Everything is ticking along.”

  His smile is as wide as the sky. “And the network still loves you?”

  “Absolutely,” I lie.

  I don’t want to tell him the truth. He’s always believed in me. Always rooted for me. He’s the only one who did.

  My mother never wanted me to go into comedy. An accountant, she wanted me to write research reports or tech journals or some other drudgery that I would never have been any good at. When are you going to get a real job? was her war cry, especially since my brothers are both tax attorneys, in practice together. A few days before she passed, she clucked her tongue and told me it was time to get serious about steady work. How could I be renting still? I was in my late twenties and it was time to buy a home and settle down.

  When my show was picked up after her death, my dad said, “Your mother would have been so proud.”

  I bit back the words I wanted to say. No, she wouldn’t.

  In the afternoon, we work on a jigsaw puzzle at his home, and when I tell him I have to go, he asks what I’m doing that night.

  “I met a muse.”

  He arches a brow. “Tell me more.”

  “He a-muses me.”

  He laughs, and the warm, rich sound is my favorite sound in the universe. Better than music. Laughter is my music.

  9

  Finley

  Dinner in wine country is like going to a show.

  When you’re seated and the curtain goes up, the waiter and the rest of the ensemble cast of host, busboy, and sommelier set the stage for the star. Then it’s a lively opening number, a medley of delish appetizers, and a showstopper of a main course.

  Right now, we’re off to a promising Saturday night start, thanks to the tongue-tickling flavors of white grapefruit and pear in this sauvignon blanc, and I offer a toast to Tom’s newest successful roller-coaster test, and he offers one to my show.

  He clinks his glass to mine. His chocolate-brown eyes light up when he tastes the wine. “Good choice.”

  “Thank you. I might have picked up a thing or two about grapes from living here. Also, nice touch asking me to choose the wine. I bet Cassandra would like that too.”

  Tom flashes me a grin, and I sit up straighter. Because . . . those teeth. Those straight white teeth, and that magical smile that I didn’t expect—it reaches his warm eyes that seem to twinkle with delight. A butterfly sensation zips through my chest.

  And maybe because I’ve been hard on him, or maybe because I’ve learned, too, that positivity goes a long way, I say, “Let me preface this by saying I’m not coming on to you, but you have a fantastic smile, and you ought to unleash that grin on Cassandra. A lot.”

  “You think so?” One corner of his lips curves up, and dear God, now it’s a lopsided grin. Why do crooked grins have to be so sexy? Especially on hot nerds like him. Hot grin plus sexy nerd equals unicorn.

  Whoa.

  I don’t think Tom is hot.

  I don’t think he’s a sexy unicorn either.

  And I definitely didn’t feel a little buzz of pleasure when he smiled.

  Nope, that was pride. Because he’s a good student. I’m simply pleased he suggested I pick the wine, so I’m giving props for that. But so I don’t get caught up in his grinning superpower and its kryptonite effect on me, I lift the glass to my lips and indulge in a sip, shifting my focus to the wine and away from those soulful eyes, that hint of stubble on his jaw, and his dark brown hair that swoops across his forehead in thick waves.

  I am immune to good-looking men, I tell myself. It’s a mantra I devised when my last relationship imploded on account of my handsome, brilliant ex-boyfriend, Anthony, ditching me for the woman he dated right before me. I was his rebound girl, and he used me to springboard right back to her. Really, when I think about it, that was his one flaw. He was an all-around good guy, and we were a great match in every other way, barring his still being secretly in love with someone else.

  Sigh.

  I have no interest in tumbling down that rabbit hole again or developing even an iota of a feeling for someone who has his heart set on another.

  I set down the wine and recalibrate. “Project Cassandra begins now. I did a little research on her after I saw my dad.”

  He arches a brow curiously.

  “Facebook is an amazing thing,” I say, since I poked around her page today, learned more about her transition from choreography to yoga, and even read a few older posts from friends, complimenting her on a blog she kept a few years ago. But there was no trace of the blog, so she must not write it anymore. Still, I gleaned plenty from her yoga studio’s site, as well as her Facebook page. “I assume you looked under the rug a little bit online?”

  “Definitely. I went to her yoga studi
o’s site. It’s very . . .” He stares at the ceiling like he’s thinking of just the right words. “Yoga-y.”

  I laugh. “Yes, that’s a good thing for a yoga studio site to be.”

  “It was all about mindfulness and embracing your whole self and being one with the universe. Ergo, it was yoga-y.”

  “Yes, but that’s part and parcel of who she is now. Her favorite quote is from Laura Ingalls Wilder: ‘It is the sweet, simple things of life which are the real ones after all.’ That’s why I think we have to eschew big gestures with her.”

  He quirks his lips. “Eschew? Is that your new language test?”

  “Of course. It flips on Fridays. The new one is ‘insert an unusual synonym into everyday conversation.’” I run my finger along the wineglass stem. “Do you agree?”

  He pouts. “I agree that your plan sucks all the merriment out of the pursuit.”

  “Ooh. Well played.”

  “But seriously, why are big gestures forbidden?”

  “Big gestures are fine, but only once you know a woman is into you.”

  He wiggles his eyebrows. “She’ll be into me.”

  “Cocky bastard.”

  “I’m an irresistible bastard too. Just ask Midge.”

  I lower my voice to a stage whisper. “I think we’ve established the Midge Misread is why we’re here right now. While we’re at it, let’s also agree to no placards at the door, no boom box, and definitely no chasing her down at the airport.”

  “But don’t you writers love all that stuff?”

  I sketch air quotes. “‘All that stuff’ is for the end of the story. The story should begin with a meet-cute. And when it’s a second-chance romance, like yours could be, you don’t need a meet-cute. Especially since Cassie seems to value a more simplified approach. My vote is you be earnest and honest and show up humbly and ask for a second chance.”

  Reaching under the table, he takes out his phone and taps on the screen. “Just writing this down,” he mutters, and then shows me a note he’s sending himself.

  Earnest, honest, ask for a chance.

  Wow. The man is actually taking notes, and I’m impressed. Also, it’s a little adorable that he thinks he can’t remember otherwise. He looks up and clears his throat. “I was thinking of showing up at a restaurant where she’s dining, standing on the table, and confessing my undying love for her. Would that be earnest and honest?” He tilts his head, his eyes wide, totally playing me.

  I shake a finger. “You will do no such thing. Just keep it simple. Knock on her door. Send her a note. Heck, send her flowers and ask her if she’d like to go out.”

  “Flowers? That seems like something any guy could do.”

  “But in this case, you want to be any guy. You want her to see you in the same light she’d see anyone she’s thinking of dating.”

  “I’d actually like it to be a better light.”

  I roll my eyes. “You know what I’m saying. Cassie is a woman who values the heart. Speak from the heart, not a script.”

  Before he can weigh in, the waiter arrives, ready to take our orders. Tom holds up a hand, speaking confidently. “I’ve got this.”

  I furrow my brow. “Got what?”

  “The ordering. I’ll handle it.”

  “Why would you handle it?”

  “Returning the favor and all, for the wine. I checked out the menu online before I arrived.”

  He turns to the waiter, and I’m about to cut in, but then I decide to watch the show, like it’s a nature documentary. Watch the modern male as he navigates the wild of restaurants. Tom orders roasted corn ravioli for himself, saying he’s been dying to try it, then the pan-fried sea bass for me, wiggling his eyebrows, adding for my benefit, “It’s wild-caught, that’s the best. I bet the fish was happy.”

  “The happiest,” I echo as I wait, just wait, for him to realize his mistake. But he doesn’t, and I’m not going to let on yet. As they say, this is a teachable moment.

  When the waiter leaves, Tom flashes those pearly whites. “Okay, give me more stuff. I need all the details. If I’m on a date with Cassandra, what else shouldn’t I do?”

  The thing he just did, which I’m not going to let on right now. I sidestep to other issues. “Besides discuss religion and politics?”

  “Everyone loves to discuss who they voted for and the existence of God, right?”

  “Absolutely. Those are great topics.”

  He grabs his phone and taps out another note, then shows the note to me. Discuss gun control and church attendance.

  “Boom. You’re good to go. Wait. One more topic. On the first date, you definitely shouldn’t talk a lot about sex, favorite positions, and size too.”

  He blinks. “Wait. Why can’t we talk about sex?”

  I stare at him. “You’re seriously asking?”

  “Why wouldn’t we talk about sex and favorite positions on the first date?”

  I can’t quite believe he doesn’t have a clue, so I keep it simple for him. “She might think you’re only into her for sex, and clearly that’s not the case, since you have a big thing for her.”

  “It is a big thing,” he says, deadpan.

  I give him an oh-no-you-didn’t look.

  He holds up his hands in surrender. “Got it. No sex talk because she’ll think I’m well-endowed and she doesn’t want a well-endowed man.”

  I reach across the table to poke his shoulder. “You do know women are not as obsessed with size as you think?”

  He scratches his head. “They’re not?”

  “It’s all a matter of what you can do with it.”

  He leans closer, drops his chin in his hands. “It’s how you use it?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “Can we talk about how I like to use it? How I’d want to make a woman feel so fucking good with it?”

  A spark shimmies down my spine, and my cheeks go up in flames. I press my finger to my lips. “Shh.”

  His lips curve up. “You’re embarrassed.”

  Glancing around the tiny dining room, I whisper, “You’re just loud.”

  His eyes glint mischievously. “And you’re completely embarrassed by sex talk.”

  I straighten my spine. “I’m not embarrassed by it at all,” which isn’t a lie.

  What I’m embarrassed about is how his “so fucking good” comment turned me on.

  He holds up a thumb and forefinger. “A little? You’re a little embarrassed?”

  “Are you trying to embarrass me?”

  He laughs. “Honestly, I kind of am. You’re hilarious when your goat is gotten.”

  I stare at him with narrowed eyes. “You did not get my goat.”

  “I kind of did. Just admit it. Admit I got your goat.”

  I cross my arms. “No way.”

  He leans back in the chair, parking his hands behind his head. “Then let’s just talk about your favorite positions instead. Or maybe how you like to feel so fucking good.”

  Tingles have the audacity to zip down my body once more.

  I hold my hands out wide. “Fine. You. Got. My. Goat. Happy?”

  “So satisfied,” he says in a sexy rasp, and my traitorous body grows warmer.

  Must abort this conversation, stat. I sit up straighter. “If you were on a date with Cassandra, I bet this would be a good time to talk about likes and dislikes, her job, your job. Why don’t we talk about roller coasters?”

  “I can do that all day. Do you like roller coasters?”

  I breathe a deep sigh of relief as we move to a safer topic. “Love them,” I say, and that’s the God’s honest truth. “There’s nothing better than fear and thrill mingling together. Tell me more about the ones you’ve designed. What’s the secret to creating a great ride?”

  His face is animated as he talks. “You want it to make a rider’s stomach flip upside down, yet you don’t want them to vomit. We try to discourage rides that lead to loss of lunch,” he says, and I laugh. “What about you? What’s the ke
y to writing a great character and getting a laugh? Besides going to T.J. Maxx.”

  “Comedy is timing. It’s the jokes, but it’s also all about knowing the right pace for the joke.” I take another drink of my wine.

  “Which makes comedy a lot like delivering an orgasm?”

  I nearly spit out my sauvignon blanc. “You’re still doing sex talk.”

  He shakes his head, smiling impishly. “That’s analogy talk.”

  I wiggle my eyebrows, playing along. “Fine, then. If you stimulate the funny bone just so, I suppose comedy is a lot like delivering pleasure.”

  He snickers, lowering his gaze. “Like you said, you can’t say stimulate without it sounding dirty.”

  “It’s an analogy!” I insist.

  “An analogy you chose because you’re thinking about sex.”

  I slap a hand on the table. “I’m not thinking about sex.”

  He points at me, a self-satisfied grin on his face. “But you are thinking about the big finish? The peak? The summit?”

  The blush? It returns. Full force. Beet red.

  “I’m not thinking about orgasms.”

  I am. It’s like when someone says don’t think about cookies and then all you can think about are cookies. And right now I can’t think about anything but how toe-curlingly good a cookie would be. That’s why I need to wrest control of this conversation. “If you think about it, we’re both in the same business. A good ride should hit the right peak, and a good joke should too.”

  He strokes his chin as if in deep thought. “True. You need to make sure you deliver the right amount of joke prep. A word here, the right delivery there. Then the joke rises, strengthens, insists on being noticed. And then you have to make sure the joke recipient is ready, primed, right on the cusp of hearing the great joke.”

  I toss a napkin at him.

  “And then when she’s there, hovering on the edge, you deliver the punchline.” He makes a moaning sound.

  I drop my head into my hands, whispering, “You did not just do that.”

  “Sally did it in the movie.”

  I raise my face. “You think everything’s okay because you saw it in the movies?”