Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78108 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78108 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
“Oh. Well. I always love chatting with you,” he says. There’s a clink of plates in the background, then a faint voice saying your avocado toast.
I startle. “Where are you?”
There’s a pause. Then a clearing of his throat. “I’m at Oak and Vine. Why don’t we catch up later? I’m, um, just having a bite.”
I groan. He’s on a date, and he can’t even tell me. “You’re on a date?”
Another pause, then a sheepish, “Yes.”
He says something, but it’s muffled, then I hear footsteps for a few seconds before he speaks in a clear but low voice. “And she’s great. A very nice woman. I’m taking her shopping at your sister’s store after brunch. Let me call you later, sweet pea.”
“Of course,” I say, then I let him go.
Brunch. My father has a brunch date. He has a shopping date. He’s taking a woman to a trendy restaurant in the city.
Both of my aging parents, who haven’t dated in over thirty-five years, are rocking the single life. If the two of them can kill it at dating, I should be boss-level by now.
And yet, here I am, slumped against this wall, feeling sorry for myself because I officially suck at dating.
I blow out a frustrated breath, then consider moping and moaning all day long.
I really need to get it together.
When I lift my face, there’s a fair-skinned blonde with tattoos curling over one bare shoulder walking toward me. She’s clutching several bouquets of lavender and wearing a snug lavender tank top that says Bees Do It.
She looks happy enough. I bet I look like a grumpy city girl. That’s not me. Why am I in a funk that my mom is dating and my dating life sucks?
A voice in my head says get it together.
I snap to it. “That lavender smells amazing,” I say, standing too.
“You can’t go wrong with lavender. That’s just a fact. Especially if you’re having a bad day.”
I frown. “That obvious?”
Her smile is kind. “Just a guess?”
“A good guess,” I admit, a little ashamed it’s so apparent. “But I need to get out of this funk.”
“Well, I run a lavender farm. It lifts your spirits. So if that helps, come on by,” she says, her brown eyes friendly.
“You live here?”
“Yes, I’m Ripley. My farm is that way,” she says, pointing behind her. “But I’m bringing these to my friend who runs Downward Dog All Day. It’s a combo yoga studio/doggie daycare.”
“Shut up. That’s too cute,” I say, then I give a wave instead of a handshake since her hands are full. “I’m Juliet. From San Francisco.” And…screw it. I might as well ask her advice about the prospects here. She’d know better than my mom or I would. “Can I ask you a question? What’s the dating scene like here?”
The laughter that falls from her lips is unlike anything I’ve heard before. It’s knowing, resigned, a little reluctant, but totally amused.
I’m too curious to return to my bike. “Now I really need to know.”
“How much time do you have?” Ripley’s tone is pure deadpan.
Thirty minutes and a latte later, I have a new friend, a bouquet of lavender, and a handful of tales about dating in a small town.
The conclusion? It’s full of ups and downs like anyplace else. Full of duds and bores, frat boys and tech bros, bad boys and good guys. It’s full of hope and heartache.
“For someone who specializes in breakups, you’re pretty freaking positive,” Ripley says as she sets down her emptied London fog. “I say give it a shot. Like you said—every breakup gets you closer to the one. You’ll meet some jerks—trust me, I have. But maybe you’ll meet someone…fantastic. Maybe I will too. So try it.”
It sounds so easy. Almost as easy as making a new friend. So easy I should do it. “Thanks, Ripley. It was great meeting you.”
I say goodbye after we exchange numbers, then I return to my bike and set my lavender in the basket and pedal home. When I reach Eleanor’s—I mean our—cottage, Monroe’s pruning the bushes in the front yard.
No time like the present. I hop off the bike and announce: “I’ll do it.”
As he looks up from the bush, pruning shears in hand, his expression is unreadable. “You want to date here. This week?”
Like he needs to make sure I’ve really said that.
I nod vigorously. “I’m not backing down. I won’t be the girl who slumps against libraries in a dating funk. I will be the woman who tries again.”
A line digs into his brow as if he can’t make sense of everything I’ve said.
But I’ve said it. Now I’m doing it. “If Mom can, I can. I’m making a change. Time to turn over a new leaf. Now, I’m going to tackle the kitchen,” I say, grabbing the lavender bouquet and bounding up the steps.