change in a flash.
and a baby wasn’t Amy Forsythe’s college plan. After a shotgun marriage glued
together by her son, she’s convinced that love isn’t meant for her. Now
nearing forty and single for the first time since her senior prom, her friends
are pushing her to date. Her teenager isn’t thrilled by the idea and
neither is Amy.
Thomas Popov isn’t looking for The One. He found her decades ago. And
fell apart when she died. At fifty-three with a new job, a new city, and
an empty nest, he’s focused on climbing the corporate ladder.
league softball accident lands Thomas in Amy’s dental chair, sparks fly.
doesn’t strike twice. But love might.
closing the door to my SUV after spotting him in the parking lot. He was
leaning against his car and tapping on a phone, and his face was still a wreck.
some calls from your parking lot,” he replied, sliding the phone into his suit
pants pocket. Silver hair, light blue dress shirt, rolled up at the sleeves,
showcasing his muscular forearms. Someone plays a lot of softball.
quick peek and you’l be on your way.”
The bruise was healing nicely, but the impact point was still purple with a
large halo of yellow. It was mainly obscured by his salt and pepper scruff. I
didn’t blame him for not shaving. Except for his lip, the skin hadn’t broken.
But that didn’t mean it wasn’t any less tender from the trauma. In fact, I was
impressed that he was able to smile through the ache.
shoulder and clasping his hand. I expected a couple of quick businesslike
pumps. What I got was different. His hand was big and warm and soft, making me
feel delicate, but before I could process what was different, before I could
categorize it into neat little bullet points—
Jana from the office’s bright red front door.
to wonder how soft the rest of his skin was, I started to withdraw my hand. But
not before he gave a little squeeze. Was that a wink?
Bridge at six thirty. And I hear good things about the lobster ravioli and
hated pity dates. I hated when my friends shoved men into my path and hoped for
the best. The only one ever truly happy was the friend doing the shoving. And
I’d had enough pity from men to last my lifetime. Being alone was better than
eyes at him, trying to discern his true intention behind his offer of my
sense. Men didn’t ask me out because they wanted to. Men asked me out because
they were obligated to. “That’s a—”
my hand that I thought I’d pulled away. Maybe he honestly did want to go on a
date with me.
propositioning me? God, really? Me, mother of a seventeen-year-old being
into the waters to see whether his eyes fell—a clear sign that Diana had pushed
him into taking me out—or whether they lit up because he wanted to have dinner
with me. In the three years since I’d started going on occasional dates, I
hadn’t seen much light.
gray blue eyes. “Thank you.”
because he wanted to. Not because someone had pressured him into it. Or that he
felt like he had to take me out. I honestly wasn’t sure if that had ever
happened to me before. And I meant ever.
resettling my purse on my shoulder and turning toward the office. “Let’s see if
you’re ready to eat that lobster ravioli.”
caught up in his eyes. Thick dark lashes rimmed the soft gray blue.
I was—paused with my hands in my patient-turned-date’s mouth. Blue gloves, yoga
pants, a lightweight hoodie over a blue tank top, and whatever random pile I
swept my hair up into for my post-Pilates shower at the gym. Yeah, no fairy
godmothers here. But at least I’d taken that shower.
on the stool, stripping off the blue gloves and tossing them in the bin. “The
lip looks good. Your gums are healing nicely and the teeth have firmed up. No
discoloration or signs of stress. You got lucky.”
floor. “I did,” he said, looking at me square in the face.
it warm in here? Is this perimenopause? Is this a hot flash? Because
I hadn’t had a period in nearly two decades and was sneaking up on forty, every
time I unexpectedly got warm, I wondered if I was entering menopause.
the big, handsome, and very forward man in my office. I didn’t know what to do
because he clearly wasn’t talking about his softball accident. I spun around
and typed a few notes into his record so that Diana could pull them up on
Monday. I logged out of the computer, but not before taking a quick peek at the
birthdate at the header of his profile. He was fourteen years and two months
older than me to the day. May eleventh. He’d just turned fifty-three.
really appreciate it,” I said.
Jana, leaving the two of us alone.
his hand to me.
good starting food on the injured side.”
The electricity. The parking lot wasn’t a fluke.
Mae Wood is a mommy, bookworm, and lawyer (in that order).
A while ago Mae decided that she needed to give up the fear that she couldn’t write “great literature” and write what she wants to read.
And she wants romance. And laughter.
She wants heroines who are brave. Brave enough to be themselves and brave enough to fall in love.
She wants men who are strong and kind.
Mae lives in the Southeastern United States and sets her books in hot and steamy Memphis, Tennessee.
I love this quote, Diana
“I’m wondering what to read next.” — Matilda, Roald Dahl