“Yeah, so?”
“Just making the list. Have you cooked her anything? Not just nuking something, but using an actual stove.”
“I just made her some soup when—”
“That counts. Take her to any chick flicks?”
Frowning, Flynn picked up a triangle of sandwich. “I don’t know that it qualified as a chick flick.” He set it down again. “Okay, yes. Once, but it was—”
“No explanations, this part of the quiz is true or false. We can move on to our essay section,” Jordan assured him. “Picture your life in, let’s say five years. That work?” he asked Brad.
“Some require ten, but I think we can be more lenient. Five works for me.”
“Okay, picture your life in five years. Can you structure the visual without her being in it?”
“I don’t know how I’m supposed to picture five years from now when I’m not sure what I’ll be doing in five days.”
But he could, he could see his house, with some of the long-term plans he had for it in place. He could see himself at the paper, walking Moe, hanging out with Dana. And he could see Malory at every angle. Walking down the stairs in the house, coming by the paper to meet him, chasing Moe out of the kitchen.
He went a little pale. “Oh, man.”
“She’s in there, isn’t she?” Jordan asked.
“She’s in there all right.”
“Congratulations, son.” Jordan slapped him on the shoulder. “You’re in love.”
“Wait a minute. What if I’m not ready?”
“Tough luck,” Brad replied.
BRAD knew all about luck and decided his was in when he stepped out of the diner and spotted Zoe stopped at the traffic light.
She was wearing dark wraparound sunglasses and moving her lips in a way that made him assume she was singing along with the car stereo.
It wasn’t stalking, exactly, if he just happened to hop in his car, zip out into traffic and follow. The fact that he cut off a pickup truck was completely incidental.
It was reasonable, even important, that they get to know each other better. He could hardly help Flynn if he didn’t know the women Flynn was connected to.
That made sense.
It had nothing to do with obsession. Just because he’d bought a painting with her face in it, just because he couldn’t get that face out of his mind, all that didn’t mean he was obsessed.
He was merely interested.
And if he was practicing various opening lines under his breath, it was only because he understood the value of communication. He certainly wasn’t nervous about speaking to a woman. He spoke to women all the time.
Women spoke to him all the time, if it came to that. He was considered one of the top eligible bachelors—and God, did he hate that term—in the country. Women went out of their way to talk to him.
If Zoe McCourt couldn’t spare five minutes for some polite conversation, well, that was her loss.
By the time she pulled into a driveway, he’d worked himself into a mass of nerves and irritation. The vaguely annoyed glance she sent him when he pulled up behind her put a cap on it.
Feeling foolish and insulted, he climbed out.
“Are you following me?” she demanded.
“Excuse me?” In defense, his voice was flat and cold. “I think you’re overestimating your charms. Flynn’s worried about Malory. I saw you and thought you’d be able to tell me how she’s doing.”