brother. That is too weird.”
The notion is indeed weird. But it’s also distracting.
The debate over dating a friend’s twin occupies the two of them for the next hour as we go into Grant’s sister’s bar, order beers, and shoot the breeze.
Neither one of them even tries to score any numbers. They’re too deep in their bar debate.
They decide Grant’s chances of dating TJ are less than zero.
Are those the same as my chances with Nadia?
They should be zero.
But when I click open my text messages after I finish my brew, a photo loads.
Two pics, actually.
The first is a shot of some silky fabric on her bed, a close-up of her dress. It’s the color of wine, and a growl forms in my throat as I imagine how that dress will look on her body.
The next pic, though, knocks the breath clear from my lungs.
She sent me a shot of her feet in a sexy-as-sin pair of heels.
My mind springs several steps ahead, picturing those legs curled over my shoulders.
Wrapped around my waist.
Spread open on the bed for me.
Ah hell.
The chances of me resisting her are not zero.
Not even close.
14
Nadia
I’ll see Crosby in less than forty-eight hours.
I am most definitely counting down.
I’m not even going to pretend I’m not.
I’m counting down, and I’m shopping.
Since I’ve bought shoes when dates have gone awry, I’m damn well going to buy shoes in advance of one that I’m sure will go fantastically.
Okay, fine. It’s not a date. It’s an event where we’re pairing up. Still, events require shoes.
With a pair of red heels in her hand, my mother settles onto a plush pink cushion on a chair at one of our favorite shops on Union Street.
My mother and I bond over many things, shopping among them. Because shopping is great for talking, and that’s something we’ve always done well. We talk, and we share.
“Over a week on the job back in San Francisco. What’s your verdict?”
I peer out the window of the store. “It’s . . . foggy here.”
She laughs as she slides on the shoes.
My lips form an O as I check out the new footwear. “My verdict on those shoes is they are a must buy,” I say, pointing decisively at the beauties on her feet.
“I do love them,” she says, pursing her lips as she studies the way they fit. “Where would I wear them though?”
“Anywhere,” I say, as the sales associate returns with a gorgeous pair of amethyst velvet shoes for me. I thank her, then continue my ode to Mom’s cherry-red pumps. “Everywhere. Gardening. Jigsaw puzzling. Shopping. Going out for tea. Heck, I’d wear those babies walking around the house. And I’d stop and admire my feet in the mirror every time I walked past one.”
She taps her chin. “All good ideas. I wonder if I should . . .”
The light bulb goes off. “Wait. Are they for a date?”
She dips her head, her shy smile giving me the answer I need. She confirms it with a nod and a soft, barely audible squeal.
I sit down next to her, grabbing the jewel-like shoes from the box and sliding my left foot into one. “Tell me everything, you secret keeper.”
She lifts her face, sporting a smile she can’t contain. “I have a dinner date this weekend in Napa.”
“With who?” I ask, desperately needing the answer.
“Crosby’s mom is setting me up with a man she knows,” she says, borderline giggling. It’s the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen.
“Who is he? Is he an upstanding citizen? Does he recycle? Does he have a decent job? Did he go to college?” I ask, peppering her with the same sort of questions she’d pepper me with. “And, most important, does he like dogs?”
I fasten the strap of the shoes as I wait for her answers.
“He’s originally from Sydney. He owns a couple of vineyards.”
I smile. “Great. So he likes wine. Point in his favor.”
“He donates to a local animal shelter. In fact, he’s one of the biggest donors.”
Nice, I mouth approvingly.
“He came here for college. Went to UCSF. He recycles and composts.”
I sigh dreamily. “And I bet he has a dog.”
She holds up two fingers. “Both rescue mutts. And he likes live music.”
I glance at the ceiling, hands up, like angels have sent this man from on high. “Let me guess. James Taylor, Melissa Etheridge, and Jackson Browne. Am I right?”
She smacks my leg. “I’m not that old.”
“You’re right. Melissa Etheridge is not quite as old as those guys.”
“Did you think someone my age