and I went last year. What are the chances?” Devon leans over the table calling out to get Chloe’s attention, “Chloe, what was the name of that cave in Belize? The one with all the Mayan pots and the skeleton?”
Chloe thinks for a minute, her eyes turned upward as she sorts through her memory. I can practically see the light bulb go on when she says confidently, “ATM.” She gives him bug eyes, which I find cute and very endearing. I can appreciate that father-daughter bond.
Devon and I turn back to each other and long seconds tick by as we stare, smiling at each other. Anxious about what to say next, I unconsciously rub my lips together thinking I need some ChapStick. I’m not that good at talking to gorgeous men in person. I’ve been a strictly text conversationalist for too long now. Thankfully, Devon interjects my silence.
“Hey, do you wanna grab a coffee at the Chicory Cart down the way? We can swap vacation stories, plus, I could use a break.”
Devon is so genuine that I find it hard to resist him. This is exactly what I’ve yearned for for so long. Meeting someone naturally, out in the world, finding a common interest and feeling an instant chemistry. Not all of that app dating crap, matchmaking drama, and random encounters at bars. I cringe as I momentarily recall the date with The Weeper. What was I thinking? This is how it’s supposed to go down.
So then, why do I say, “I don’t want to take you away from your booth. I’m sure you’re really busy…” I trail off. But I can’t take my eyes away from his, my lips parted, wanting to say yes, but I’m frozen.
Seeming to sense that my brush off was more out of politeness than lack of desire, he gently insists. “You really shouldn’t miss their New Orleans iced latte.”
This man is speaking my language. “You said the magic word—New Orleans,” I respond and wiggle my eyebrows, trying to seem upbeat and carefree despite the explosion of nerves going on inside me. “Lead the way.”
I’m enjoying every second of our leisurely pace over to the Chicory Cart. Devon is recounting a funny story about a Louisiana swamp tour escapade gone wrong. I wonder if it’s the same trip as the beignet photo on his Tinder profile? Part of me wants to mention my swipe mishap, but another part of me feels like that would make me sound like a crazy stalker. So, I just listen and stay in the moment, noticing the way his glimmering, onyx eyes meet mine or how he smiles and touches my arm at a particularly funny part of the story. Our conversation flows so easily, like he’s an old friend. Nothing feels put-on or like we’re trying too hard. We just fit. Devon and The Weeper are night and day.
Delicious iced coffees in hand, Devon pulls out a seat for me at a small table under a towering oak tree.
“It’s a perfect day.” My voice sounds as relaxed as I feel in the shade with Devon. “My daughter would love this tree.”
“How old is your daughter?”
“Ahh, Maddie. She’s thirteen going on twenty-five. She still loves a good antique hunt, but she’s away at camp. Junior counselor this year.”
“That’s cool. But, yeah, thirteen is rough. Still a kid, but ready to be an adult. Chloe got easier at sixteen. And it doesn’t hurt that I don’t have to schlep her around everywhere anymore. That driver’s license has saved my sanity.” Devon gives me a commiserating look and I smile. He really is adorable while also being hot as hell. I cross my legs, attempting to ignore my lady bits hollerin’ at me.
We spend some time comparing notes about raising teenage daughters and I alternate between nervous babbling and relaxed serenity. I’m on the lookout for Liv since it’s been about fifteen minutes since she left me at Devon’s stall and I know she’ll turn the place upside down to find me. I don’t need a bull running through this china shop. But maybe I’m reading too much into this. I’m not one hundred percent sure that Devon is even into me. I mean, I think he is, but who knows. It’s only been a few minutes and a cup of coffee. He was probably going to take a break anyway. Maybe this is just his way of sealing a deal, thinking I’ll splurge on the mirror at his booth.
“Hey,” Devon says