Free Up to Date (Better Date than Never Book 8) by Susan Hatler

that reminded me of Greg. Actually, the leaves reminded me of a dream I’d had about the two of us running together on a forest trail at sunset, smiling and happy. Clearly, the mat represented my inability to accept what was healthy for me.
    Greg had said the door was unlocked, but I knocked anyway. I mean, did I want to walk in and find him cuddling on the couch with some random woman? Um, no.
    The front door opened and there he stood, looking incredibly hot in gray, athletic shorts and a short-sleeved shirt. Not exactly date-wear. Maybe he’d been working out? Hopefully alone. . . .
    Sucking in a breath, I forced a smile. “Hello.”
    “Hello, yourself.” He held the door wide, so I could slip past him. “The door was unlocked.”
    “Was it?” I used my most innocent tone as I moseyed inside, and he shut the door behind me. I scanned his living room for any sign of a date. No woman’s jacket hanging on the antique coat rack I’d brought over yesterday. No lipstick-stained wineglass. No heady perfume. And, most importantly, no woman. “Are you alone?” I finally blurted, the suspense tormenting me.
    “No.” He smirked, seeming pleased by my question. “The Skipper’s here.”
    Whew . Only The Skipper. That was a load off. Even though Greg deserved to find a nice woman to settle down with, I sure didn’t need to catch the show.
    As if recognizing his name, the little gray kitten came prancing into the living room, then hooked his neck around my ankle. Mew. Mew.
    “Hey, boy.” I bent down, then scratched behind his ear. He made a purring sound that vibrated against my hand, and he seemed happy to see me. “Aw, you love that. Don’t you?”
    Greg watched us for a moment, then slid his hands into his pockets. “Would you like a glass of wine?”
    “No, thanks.” I stood, snuggling the sweet kitten, who kept burrowing his soft cheek against the back of my hand. “After the day I’ve had, it might put me to sleep.”
    His brows came together. “Everything all right?”
    “I got fired,” I blurted, before I had time to consider keeping such personal information to myself. Whatever. Not like my being canned was a big secret or anything.
    “Oh, man.” He came toward me, lifted my hand, and held it in his own. “What happened?”
    “Laid off, actually. Cost cutting, I think.” Butterflies danced in my belly from the feel of his skin against mine, dimming the horror of losing my job slightly. His thumb caressed the back of my hand, shooting tingles up my arms, and my breath caught in my throat. “They combined my position with someone else’s.”
    “I’m sorry.” He gazed at me, wearing a concerned expression. Then his brows rose, and he gestured toward the kitchen. “You sure you don’t want that glass of wine?”
    Alarms exploded in my head. My gaze whipped to his, searching. Was drinking how he dealt with stress? Did he have bottles of Scotch on hand to get through his demanding job? Or was I being majorly paranoid? So many possibilities and, sadly, none of them were shiny bright beacons of light.
    I shook my head. “Thanks for the offer, but I have a ton of painting to get through.” I slipped my hand away from his, immediately missing the warmth of his touch. “I’d better get started. I’ll already be up late as it is.”
    The crease between his brows remained. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”
    I nodded, then ambled down the hallway, setting The Skipper on the carpet outside the bathroom door. “I’m going to start prepping to paint,” I called out, then stepped into the bathroom. When I flipped on the lights, my gaze darted around the room, and my mouth dropped open. “What the . . .?”
    When I’d left earlier today, the bathroom had been a generic white. Now, every inch was covered with the rich, olive-green paint I’d left here.
    “Surprise.” Greg leaned against the doorjamb, watching my stunned expression with a satisfied look on his face.
    I fought to