Free Ex and the Single Girl by Lani Diane Rich Page A

occurred to her that it might matter. What the hell was wrong with that woman, anyway?
    I tossed my legs up on the bed and pulled the comforter over me. I slept in fits and starts throughout the night, until finally the clock said six, and I got out of bed and put on my sneakers.
    It took me an hour to trek the five miles out to the Babb farm. When cars passed, which wasn ’ t too often, I stepped off the road and ducked out of sight, just in case it was the Mizzes looking for me. It never was. A man in his sixties drove by in a Ford pickup, and my heart rate sped up. It could have been Jack. Wou l d I even recognize him now? All I had was a small handful of old pictures and a faded memory of a smiling man waltzing me around to Bach, or Rachmaninoff, or whoever wrote waltzes.
    When I saw the farmhouse, I stopped walking and looked at my watch. 7:05. I an was probably inside, writing. Doubt began to creep over me. It hadn ’ t occurred to me until that moment how it might look, me showing up two mornings in a row. On the other hand, I had forgotten to ask about the book signing, so there was a legitimate r e ason to return.
    But not at seven in the morning.
    I turned and started to walk away, then stopped. I ’ d also left my copy of Clean Sweep there for him to sign. I could go back for that. And he knew that I knew he started his days at six, so it ’ s not like the hour was all that outrageous.
    And I wanted to see his smile. Just for a second. Just one quick hit of warmth before I went back to face the Mizzes.
    I turned around again, took a few more steps toward the farmhouse, then slowed down. I was going to look li ke an idiot. Like a stalking idiot. Like...
    “ Portia?”
    I froze. The door swung open and there he was, holding his WORLD ’ S GREATEST GRANDMA mug.
    “ I was wondering if you were going to come in and say hi,” he said, his smile radiating warmth and good humor. “ I t was looking doubtful there for a minute.”
    I winced. “ You could see me?”
    He jerked his head toward the front window to his left. “ I like to write by the window. The view inspires me when I get stuck.” Oh. Good. God.
    “ I ’ m sorry,” I said, dropping my head and putting my hands over my eyes. “ I just... I...”
    I looked up. I had no excuse. There was no way to mitigate the humiliation. Time to face the music.
    “ Come on in.” He raised his mug and winked at me. “ I have coffee.”
    “ I ’ m sorry to interrupt your writing,” I said, sitting on the couch with my mug of coffee. Ian sat on a high-backed chair in front of a small table pushed up against the window. His laptop sat on the table, a screen saver drawing random multicolored swirls behind him.
    “ Not at all,” he said. “ I needed a break anyway.”
    “ I was just coming by to see... Yesterday, I forgot to ask you... I was wondering if you might be interested in doing a book signing event at the Page? We couldn ’ t pay you, but there ’ d be hot coffee and some more of Vera ’ s signature muffins.”
    He raised an eyebrow. “ Blueberry?”
    “ Anything ’ s possible.”
    He laughed. “ I ’ d love to. Thank you for asking.”
    I smiled at him, then looked down at my coffee. I could feel his eyes working on me, checking out my dusty sneake rs, my mussed hair, my slept-in clothes. I suddenly wished I ’ d taken a shower before I ’ d come.
    “ Do you want to tell me what ’ s really going on?” he asked after a moment.
    “ Hmmm?” I ’ d been enjoying talking in circles around the very obvious fact that I was a woman on the edge. I ’ d been hoping he would have picked up on that.
    “ It ’ s okay,” he said. “ If you want to tell me what ’ s going on, I ’ m happy to listen. If you ’ d rather talk about something else, we can talk about something else.”
    I took a deep b reath, willing myself to think of nothing other than Tan Carpenter and the Russian mob that was, at the end of chapter three, threatening to kill