Free Perfect on Paper by Janet Goss Page A

quickly lowered my eyes.
    That didn’t last long. I couldn’t resist sneaking in a few more glances.
    He had shaggy, dirty-blond hair that looked as if he’d cut it himself, exquisite full lips, and the razor-straight jawline common to underwear models and Olympic gymnasts. I decided he couldn’t be much older than his mid-twenties, because he was dressed in the scruffy, post-collegiate uniform of cargo pants and a T-shirt under a T-shirt under a hoodie under a vest under a jacket.
    There was just one problem. Every time I allowed myself another furtive peek at Scruffy, he was looking back at me, still grinning and twirling the bagel on his index finger.
    This wouldn’t do. I was already taken. By the Brownstone Whisperer.
    Besides, I was old enough to be—well, maybe just his aunt, but that was bad enough. What the hell was wrong with this guy?
    More to the point, what the hell was wrong with me? Now that I’d finally hit the boyfriend jackpot, there was no justifiable reason in the world to be flirting with someone nearly two decades my junior, even if he
did
have beautiful gray-green eyes and impressively large feet.
    But was I really flirting? Or simply reacting, in an amused manner, to an incident involving a wayward bagel?
    Scruffy mouthed,
Watch this
, turned toward the young mother in line behind him, and managed to deposit the bagel into her baby’s diaper bag without either of them noticing. I giggled and gave him a thumbs-up.
    Now
I was flirting.
    I needed a distraction, one that would neatly fill the twenty-or-so minutes between the present and the bus’s departure time. Reaching into my bag, I pulled out the
Times
and opened it to the crossword puzzle.
    But Scruffy was undeterred. He produced his own copy of the Arts section, flipped over its front page to reveal the grid, took out a pen, and mouthed,
Race you
.
    You’re on,
I mouthed back.
    It was one of the easiest puzzles to appear on a Thursday in quite some time, once I’d figured out the theme. In honor of Thanksgiving, the solver was supposed to draw little turkeys in some of the boxes, completing phrases like “Turkey in the Straw” and “Jive Turkey.” In well under ten minutes, I laid down my pen and directed my gaze toward the back of the line.
    Scruffy’s head was still bent over the paper, but he must have felt my eyes on him. He looked up a few seconds later.
    Wow,
he mouthed when I displayed my completed grid. He held up his own puzzle. From a distance, it appeared to be about half-finished.
    Good,
I thought.
Not only is he too young for you; he’s clearly an inferior solver. Plus you’d have to fight him for the crossword every morning. Now,put your puzzle—along with any absurd fantasies about a May-August romance—away.
    As I was stuffing the newspaper back into my bag, I couldn’t resist one final peek in Scruffy’s direction. He was still looking my way.
    Save me a seat,
he mouthed.
    This is getting out of hand,
I thought, pulling out my phone. Maybe if that big-footed whippersnapper down at the end of the line observed me exchanging endearments with my boyfriend, he’d get the hint and back off. Of course, I had yet to drop any actual hints, but that was beside the point.
    It was obvious I’d awakened Hank when he picked up.
    “I thought you’d be on the Thruway by now,” I said. He’d told me he was going to New Paltz to have dinner with former clients.
    “Change of plans. Too much driving. I decided to go help out at that soup kitchen over on the Bowery instead—be heading over there in about an hour.”
    How could I have been so fickle? Hank Wheeler was a paragon. A selfless, virtuous avatar of decency—who, it bore mentioning, had impressively large feet in his own right.
    “That is so incredibly kind of you.”
    “Well, now, I wouldn’t be so sure about that. I got what you might call an ulterior motive. Yesterday somebody tried to get through that padlock on the back of my truck again, this time with a