“I’ve been trying to do that for weeks.” His face softens. “I’ll keep working on it. But in the meantime, let me help you make this the best debut art show these people have ever seen.”
“It’s already sold out.”
“Just the first night.” He winks, wagging his finger in that mischievous way that always led to something crazy and unforgettable. “Allow me to work my magic and make sure every night hits that metric.”
44A
EMILY
EmilyGirl, 20, broken-hearted, not looking to get over my last guy—just scrolling and wishing that I could. Please heed this warning & swipe left.
It never ceases to amaze me how men simply donotread.
Since posting my new dating profile, I’ve received at least twenty private messages from strangers asking me out.
I’ve gone back on my intentions twice and joined two of them for a beer, but I regret it enough to never try again.
I need to take the advice I once gave my mother and learn how to be alone.
Even though Gatlinburg doesn’t have the star power of Nashville—aside from Dolly Parton’s theme park—it’s beautiful enough to inspire me. And close enough for aspiring songstresses to meet me halfway.
As I’m tapping my pen against a coffee cup to measure syllables, a stranger stops by my table.
“Is someone sitting here?” a deep voice asks.
“Not at all.” I keep writing. “You can take it.”
He obliges, unwrapping a bagel. “It’s a beautiful day out, huh?”
I nod. “Best day yet.”
“I’ve always loved the mountain views in this town,” he says, clearly missing the hint. “It’s the perfect backdrop for date nights.”
“Okay, look.” I set down my pen and finally meet his eyes. “I’ve seen you here all week, and you seem like a really nice guy, but I don’t want you to waste any of your time on me.” I cut through whatever soft pitch he was about to serve. “I’m single, but I’m far from ready.”
He arches a brow. “Ready for what?”
“Anything more than a friendship.”
“Um… I’ve seen you here plenty of times, too. But I only came over because your table is the only one with chairs.” He smiles, warm and amused. “Oh, and for what it’s worth, you’re a really nice girl—but I’m engaged.”
“Oh…” I exhale. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. What’s his name?” he asks.
“Who?”
“The guy you’re still in love with.”
“Cole.”
“How bad was the breakup?”
“I doubt I’ll ever get over it.”
“I know the feeling.” He slides his laptop into his bag and stands, extending a hand. “Come on. You’ve been crying here all week. You need a shoulder. Come tell me and my fiancée about it over dinner.”
“I couldn’t possibly impose.”
