Before further conversation, I grabbed my brown suitcase, the one Derek was still holding in his hand. “I think I’ll make the switch before we forget,” I said with a wry laugh.
Ignoring me, he tapped his finger on his forehead. “I knew I recognized you. Bob. Bob’s girlfriend.”
“Ex- girlfriend,” I interrupted quickly. (Story begins with The Wrong One and then Summertime Baggage.)
Derek continued, “At my parent’s Christmas party in Brookline. Bob and I were…” Continue reading
Halfway through the third piece of chocolate, my apartment bell rang.
Too late for a UPS delivery or for a friend to stop by.
Definitely too late for Bob (see last week’s The Wrong One...).
I hit my pink-manicured finger on the speaker and asked, “Yes?” Only it sounded more like, “Yethhh?” since I was swallowing the last bit of dark chocolate caramel.
“Sloan?” a male voice inquired. “Ms. Molly Sloan?”
I had a bad feeling about this, but I couldn’t deny the inevitable. Continue reading
I was exhausted, angry at Bob for not picking me up at the airport, and regretful of the argument I’d had with my parents as I left their Florida condo to return to Boston.
It was 10 p.m. when the taxi stopped in front of my brownstone on Commonwealth Ave. The driver pulled out my suitcase and waited for his fare. He’d not spoken a word the short trip from Logan to my place, and now he just held out his hand for the $20 I placed there. With no thanks for the $5 tip, he got back in his yellow cab and sped off. Continue reading
His gasp brought Charlotte back to her past, decades ago in their sophomore year in college, when a skinny tall boy with too-large ears approached her after their English lit class. They’d been assigned as a team by Professor Rife to write a 10-page thesis paper. (Continuing from last week’s The Bookstore Intruder.)
“Each team must agree upon a book most admired, and then defend it. The goal is to read your paper in class next week and convince the other teams to vote for your book.”
Charlotte shivered in annoyance when the young man found her an hour later in the library. Continue reading
I love romance.
I dream romance, read romance, believe in the power of romance.
Even though I’m as single as they come.
Yup, 40 and never been married.
Forty, and I haven’t had one romantic moment in my life.
Or, at least, not romantic (enough) for me. Continue reading