My date with Sebastian last night was...nice. He’s funny and sweet and incredibly handsome. In all reality, I should be swooning over him. And if I’m being honest, there were times during dinner that I really thought I could see myself with him. That all changed when I saw David as I was leaving the restaurant. I’m not sure why he was there, but I didn’t agree with Tara’s theory that he followed me. First, David would never do that. He’s not a stalker. Second, I know his car, so I would have seen him following me. Third, it was entirely possible he just happened to be eating at the same place. I mean, he didn’t come home until much later than I did, which probably meant he stayed there for a while. Maybe even had dinner with another woman.

Contemplating it all had given me a headache. I spent the morning in bed watching Sunday cartoons like a little kid. I snuck out to the kitchen to get myself a bowl of cereal and some coffee while David showered. But it’s almost noon now, and I have to act my age and go write this column. Which means facing David.

I pat down the front of my shirt and shorts, making sure I’m not too rumpled after spending my morning in bed. Then I run a brush through my hair, noticing the split ends. When was the last time I cut my hair? I should make an appointment to go to the salon on my lunch break one day this week. I set a reminder on my phone so I’ll call tomorrow morning from work.

Out of ways to stall, I open my bedroom door and step out into the living room. David is on the couch with his laptop. His coffee mug is perched on the table in front of him and so is his breakfast plate.

I take a deep breath before saying, “Good morning.”

He presses a few more keys on his laptop before turning his head in my direction. “Morning. Decided to sleep in, huh?”

I’ve been up since 5:00 a.m., thanks to all the thoughts floating around in my head. “Indulging in cartoons actually,” I say with a shrug as I walk around the couch and sit down at the opposite end. I try to play it off as wanting to lean against the back of the couch and armrest, as if I’m too tired to hold myself up.

“I always rooted for the coyote. I never did like the roadrunner,” he says, resuming his typing.

“I admit I do have a soft spot for the coyote. Poor guy had way too many anvils dropped on his head.” Curious what has his attention, I lean over and peek at his screen. “What are you working on?”

“Our column.”

“What?” I move closer still. “You started without me?”

“I had an idea. It’s not like we can write it together because we both know we most likely won’t agree on how to respond.”

“You don’t know that. We both hated Oliver Strauss.” And that fake letter was definitely about him.

“No argument there. But I figured the thing that made our last joint article work was that we showed opposing views. I’m pretty sure that’s what Mr. Monohan and Aria are expecting us to do with this column, too. So we should answer separately and let the readers and the person who wrote in to us decide whose opinion is correct.”

While it makes sense, I still don’t like that he started without discussing his plan with me first. Nor do I like that he found a way to avoid working with me on this. We’re essentially writing separate responses. There’s no collaboration at all. “Can I see what you have so far?”

“I’m just about finished. It’s rough, though.” He types another line before turning the screen toward me.

Dear Tired of Working for a Momma’s Boy,

Many of us have been in your shoes. Nepotism seems to run rampant in the workplace no matter what your field. What you need to decide is whether the money you’re making from this job is worth the aggravation of putting up with your bosses. We’ve all got bills to pay, and if that need is greater than your desire to rid yourself of said Momma’s Boy, then you suck it up. If you can hold out a little while, save some cash, and then quit to find other employment, then that might be the best route to take. No matter what you decide, good luck.

David

He took the safe way out, which I knew he would. I’ll be the first to admit I was shocked when he stood up to Oliver and Marjorie Strauss and quit Priority News. I also know he never would have done it if Aria hadn’t led the revolt. And I don’t doubt David knew Mr. M. would start his own paper or at the very least offer him a recommendation for a new job. Safe isn’t my thing, though.

“My turn,” I tell him, reaching for the laptop.

He hands it to me. “You already know how you’ll respond?”

I shrug one shoulder. “I lived it, didn’t I?”

He reads the screen as I type.

Dear Tired of Working for a Momma’s Boy,

You could take David’s advice and play it safe. Or you could live up to your name and do something to fix your situation. You said you can’t afford to quit. So don’t. Make Momma’s and her boy’s lives so miserable they fire you. Then you can collect unemployment while you search for a better job. No one should have to suffer in his or her employment because of nepotism. It’s one of the many things that’s wrong with this world. I left a deadbeat boss because I refused to dread going to work every day, and now I couldn’t be happier about it. Not only do I have a better job title, but I love all my coworkers, too. That could be the same for you. Change isn’t something you should fear. Embrace it, and do what you know will make you happy in the long run.

Emily

When I finish, I look at David. “Too much with the personal experience thrown in?” No doubt Marjorie and Oliver Strauss will figure out I’m talking about them. Hell, anyone who can operate a search engine could figure it out by looking me up. I’ve only worked at two papers since graduating college.

“My gut reaction is yes, but that probably means Mr. Monohan and Aria will love it.”

“Care to rebut anything in my argument for getting fired?” It’s only fair to offer since I did mention his advice in my reply.

He shakes his head. “I say we leave it as is and send it to Aria. We might as well make sure we’re on the right track before we edit it.”

“Since I am the opinion editor, I’m assuming Aria will edit the pieces herself,” I say, saving the document and placing the laptop on the coffee table.

“Good point.” He gets quiet, and I can tell there’s something on his mind.

“What aren’t you saying?” I ask him, twisting and bringing my legs up on the couch.

He keeps his head lowered and says, “I didn’t know you were going to Bella Noche on your date last night. My best friend happens to work there. His family owns it, and he invited me to dinner with him and the guys he played in the golf tournament with.”

I knew there was a simple explanation for it. “It’s a great restaurant. I’ve always loved their food.”

“Dominic is one of the chefs. I’ll be sure to tell him you said that.”

My stomach growls, and I pat it. “All this talk about food has made me hungry.”

“Do you have lunch plans? Are you going out with...?” His voice trails off.

“No. I figured we’d be working on the column for a good portion of the day.” Who knew our advice would come to us so easily? Though I’m sure the topic had a lot to do with it. I doubted all our columns would be this easy to write. Most of our readers are older than I am, so how much life experience can I really offer them? “Do you think anyone is going to take me seriously?” I ask David.

“What do you mean?” He finally meets my gaze.

“The column. You’re the voice of reason behind it. I’m sort of the entertainment factor. I doubt anyone will take my advice as legitimate options. I’ll just be viewed as the comic relief.”

He turns and reaches for my hands but stops and lowers his arm to his lap again. “You’re not comic relief. For what it’s worth, you gave the better advice on that fake letter.”

“Making her bosses miserable so they fire her?”

“What makes you think the letter writer was a she?”

“It had Aria written all over it.” I wave my hand in the air like there was no discussing otherwise.

He laughs. “True. But I still stand by what I said. Your advice was better. I left Priority News, yet I didn’t tell that”—he pauses and winks at me—“woman to do the same thing. I gave her the safe advice.”

“Most people want the safe solution.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s the right solution,” he says, and this time when he reaches for my hand, he places his on top.

Our eyes meet, and my breath catches in my throat. Not once last night did Sebastian make my breath catch or my stomach flutter. Yet here was David, doing nothing more than looking at me with his hand on top of mine, and I’m having trouble breathing. What’s worse is that his words hit home for me. I took the safe solution when I ended our relationship before I could wind up hurting him.

“You okay? You’re suddenly looking a little pale.” He brushes his thumb across my cheek, and my skin tingles with his touch.

I clear my throat and stand up. “I think I need to eat. My blood sugar must be low or something.” I turn and start for the kitchen to grab my leftovers from the refrigerator. “Can I get you anything while I’m up?” I ask.

Instead of answering, he follows me to the kitchen. “Why don’t you save your leftovers for dinner and we go out for lunch?”

Go out? As in on a date? “I don’t really—”

“There’s a new miniature golf place on McAllister Road. I know it’s silly, but I’ve been wanting to check it out. Erica, that new features staff writer, did a story on it. She said it has a graveyard zombie theme.”

I love horror movies, especially ones that involve zombies. “Are you proposing we mini golf after lunch?”

“There’s a café right in the place. They make dishes that resemble human body parts.” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “I know it sounds disgusting, but Erica said each dish is like a work of art.”

“I bet it’s really popular with The Walking Dead crowd.” I can’t deny I want to check the place out, but I’m not sure if it’s a good idea for David and me to spend the day together doing very date-like things.

“So, what do you say? My treat.”

I shake my head. “Dutch.” Paying my own way makes it less like a date.

He holds his hands up. “Fine by me.” He motions to the door. “Shall we?”

“Just let me pull my hair up and grab my purse.” I walk past him to my room and secure my hair into a ponytail. I haven’t been mini golfing since college, not that it’s been very long since I was in college, but still. I grab my purse from the dresser and fish out my keys.

“I’ll drive,” David says.

“No, I’ll drive. Having an empty stomach makes me nauseous sometimes, so driving will be better for me.”

He eyes me suspiciously but doesn’t argue.

“After you,” I say, letting him go first so he doesn’t do anything like hold the door for me. Anything to make this less like a date. Part of me wants to suggest we take separate cars, but that may be going a bit overboard. For a moment, I contemplate texting Tara and asking her to meet us at the miniature golf course, but I don’t know how to do that without being obvious. I’m going to have to trust that David isn’t viewing this as anything more than two friends passing the time together.

David drops his phone right before we reach the elevator, and he bends over to pick it up. His cargo shorts hug his ass, and I have to force my eyes away.

Two friends. Nothing more.