down. Odd. There were other empty seats. She didn’t seem to notice him, though, as she set a whipped-cream-topped beverage in front of her. A pumpkin spice latte, no doubt, given that it was the first day of October. In fact, little orange pumpkins dotted her purple dress, so she probably loved fall. Where did a grown woman even buy a dress like that? He could imagine one of the women in his office showing up for a meeting in it instead of their usual tailored clothing in gray or black. Honestly, it would be hilarious.
This woman looked to be maybe a few years younger than his own age of thirty-four, though the purple pumpkin dress no doubt contributed to that impression. So did the slight smile on her face and the bright pink lipstick that contrasted with her pale complexion. She dug through a huge, shiny yellow purse and pulled out a turquoise book. He was practically sitting next to a rainbow.
She looked up at him. Busted. He hadn’t meant to stare at her. “Hi, how are you?” she asked in a tone of polite good cheer.
He didn’t really have time for a conversation, even if she was cute. And okay, she was, in a quirky way.
“Eh, it’s Monday,” he said.
Why had that come out of his mouth? One of the assistants at his office always said it on Monday when people asked how she was doing. Sometimes he’d think to himself in a surly way, Thanks, I know what day it is.
“Best day of the week,” the woman quipped and opened her book, apparently finished with the conversation.
Wait, what?
Nobody believed that. Maybe she wore all those bright colors because she was, in fact, a crazy person. An adorable crazy person, but still.
He focused on his laptop screen and tried to check the five-year projections in the appendix. They’d revised it four times, so it would be easy to have a mistake here…
No. This was bugging him too much. He turned back to the woman and demanded, “How is Monday the best day of the week?”
She glanced up again from the book—or the journal, apparently; she had a pen in her hand. Her blue eyes were wide, guileless. “I call it Clean Slate Monday.”
“Clean Slate Monday,” he repeated, as if that explained anything.
She nodded. “You know, like if your last week—or actually your last month, or your last year, or whatever—if you had disappointments, or you messed up, you can forget about all that. Because it’s a brand-new week. A fresh start.” As Dylan stared at her, she took a sip of her latte, then wiped off a bit of foam that clung to her upper lip. She shrugged. “Anything could happen.”
Dylan had no words for the feeling that thrummed through his veins. Something told him she was different from anyone he’d ever met before, and he needed to know her better.
But his cynicism rose to the surface to protect him from the unfamiliar. “Do you work on Mondays?” Maybe she was a waitress in a restaurant that was closed today. Anyone could enjoy their day off. Maybe she didn’t work at all.
“I do, actually.” Her tone was wry. “I’m a teacher. I have weekends off. Well, more or less.”
Okay. He wasn’t sitting next to a rainbow. He was sitting next to a unicorn. A person who worked Mondays through Fridays, and called Monday the best day of the week, didn’t even seem real.
She went back to writing in her journal and he caught a glimpse of the page. A sketch of a house occupied half of it. No, not a house: a cabin. It looked a lot like his grandparents’ cabin, where he and his sister had spent some of their childhood summers. Why would she be drawing something like that? He wondered what her life was like, and what was going through her mind.
But although curiosity was getting to him, he looked away. He needed to stop staring at her like a creep, and whatever she was writing or drawing, it was none of his business. He had plenty of business of his own and should get back to it.
Usually, he had no trouble settling down to work. He’d gotten himself through college with a combination of scholarships and jobs that had been unpleasant, exhausting, or both: loading delivery trucks, cleaning toilets, and one summer, even gutting salmon in a cannery in Alaska. He was made for work.
The figures in the projections balanced out. He adjusted the formatting, advanced to the next slide, and stared at it, still acutely aware of the woman next to him. Whatever she was working on, it was probably much less crucial—and probably a lot more fun.
His phone rang. Dylan looked down and saw his brother-in-law’s name on the screen.
Why was Paul calling so early? Well, it could be an emergency. Dylan answered. “Hey, what’s up?” As he did, the blonde woman got up and grabbed her jacket, and disappointment flickered through him.
“Hey,” Paul said. “Just reminding you to pick up Dee’s cake tonight.”
No. He’d forgotten all about his sister Deidre’s birthday. Paul had planned a surprise party for her. He’d invited her favorite people, secretly bought decorations, and conspired with Dee’s best friend to get her out of the house for some spa thing and then back home again.
Dylan had questioned this whole plan from the jump. He’d asked Paul, “Are you sure she likes surprises? I don’t even like it when one person drops by without asking.”
His brother-in-law had shaken his head. “Most people are more spontaneous than you. Actually, everybody is.”
“I can be spontaneous,” Dylan had said. “I just need some warning.”
Dylan’s doubt about the party was no excuse. He’d had one job. Bring a chocolate sheet cake with the words, “Happy Birthday, Dee!” written on it in frosting.
In response to his silence, Paul said, “You didn’t order it.”
“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Dylan said with fake confidence. “I’ll call around. Someone can do it.” Not that he had time for calling…
But he was in a bakery. The kind that made individual treats, not big cakes, but still. He glanced over at the display of baked goods. The blonde woman stood in line at the other end of the counter, bouncing on her toes, cash in her hand, and he was glad she hadn’t left yet. He asked Paul, “How many people are going to be there?”
“Eh, twenty-five, maybe. Well, thirty, if you count Dee, me, the boys, and you.” He sighed. “I invited more, but people are so busy.”
“Thirty’s a lot.” If someone had been throwing a party for Dylan, he wouldn’t have been able to think of thirty people to even invite. He walked closer to the bakery counter, surveyed the inventory, and told Paul, “I’ll get cupcakes.”
Paul hesitated. “They can’t put her name on them.”
Seriously? His sister was turning forty, not seven. She wasn’t going to pout if her name wasn’t on a cake. Dylan kept his voice light. “It’s a birthday party. Everyone’s going to know who the cupcakes are for. And I’ll get different flavors.”
“All right, sounds good,” Paul said. “Thanks.”
“No problem. I’ll be there at seven.”
“Six-thirty,”
