Page 96 of Accidental Blind Date

“I can’t wait to seeyouagain,” I say.

“Already? But you just spent a whole week following me around a foreign country.”

“I know,” I say. “And I have the sunburn to prove it. But for real. I want to see you. We should go to dinner.”

“We could have dinner at my place,” she suggests. “I need to pack anyway. We can order take-out or try a new recipe or–”

“If we go to your place, no packing will get done. I think it’s safe to say cooking wouldn’t either. I need to be in public with you, so I don’t rip whatever cute and quirky dress you’re wearing off your delicious ass.”

“I’m actually wearing jeans today, thank you, which are much more of an obstacle.”

“Are you suggesting I can’t rip those off just as quickly?” I ask and the phone is silent for a second before she answers.

“You’re right. The Irish Pub it is.”

I laugh. “Irish food huh?”

“I’m in the mood for bangers and mash. And a beer.”

“God, can you just say that again? That was the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard,” I say and she giggles, another sound that keeps my smile in place. “I tell you what. The girls are going to a sleepover at their friend Ruby’s house tonight. Meet me at the pub at six.”

“Sounds good. I can’t wait.”

“Me either.”

We hang up and as I make my way up to the office, I have a bit of spring in my step. Leave it to Libby to be the cure all. To help me forget about Jenna’s words and Poppy’s wild hair, and costumes for outfits and everything else. As I walk through the door I greet the secretary, catching her off guard I think. I grab another cup of coffee from the shop on the first floor, the same brand as the ones in all the Hemingway stores. Then I head to my office, open my computer, and prepare myself for the day.Both hell and highwater could come at this point and nothing would dampen my mood.

The clacking of heels approaches my door, and I assume it’s the secretary with my mail. I’m sure it’s backed up over the week, but she knows I prefer to have it handed to me directly. “Just set it on the desk there, Brenda,” I tell her. But when the woman’s throat clears, I realize it’s not Brenda. In fact, it’s no one I know.

“Mr. Daxton Hemingway?” the woman asks with little to no expression. She’s in a solid black pantsuit, holding a large manila envelope.

“Yes,” I answer carefully. “What is it?”

“Mr. Hemingway, you have been served. Please sign on the line.”

Motherfucker.

It wouldn’t be the first time someone has come at me with legal papers. I own a bookstore empire. People have tried to sue me for everything from holiday wages (we do pay more by the way) to not having cushy enough mats for the cashiers to stand on.

I take a deep breath and sign on the line. It’s a bump in my day but it’s not going to ruin it. As the woman leaves and I tear open the envelope, I am determined not to let it bring me down, no matter how petty the lawsuit is.

But as my eyes skim though the first page, premise, the lawyers,the namesI realize it’s not one of the pesky lawsuits that CEOs often deal with. I have to reread the first page three times just to make sense of it and even then, I am left with my head spinning.

I lean back in my chair and wipe my hand down my face, my palm over my mouth in disbelief. Then I do the only thing I can think of to do. I call Libby.

“Miss me already?” she asks with the same energy as before. But right now, even that isn’t enough to lift my spirits. I can hardly breathe, let alone smile.

“Jenna is suing me,” I let out.

There’s a beat. Then,

“What? What are you talking about?” she asks. Then I hear her ask Summer to watch the counter. A moment later, a door closes, and I know she’s in the back room because the acoustics change.

“She’s suing me,” I repeat, the words feeling foreign and wrong coming from my mouth even the second time around.

“For what?” she asks.

“Custody of the girls.”