Page 14 of Finding Mr. July

“I don’t know what to tell you,” the rep says. “It’s always fifteen. You must have misheard.”

“I must have…” I rest my forehead against my fingertips and count to five slowly—incidentally the number the contract should say. “Is there anything at all we can do?” I ask. “I don’t have fifteen days.”

“Well, we could do a rush order.”

“Okay.”

“For a cost, of course.”

I suppress a groan. “Right. Yeah, I don’t have much wiggle room there.”

The rep is silent.

I’m silent.

The wall clock above my desk says 8:05, just to rub in the number.

“Morning,” Rachel says behind me.

I turn toward her and shake my head.

“What?” she whispers.

“The printer,” I mouth. “Production time.” I show her a thumbs-down.

“Ma’am?” the rep says. “Are you still there?”

“Yeah.” I spin back around. “There’s really nothing you can do? Six days? Seven days?”

“Unfortunately not. A submission to us on the tenth means delivery on the twenty-eighth.”

I sigh. “I guess you’ll have to take me off your schedule, then. Thanks anyway.” I hang up. Damn.

Rachel is at my side instantly. “What happened?”

I relay the information. “I know what I heard. They said five days.”

“I believe you. So now what?”

I spread my hands on my desk and roll my shoulders back. While I had hoped for a better outcome this morning, I’ve already mentally prepared a swerve to avoid the roadblock. “The local printers are booked, so I’ll have to look farther away. Maybe even down in Oregon.”

She crosses her fingers, and I do the same.

An hour and a half later, I have a new printer lined up.

Portland for the win. They can’t fit me in until the fourteenth, which is not ideal, but they do offer an actual five-day production timeline, and they have an integrated sales platform for online orders, plus the production cost is slightly less.

All in all, it could be worse, and I have no choice but to sign on the dotted line.

Which I do. The contract is in my inbox less than thirty minutes after ending the call, and I’m free to go back to regularly scheduled business.

I’ve never been the kind of person who enjoys swimming in the dating pool, so the week ahead of me is daunting to say the least even without printer mishaps.

I have five meetups scheduled with guys from Pawsome Partners that feel more like grueling chores than fun social happenings, and the first one hangs over my head all day.

Come late afternoon, I’ve dragged my feet to the point that I’m about to be late to it unless the elevator shows up soon.

Rachel sticks her head through the door into the vestibule where I’m repeatedly stabbing the call button. “Text me after, okay? Be safe and good luck.”

I wave at her as the doors finally open and I’m whisked downstairs.

I’m meeting Garrett at a coffee shop two blocks away.

All I know about him is that he’s a house painter from Canada and that he has a beautiful Newfoundland appropriately named Bear.

He knows I’m Holly, that I work at GCL, and based on my profile picture, he probably thinks Morris is my dog.

My plan is to address this minor deception as soon as I’ve established rapport.

Garrett stands and smiles at me as soon as I enter the coffee shop, and wow, his profile picture did not do him justice. He’s a redhead with an even redder beard emphasizing his angular jaw, and he has the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen on a human.

“You must be Holly,” he says, offering me his hand. I appreciate the formality of a handshake considering it’s a date I have no intention to make a date.

He already has a coffee in front of him, so I go get mine—a double shot latte—from the girl behind the counter before I join him at the small rectangular table by the window.

“So,” he says, “how did you hear about Pawsome Partners?”

I immediately can’t do this. Garrett seems like a nice guy. He’s here on time, he has a non-creepy greeting, and so far, he’s refrained from any and all insulting comments about my appearance. His vibe is genuine, which makes me a phony.

“Funny story, actually,” I say. Then I launch into an explanation about the fundraiser.

When I’m done, his alpine-lake eyes have widened, and he’s stroking his beard in that way I can only assume they teach men to stroke beards in beard school. “So, if I understand things right, you are not looking to meet someone?” he asks. Stroke, stroke, stroke.

“Right.”

“You’re in a relationship already, then?” Stroke, twist, stroke.

“Um, no.”

He lets his hand drop to the table. “Aha. So, technically, we could still have coffee and see if we hit it off. I mean, we’re already here.” A wide grin bursts forth from the red jungle.

It’s contagious and helps the knot at the pit of my stomach ease. “I don’t understand. You’re not upset? I basically tricked you.”

“Nah.” He waves off my concern. “I’ve been on some really… interesting… dates lately. The last woman asked if she could call me ‘Daddy’ before we got our first drink. This is different, I’ll give you that, but you strike me as normal enough.”

I chuckle. “Thanks, I guess. Right back at you.”

He toasts me with his coffee cup, and we drink.

I’m not about to string him along past basic compliments, though, and he seems to read that into my silence.

“But I take it you’re serious about this not being a date?” he asks.

I nod. “I am. Sorry. We need models for the calendar. I totally understand if you’re not interested, and you can take your time to think about it, but we’d love to have you and Bear featured. He’s a gorgeous guy.”

“That he is.”

“And it’s for a good cause. All proceeds go to the preservation of temperate rainforests.”

“True.”

I dig through my bag and find a business card that I hand to him. “My number. Just let me know.”

“Holly King?” he asks. “Not ‘Saint Bernard,’ then?”

I press my lips together. “Right. That was my colleague’s idea. Because of the dogs.”

“Good thinking.” He flips my card over twice. “I’ll do it.”

His words are unexpected. “You will?”

“Hell yeah. I’m approaching forty. It’s not every day a bona fide modeling opportunity like this falls in your lap. I get to keep the photos, right?”

“I’m sure we can work something out.”

After Garrett checks his availability for the week and gives me his number, he takes off, hopefully with better dates on the horizon.

I text Rachel, He said yes! and then, because I suspect this might constitute a turning of the tides, I stop in at the other café around the corner from the office and ask the barista with the golden retriever if he’d be interested in modeling for us, too.

And that’s how it’s done. Two yeses in one fell swoop.

Tuesday is rougher. I get one polite but firm no at lunch and one “I might do it if you sweeten the deal, sugar” at happy hour. Yuck.

“You’ve got to kiss some frogs,” Rachel says when I complain to her over the phone that evening. “Besides, you already have two shoots lined up this week.”

“That’s not enough. I need more guys.”

“ She’s a man-eater ,” Rachel sings.

“Man-repeller is more like it. I really thought it would be easier to find models, but not only do they have to be attractive and have dogs, they also have to say yes. Did I tell you that veterinarian still hasn’t given me his availability?”

“He will. So that’s three, plus Dennis is asking his friend—so one more.”

“Good.” I sigh, leaning against my headboard. My fingers find the fringe on one of the throw pillows to comb through. The repetitive motion is soothing.

“And…” Rachel pauses on the line. “I suppose I could ask Nick.”

My pinkie snags on a knot. “Who’s Nick?”

“You know—beach volleyball guy. He’s taking me out Friday.”

I sit back up again. “You have a date? Also, yes. Please ask him.”

“Can’t let you have all the fun.”

“Is that what you call it?”

“You know what I mean.”

She tells me more about her date plans, and then we hang up.

I have emails to read still, and then I need a good night’s sleep.

In addition to attending a 7:30 meeting Rachel is hosting with our Copenhagen office tomorrow, I also have a photo shoot with Jonathan and Oliver the barista at the Alki Point lighthouse at sunset.

In other words, there’s a long day ahead.