Page 16 of Finding Mr. July

A nother day, another hour wasted on a date that led nowhere.

I’m beginning to think joining Pawsome Partners was a bad move, if for no other reason than it’s probably ruining my dating karma forever.

My happy hour date today was a nice enough guy but clearly disapproving of my ulterior motive.

And he wasn’t wrong. Most guys I’ve communicated with are only after casual hookups, but the few looking for something real—those are the ones compelling me to look elsewhere for models.

I have one more date tomorrow, and after that, I’m shutting it down.

I drown my guilt in a glass of wine and one of Ava’s homemade chocolate cupcakes when I get home.

Jude is working late, and Ava is at tennis, so it’s just me and Morris, who’s snoozing on his back on the couch, not a care in the world.

My plan is to go through the Pawsome Partners profiles that have matched with Jude, but as soon as I spot a new email from Jonathan waiting for me, that plan goes out the window.

Since I have yet to broach the topic of dating with Jude again anyway, I suppose I can save that for later.

Like after the first shoot, Jonathan has sent me a handful of favorites from yesterday. I download the zip file and open it up.

“Holy wow,” I mumble, flipping through the images. Morris rolls onto his side next to me and blinks a sleepy eye my way.

I pull out my phone and send a message to Jonathan. The pics are incredible. Could def win awards.

Somehow, he’s caught the way the wind makes Lucy’s coat look as liquid as the water, and Oliver’s skin is a radiant bronze in the low light reflected off the surface. He’s a merman and Lucy his trusted aquatic guide. A mer-dog.

Thanks, I’m happy with them, he responds.

I can’t help myself. Bet you never thought you’d say that when we started the project.

You know me too well.

I snort. Pretty sure I don’t know you at all.

His response takes longer this time. Long enough for me to wonder if he took offense. But when my phone finally dings, the words on the screen warm my core. Are you saying you want to?

Maybe it’s the wine and the cozy quiet of the house, or maybe my dating debacles have lowered my inhibitions, but before I can analyze whether engaging with him like this is a good idea, I’ve already sent my response: Yes.

We’ll be spending enough time together, I think. We could be friends. Friends share.

What do you want to know? he asks.

Where do I start? I have spent way too much time mulling over his comment about his dad setting him up on dates, but I need to be smart about how to ask about that. Hmm…

Eventually I settle for Are you close with your parents?

Dad, yes. Mom, no.

Elaborate pls.

Dad lives nearby. He has glaucoma and can’t drive anymore so I’m his chauffeur. I see him all the time. Mom left when I was ten. New family.

Reading his matter-of-fact words triggers a pang inside me on behalf of the boy he once was, but before I can respond, another message pops up. Can I ask about you too? Or is that against the rules?

I shrug off the jolt of pity and allow a smile in its place. If there are rules, we’re already in the process of bending them. Go ahead.

Three moving dots, and then, You’ve had your heart broken.

I inhale sharply. That’s not a question.

What happened?

I rest my phone against my thigh while I think. If I’m going to be able to ask about his ex-wife at some point, I can’t dodge this. I burrow deeper into the pillows. He was someone I worked with. In the end work was more important to him than loyalty to me.

How so?

I sigh. He’s not going to let this go without details. I had a chance to make partner. He took credit for my work. Now he’s partner instead. Plus some other stuff.

Asshole. Is that why you left?

I smile. “Asshole” is putting it mildly, but I appreciate the sentiment nonetheless. I should have, but no . Sometimes I wish I could go back in time and slap some sense into old Holly. Where was my pride? I stayed on for another year and a half after that. Ridiculous.

Then why did you?

I decide to throw his own words back at him. Do you always ask so many questions?

He responds with a grinning emoji.

My turn , I type. How long have you been divorced?

It’ll be five years in December.

Do you still talk to your ex-wife?

No. She lives in Italy now. Married up.

Hey—no self-deprecation allowed. You know you’re a catch.

Oooh, a compliment. Thank you kindly, but I’m not so sure about that. It’s been a while since I was at the top of my game.

Sounds familiar. That makes me curious. When were you? Peru, ten years ago , comes his quick response.

That’s very specific.

Well…

A photo pops up in the thread of a younger Jonathan posing with two other men against a colorful, mountainous backdrop.

His white shirt is unbuttoned, and the sleeves rolled up, revealing a tan chest and strong forearms, and there’s a sheen of light perspiration across his brow that brings to mind all kinds of vigorous activity.

He grins at the camera with the kind of careless joy you get from big adventures with friends.

It was my bachelor trip. Good times. Lots of possibilities ahead , he texts.

I agree—he does look like he’s on top of the world in the picture, literally and figuratively, and I tell him as much, adding the caveat, You do know the world is still full of possibilities, right?

To avoid veering too serious, I throw in, Good-looking guy with your talents , more as an objective truth than a personal opinion.

Though if you ask me, he wasn’t any less attractive yesterday at Alki than in this photo.

Quite the opposite. I prefer the complexity the past decade has added to his features.

The typing dots appear and then disappear a few times. Then Are you flirting with me?

What? I toss my phone onto the couch as if it’s stung me. Squeeze my eyes shut for a count of ten. Then, carefully, I pick it back up and stare at his question. Am I? Eventually, I decide I can play this one of two ways. Either I shut it down with a firm “no” right this minute or…

Or I allow this bubbling feeling in my chest some leeway. It’s been a long time. And I did just come out in favor of possibilities.

I inhale deeply and type, Do you want me to be flirting with you?

His Maybe makes my insides simmer.

Let me guess , he texts. You had some tequila and got nostalgic.

Wow. He’s really going there. I bite my lip to stifle a smile. Nostalgic for…?

You know.

I do. But I thought your memory was hazy at best.

I remember enough.

Okay, then. I press my right hand to my belly to settle the fizz. What is happening?

He’s typing again. Probably shouldn’t do that again though. So unprofessional of us.

I read the lines several times. Stupid texting. How am I supposed to know if he means it or if he’s being facetious?

Right, I type as the front door handle rattles and Morris shoots off the couch with a happy bark. Someone’s home.

“Hello!” Ava calls from the foyer.

I’m going to take that as being off the hook.

Sorry niece is home. Gotta go . I hit SEND and head toward the kitchen.

He probably did mean it. And it was unprofessional—not to mention lacking judgment in general.

Was it fun? I mean, yes. Of course. Could I theoretically see myself kissing him again? Sure. But should I?

Now, that’s the million-dollar question.