The Last Guy

I nod and walk away, saying my goodbyes to the kids and jogging to my SUV.

Half an hour later, I’m sitting outside on my mom’s patio in the prestigious River Oaks neighborhood.

Petite and soft-spoken with a husky drawl, she’s the single reason I still speak to my father. She still sees good in him, even though she left him a year after the Trent debacle.

She pours me a glass of tea and brings it over to me. I give her new hair that’s just coming back in an affectionate rub.

“You don’t have to wait on me,” I tell her and she waves me off.

“Don’t be silly. I made you rush over here.”

She positions a plate in front of me with a huge turkey and cheese sandwich with a side of her famous fried green tomatoes.

I arch my brow as she takes the seat across from me. “You’re buttering me up for something. It can’t be too pressing or you would have told me already.”

She takes a sip of her tea. “You’re right. I need a favor.”

“Hmm, so this is more than just planting a clematis outside your kitchen window?”

She squishes up her face as if dreading what’s going to come out of her mouth. “I need you to go to dinner tonight with a friend’s daughter.”

I squint at her. “A blind date? Mom . . .” My voice is full of dread.

The girl in the photo.

“I know, I know, you hate them. But I really owe this girl’s mom—we were suitemates in college and I may have accidentally stolen one of her boyfriends. It broke her heart, and she’s never let me forget it. She called this morning telling me about her daughter who’s just moved to Houston. Apparently, she’s very lonely and not used to the big city.”

She keeps talking, her voice in a rush as if the faster she talks the quicker she can convince me. “She’s the sweetest thing—

“Great personality?”

Mom half-snorts. “Stop. She’s beautiful. You saw the picture I sent?”

I’d halfway looked at it. I sigh my displeasure. “The game’s tonight and I really want to watch it.”

She smiles. “Please. You and I both know you can DVR that. Come on. I promise I won’t ask you to go out with anyone else—although it sure would be nice to have some grandkids soon. You’re so dang picky, Cade, and you’re not getting any younger.”

“I’m thirty!”

She grins and shrugs. “Also, Maggie Grace called. She seemed so . . . contrite about what happened between you two. Maybe you two could try again?”

I settle back in the chair. “I’m not calling Maggie Grace.”

She nods. “Well, if that ship has sailed, why not try with someone else?”

Stone?

No. I can’t.

But . . .

It is Saturday night, and what else did I have to do? What could the harm be? Get in, get out, and then watch the game in bed. Alone.

In retrospect, my life is pretty fucking lame.

I glance at Mom and exhale. “I’ll do the blind date, but don’t do it again. I refuse to be your Get Out Of Jail Free Card just because I’m hot and single.” I wiggle my brows at her.

She claps her hands, a glint of excitement in her eyes. “I’m so excited! You never know, you just might meet your match tonight!”

By the time I leave, I have the digits to a girl named Sissy from Oklahoma in my phone and I’m meeting her at Paulette’s, a fancy French bistro. I try to get myself stoked.

You just might meet your match.

Right. I’m pretty sure that’s already happened.

I’m pleasantly surprised when I walk in and find Sissy at the bar. She’s pretty with long brown hair and big eyes. Wearing a short green dress with a plunging neckline, she stands as I approach and throws her arms around me.

As far as blind dates go, I’ve hit the fucking lottery. I can do this.

“Nice to meet you. I hear our moms are dear friends,” I say.

She flutters long lashes and gushes. “Thank goodness. I don’t know the first thing about Houston and meeting you is such a treat. I’m a huge college football fan—went to OU.”

Then she sings the fight song.

“I’m Sooner born and Sooner bred and when I die, I’ll be Sooner dead! Rah Oklahoma! Rah Oklahoma! OU! Boomer Sooner! Boomer Sooner . . .”

I wince. It’s not that I don’t like enthusiasm, but I’m a Longhorn and the Sooners are our number two rival behind the Aggies. Also, she’s a bit shrill.

The maître d’ finally escorts us to our seats near the back of the restaurant. I pull out her chair, and she smiles up at me. “I love this place. It’s so romantic—like marriage proposal romantic.” She sighs.

My entire body draws up. “Uh, yeah. If you say so.”

We settle in with the menus while she talks about growing up in a large family with four brothers. She’s the youngest and spends her free time knitting hats and blankets for her local orphanage. Nice.

Our waiter arrives, a young man who sweeps appreciative eyes over Sissy. I request a Jameson on the rocks.

“And for you, miss?”

Sissy sends him a blinding smile. “What do you recommend?”

He grins, clearly liking her attention. “We have an excellent lemon martini. Our customers rave about it.”

“Sold! I’ll have it—make it a double please with sugar on the rim. Also, I’d love a shot of Silver Patron. Cade, you interested in celebrating with me? It’s not often I get away from work to go on a real date.”

“I’ll celebrate with my Jameson.”

Shots make me think of Stone. I focus back on Sissy.

I turn back to her as the waiter scurries off. “So what brings you to Houston?”

“I’m a worm poop girl.” She giggles.

“Oh?”

“Well, the scientific term is vermiculturist.”

“Fascinating.” I keep my face impassive.

Our drinks arrive and she throws back the tequila and then starts with the martini. “It’s okay. Most people have never heard of it, but I thought maybe you’d done your research on me like I did you.”

My stalker radar is up and tuned in.

“I Googled you.” She wiggles her fingers at me. “Number One Bachelor in the city according to the Houston Herald. And now that I’ve met you in person, I agree.” Her gaze drifts over my face. “Any interest in settling down soon?”

I cough. “No.” I take a big drink of whiskey. “So . . . tell me about the worms.”

“Lemme get another shot first.” She waves at the waiter and points at her empty shot glass. She clears her throat as if settling in for a long talk. “A vermiculturist is someone who manages worms to convert waste products, such as uneaten food, grass clippings, and spoiled fruit and vegetables into healthy, nutrient-rich soil and organic fertilizer.” She smiles prettily. “I know that sounds all scientific, but basically, worm poop is gold. Plus, it’s on trend. Everyone’s eating organic. Farmers love it. Moms love it.”

She chews on a breadstick, but all I see are worms in my head.

I search for a topic change, but she’s still talking.

“ . . . and Red Wigglers, the big fat ones are unparalleled as soil excavators. They spend their lives ingesting, grinding, digesting, and excreting soil—”

“Mind blowing,” I say, interrupting her as the waiter drops off her shot. “What else are you interested in?”