Rom-Com Collection (Part 2). Kristan Higgins

grinned. “You never know.”

      WORK SEEMED ENDLESS THAT day. I kept my office door closed, ground out copy and tried to stay away from other people. And, of course, obsessed over Ian, trying to figure out how to smooth things over, how to say the exact right thing so we’d be back to where we were. Because where we’d been … that was a nice place. A very nice place. As for Ian himself, he didn’t call or e-mail … the only personal message I got all day was from my mom, summoning me to a family meeting at the funeral home after work. My guess was a career intervention for Fred.

      Nothing from Ian. Half a dozen times, I picked up the phone to call his office, and half a dozen times, I put the phone back.

      You don’t have to try so hard. The problem was, I didn’t know how to do anything else.

      At five-thirty, I tidied my desk and said goodbye to Pete and Leila. Damien and Karen had left already, as had Fleur. Muriel was once again in California. At least there was that.

      “Have a good night, Mark,” I said, pausing at his door.

      “Hey, Callie. You, too.” He stood up and smiled. “You look pretty today. Well, you look pretty all the time. If I’m allowed to say that, that is.”

      I hesitated. “Uh … sure.”

      “Callie, do you have a sec?” he asked, indicating the two empty seats in front of his desk. “I have plans, actually.” “Just for a minute?”

      We both sat down. Mark looked at his hands. “I miss us talking,” he said, his voice quiet. His eyes dropped to my mouth, then rose back to my eyes.

      “What did you want to talk about?” I asked, shifting slightly away from him.

      He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know,” he said. “I just miss you, and I hope that … I don’t know.” He sighed. “We’ve been friends a long time, haven’t we?”

      “I guess so,” I said.

      He was silent a minute. “What do you think about Muriel and me, Callie?”

      The question caught me off guard. “Oh … I don’t know, Mark, and I … I don’t want to have this conversation.”

      He shook his head and held up his hands. “No, no. You’re right. I’m sorry. I just … I could use a woman’s opinion. That’s all. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot.”

      “Ask your mom,” I suggested.

      He grinned. “Yes. Much more appropriate. You just …” He looked down at his hands, then gave me the James Dean look, lowered head, sheepish grin. “You have a way about you, Callie. It’s … special. You’re special. I hope you know that.” His smile faded. “Very special.”

      The air in the office seemed to change. My knees prickled uncomfortably. Mark’s eyes dropped once more to my mouth and stayed there. When he spoke next, his voice was very quiet. “I seem to be thinking about Santa Fe a lot these days.”

      My breath caught. “Excuse me?”

      He raised his eyes back to mine, gave a little smile and shrugged. “I don’t know. It was … special. A special time.”

      Couldn’t the man think of another adjective? I stood up fast. “I have to go, Mark. See you tomorrow.”

      “Callie …” I waited, but then he sighed. “See you tomorrow. Have a great night.”

      Out on the street, I took a few cleansing breaths, my breath fogging in the darkening evening. Stupid Mark. What was that all about, huh? I knew Santa Fe was special, I’d spent practically an entire year getting over how special it was, I told him about its specialness the night he dumped me and he dumped me anyway! And how dare he look at my mouth that way after all he’d put me through?

      I took a few more breaths, the sharp scent of autumn leaves and woodsmoke finally calming me. Jake Pelletier pulled into a parking space in front of Whoop & Holler, saw me and waved. I waved back, then headed up the hill toward the funeral home.

      I was over Mark. I was. I just didn’t appreciate him stirring up the muck of my feelings from the past. Especially the day after my very first fight with Ian.

      Speaking of my fight with Ian, it was time to fix that. Time for some wild monkey make-up sex. Last night had been awkward, we’d fought, now we’d make up. Because a day without hearing from him or seeing him was just not acceptable.

      You go, girl, Mrs. Obama said, and I smiled at the thought. But first, my family.

      “Callie, you’re here!” Mom declared as I walked in the family entrance of the funeral home. My sibs, nieces and parents were all here.

      “Hey, everyone,” I said, unwinding myself from my Pashmina (on sale, a deep shade of rose, so soft!).

      “Where’s your grandfather?” Mom asked.

      “I came straight from work. And contrary to popular belief, I am not my grandfather’s keeper,” I said.

      “She’s more like his slave,” Freddie said.

      “You are correct. And Fred, since you’re shiftless, unemployed and have yet to graduate from college, why don’t you take over?”

      “I just called over there, and no one answered,” Mom said.

      “He’s probably with his lady love,” I suggested. “Hi, Josephine! Your hair looks so pretty!” My niece held up her arms, and even though she was getting big, I picked her up, sniffing her neck, making her giggle. “You smell like fairy dust,” I told her, and she grinned back at me, then wriggled down to go pick my father’s pocket, a life skill if ever there was one. Dad tossed me a wink and pretended not to notice his granddaughter digging in his back pocket. Her little hand emerged clutching a twenty. “Poppy, I robbed you!” she said happily.

      “Hello there, Callie,” came the silky voice of Louis. Louis who was banging Hester. That’s right! I’d almost forgotten.

      “Louis,” I said, taking my customary step backward.

      “No need to retreat,” he murmured. “I’ve moved on.”

      “So I heard,” I said, swallowing.

      “Yeah, so, we’re a freak show,” Hester said, coming up and handing me a glass of wine, good sister that she was. “No atheists in foxholes, you know?”

      “Yes,” I said, not wanting her to clarify that statement. Besides, Hes was beaming. Beaming! I hadn’t seen her look so happy since Bronte’s adoption was finalized.

      Speaking of my elder niece, Bronte came up, noted that her mother was holding hands with Louis and made a gagging sound. “Now, Bronte,” I said. “You’re the one who wanted a father figure.”

      “I was picturing Denzel Washington. Not Dwight Schrute here.”

      “I love Dwight Schrute,” I said.

      “Yes, but do you want him sleeping with your mother?” she demanded.

      “Good point.” Hester and Louis were staring at each other, all sorts of icky pheromones flying. “You can come live with Noah and me,” I whispered to Bronte.

      “I probably will,” she said huffily. But a little smile played around her mouth.

      “Okay, kids, gather ‘round,” Dad said. “Well, I wish my father were here … Callie, where’d he go?”

      “He slipped out of his collar and ran off! I don’t know, Dad! He has a girlfriend. Can we leave it at that?”

      “Sure, Poodle,” he said, all sparkly and Clooney-esque. “Well, Bluebird, would you like to tell them?”

      Bluebird. Bluebird. My breath caught.

      “You go ahead,