Waiting On You. Kristan Higgins

conjugal bed. Very entertaining. Coll scanned the bar as Pru talked, making sure all was running smoothly.

      It occurred to her that spending her night off at work was maybe not 100 percent healthy. Granted, options were limited in Manningsport, New York, a town of just over seven hundred. She could be home, reading and cuddling with Rufus, her enormous Irish wolfhound mutt, who would love nothing more than to stare into her eyes in adoration for several hours. One couldn’t rule out the ego boost that provided.

      Or, Colleen thought, she could be out on a date. Rafe had a point.

      It’s just that every guy she met seemed to be lacking something. She hadn’t felt the tingle in a long, long time.

      As the proprietor of the only year-round alcohol-serving establishment in town, Colleen saw a lot of relationships blossom or end in a fiery crash. When things went right, it was generally because the woman had cleverly manipulated the guy into good dating behavior. He’d call when he said he would. Put some thought into dates. He’d ask questions about her life because she didn’t vomit up all her personal history in the first ten minutes.

      Far more common, however, was the fiery crash model, when Colleen mixed a sympathy cosmo or poured an extra ounce of Pinot Grigio into a glass for a woman who had no idea what went wrong. Colleen could tell her, of course, and sometimes did... Maybe you shouldn’t have talked about your ex for two hours, or Is telling him you were just cleared for fertility treatments a good idea on the first date?

      Happily, the now-engaged Brandy had asked Colleen for advice from the start. Should I go out with him again tomorrow? Is it okay to sleep with him yet? How about if I text him right now?

      The answers: No, no and no.

      “Colleen,” said the bride-to-be now, “I just wanted to thank you again for everything.” She bent down and gave Coll a hug. “Bridesmaid?”

      “Of course!” Colleen said. “You two...mazel tov! I’m so happy for you!”

      “Thanks, Coll,” Ted said. “You’re the best.”

      “My fifteenth couple,” she said to the Holland sisters as the happy couple left for some monkey sex, one presumed.

      “You have a gift,” Faith said, taking a slab of nachos onto her plate.

      “And yet just last night, there was some poor woman in here, begging the guy she was with not to dump her, and I took her aside and said, ‘Honey, if you have to beg, do you really want this loser?’ But of course, she kept crying and begging, and it was agony, I tell you.” She finished her drink, one of the strawberry thingies Faith had passed on. “Maybe I should teach a class. Pru, when Abby starts dating, you send her to me.”

      “Will do. And thanks, because God knows, she’s not listening to me these days.”

      “Excuse me,” came a voice, and all three of them looked up.

      “Hey, Paulie,” Colleen said. “How are you? Have a seat!”

      Paulina “Paulie” Petrosinsky pulled up a chair, swung it backward and straddled it. She’d been Faith and Colleen’s classmate—not quite a friend back in the day, but really nice. She came into O’Rourke’s once in a while, usually after a workout at the gym, where her weight lifting skills were the stuff of legend.

      “Um...I overheard you say something about, uh, teaching people? Women?” she asked.

      “Slut University,” Pru said, and Faith and Honor snorted.

      “Very funny,” Colleen said. “My reputation is greatly exaggerated.”

      “And whose fault is that?” Faith asked. “You should stop spreading rumors about yourself.”

      Colleen smiled. Had she in fact written something flattering about herself on the men’s room wall just last week? She had. “Ignore my so-called friends,” she said. “What’s up?”

      “Um...can you really help a, um, a person? With, uh...you know. Love and men and stuff?” Paulie’s face turned deep red, then purple.

      “Are you all right?” Honor asked, frowning a little.

      “Oh, that. My face. It’s called idiopathic craniofacial erythema. I...I blush. A lot.”

      “Wish I could hang around,” Prudence said. “We farm people have to get up early. Good luck with your man, Paulie! See you, girls!”

      “So are you interested in someone in particular?” Colleen asked, scootching over into Pru’s vacated chair to make more room at the table.

      Paulie swallowed. “Yeah,” she whispered, glancing around.

      “Who?” Faith asked.

      “Um...I’d rather not say.”

      Colleen nodded. “What do you like about him?”

      “He’s...he’s just so nice. I mean, really kind, right? And he’s cheerful and good and smart, I think, too. I mean, he...well. He’s great.”

      Colleen smiled. “And do you feel sick when you see him, and then hot, and then nauseous?”

      “Exactly,” Paulie said, her face purpling again.

      “Do you imagine conversations with him, holding hands and moonlit walks and all that other mushy stuff?”

      “I—yes. I do.” Paulie took a shaky breath.

      “Does he make your danger zone tingly? Does your skin get hot, do your knees wobble, does your tongue feel swollen—”

      Faith stood up. “I miss Levi,” she announced. She gave Colleen a kiss on the cheek and squeezed her sister’s shoulder. “Good luck, Paulie! Take Colleen with a grain of salt.”

      “I’m going, too,” Honor said. “Bye, matchmaker. Do no harm, mind you. See you, Paulina.”

      “So who is this guy?” Colleen asked when they were gone.

      Paulie shot a nervous glance back to the bar. Aha! A hint. “You know what?” Paulie said. “Never mind. He’s...he’s out of my league.”

      “No, he’s not!” Colleen cried. “Paulie, you’re so nice! You are! Anyone would be lucky to have you.” Besides, Colleen always felt a little guilty where Paulie was concerned.

      “Thanks,” she muttered.

      “It’s true,” Colleen said firmly. Granted, Paulie hadn’t been blessed with great beauty. And her dad was a little odd—Ronnie Petrosinsky, owner of four small restaurants called Chicken King that served fried chicken thirty-eight different ways, all of them very, very bad for you. He was locally famous for his commercials, where he pranced around dressed as a rooster wearing a crown. Poor Paulie was also featured in a fluffy yellow chick suit, wearing a crown—the Chicken Princess. Try getting out from under that title, especially in high school.

      “Listen, Paulie. No one is out of your league. Go ahead, tell me.”

      Paulina sighed gustily and drained her Genesee (first order of business: get her to drink something more feminine). “It’s Bryce Campbell.”

      Oh. Okay, so that might be tough.

      Bryce was gorgeous. Jake Gyllenhaal DEFCON 4–gorgeous. He got his share of tail, as Colleen knew all too well. Bryce was a regular. Not the sharpest tool in the shed, but sweet. He had a certain charm, and women threw themselves at him all the time.

      Lots of women.

      “That’s fine,” Colleen said, realizing she hadn’t spoken for a moment. “Not a problem.”

      Paulie gave her a despairing look.

      “I’m serious. We can work with this. So, tell me more about you and Bryce.”

      Paulie’s expression grew dreamy, the severe blush fading. “He volunteers at the animal shelter, you know?” Colleen