The Twelve Dates of Christmas

“It is. Or it would be—”

“Except?”

She bit her lower lip, wondering if she should come clean with Tina. She decided she needed to talk to someone. “Except I’m thinking I should end our deal.”

“End a deal that might help you find a job? Are you nuts?”

“More like concerned. I thought he wanted a date because of a bad breakup, but the way the wives of his friends were talking last night I get the feeling something big happened to this guy.”

“Big like what?”

“Something tragic. They said, ‘after his tragedy’ a couple of times.”

Tina winced. “Sounds like maybe his last girlfriend died.”

Oh. Wouldn’t that make sense? “Could be.”

“Too bad we’re not allowed to use the internet here or we could look him up.”

“I can always go to the library after work.”

“Maybe you should.”

Knowing she could investigate him later, she relaxed and got down to the business of typing legal briefs. Because she worked late that night, she couldn’t go to the library. Disappointment and curiosity collided, making her too nervous to sleep.

As she lay in bed pondering Ricky, their deal and her life, it dawned on her that since she’d met him, she’d been immersed in helping him. All weekend long, she’d remade dresses, gone to parties and worked to make a good impression on his friends so he could be happy. And it had felt good. Really good. She’d been busy. Happy. Until his friends’ wives talked about “his tragedy” she’d been enjoying this charade.

And thinking of someone else had made her stop dwelling on her own problems. She hadn’t done that since her husband had died.

Maybe she shouldn’t jeopardize their good rapport by looking him up.

Maybe helping a man with a tragedy in his past was exactly what she needed to get over her own grief.

Especially because he was a friend of a friend. Ricky Langley wouldn’t be in Tucker Engle’s circle of confidantes if there was something wrong with him.

He was a guy with a tragic past. A guy she could help. And in return she could forget about her own troubles.

* * *

Ricky trudged up Eloise’s four flights of steps on Friday night, so sad he’d nearly canceled their evening together again. On Monday night, he’d gone to the hospital to read to the kids, as Regina had suggested, and it had been devastating. He hated seeing kids suffer. He couldn’t believe Regina had suggested he read to children so weak they broke his heart, reminded him of Blake, reminded him of how stupid he’d been. His son was dead because he’d never asked Blake’s mother to let him raise him. She was a party girl turned mother and he’d seen the difficulties she’d had fitting Blake into her life. She probably would have been happy to give him custody of Blake, as long as she got visitation, but he’d never asked.