That's (Not Exactly) Amore by Tracey Bateman Page B

him. (My moral code says sex comes after marriage, and that’s ironclad.)
    I open the door to the sound of snoring. Joe’s, I presume.
    Tiptoeing into the living room, I see Joe curled up on a worn-out blue recliner. His blanket has slipped onto the floor and he’s shivering. In a rush of sympathy, I pick up the blanket and spread it over him.
    Joe looks—well—he looks really good. His face is gentle, like it was last night. He looks like the kind of guy who would pay his elderly mother’s rent and take her to the grocery store. The kind who would bring home Chinese food at the end of a long day and rub his wife’s feet after dinner. Who knows if that’s really the case, but I find the fantasy too appealing to surrender.
    His dark hair falls just over his ears, begging me to reach out—just like in a romance novel or a love story on TV—and brush it away. But of course I resist. Instead, I force my gaze from the sight. I think I’ll rummage around the kitchen and find some coffee to brew.
    As I start to walk away, Joe’s warm hand catches mine. He stares up at me silently, his eyes squinting against the light. “Thank you,” he says, fingering the blanket with his other hand. “I was freezing.”
    “You were snoring.” I smile. He’s still holding my hand.
    “I was freezing in my sleep and you saved me.” He tugs me until I’m sitting on the arm of his chair. “I guess that makes you my hero.”
    “One good turn deserves another.” I can’t catch my breath.
    “That’s an old-fashioned phrase.” He smiles and reaches up with his other hand to tuck a curl behind my ear.
    My cheeks warm, but I shrug off the embarrassment. “What can I say? I guess I’m just an old-fashioned girl.”
    “Nothing wrong with that.”
    A knock at the door pulls us from the conversation.
    “I’ll get that,” he says, untangling his fingers from mine. I take the hint and stand up.
    I wait, feeling like maybe I should run back to the bedroom so that whoever is at the door won’t see me and assume the worst. But not only isn’t there time, the thought of hiding away like I’ve done something wrong doesn’t sit well with me. So I stand there, staring at the door while Joe answers it, barefoot, wearing a pair of men’s lounge pajamas and a sleeveless undershirt.
    Nancy’s standing at the door. “It’s about time, Joey. For crying out loud. It’s raining out here.”
    “You should have called.” He moves aside and allows her to enter.
    “I told you I’d bring my roomie some clothes today, didn’t I?” With that, she focuses on me. “You feeling better? Joe was awfully worried about you last night.”
    My face feels hot and splotchy. “Much better, thanks.”
    She hands me a gym bag. “I picked out an outfit and hair stuff and makeup. I figured you might not have time to go home before your breakfast with your friends.”
    My eyes bug out. “I forgot about that. What time is it?”
    “Six thirty.”
    I breathe a little. Breakfast isn’t until eight so I have plenty of time. I turn to Joe. “May I use your shower?” He nods and points me in the right direction.
    Twenty minutes later, I’ve showered, towel-dried my hair, pulled it into a ponytail, and dressed in the jeans and hoodie Nancy brought.
    There’s a fresh cup of coffee sitting on the kitchen table with a note next to it. “Laini, help yourself. I’m using the shower in the coffee shop. See you in a few minutes. Joe.”
    A cozy feeling washes over me.
    I always wanted a guy who leaves notes.

10
    T abby stares at me incredulously as I relay my last few days to my two best friends over a steaming latte.
    “So, basically,” she says, shaking her head, “in the last four days, you’ve had dinner with a great-looking cop in his dad’s seafood restaurant on Long Island”—she takes a breath—“then had another great guy . . .” She stops a second and her eyes rest on Joe. “Correction, great, and
great-looking,
carry you up to his