By the time Finley returned with her shawl, the wine bottle, and some glasses, Mooney had turned on the gas firepit and was warming her hands over the flames. The night was black except for the light given by the fire and a few strategically placed lanterns, making the stars all the brighter. The light evening breeze smelled briny and clean like a fresh wash hung in crisp, salt air.
“I really could get used to this,” Mooney said. “Maybe I need to run through my contact list and find myself a new guy with a house out here on the island.”
“Well, while you are looking, find one for me,” Finley said, pouring some of the local rosé into the glasses.
“You?” Mooney eyed her friend warily. “You are getting back into the dating rat race? You, who only yesterday had sworn off men?”
“All right, I get the point—but I am not getting any younger, so I need to get back in the saddle,” Finley said. If he has moved on, so can I. It may take some time, but if anyone can get me back in the game, Mooney can.
“Oh, this is going to be fun!” Mooney sat across from her friend, pulled her feet up under her, and tucked the wide legs of her jumpsuit over her toes. She took her time, drawing a long sip of wine from her glass, her eyes fixed on Finley’s face.
“What are you staring at?” Finley shifted herself closer to the firepit. “I haven’t grown horns.”
“I know. Just trying to figure out your type.”
“I don’t know that I have a type, per se. Just a nice guy with a great sense of humor.”
“How clichéd!” Mooney took another swig of wine. “You could find a million guys that say they have a great sense of humor, and some actually have—but you, my dear, wouldn’t find them in the least bit attractive.”
“Well, since I don’t know my type, why don’t you tell me what it is?”
“British, most likely, for the quirkiness and wit. Tall and physically attractive, but not necessarily handsome. Well-read and well-traveled so that you don’t get bored but not bookish. Somewhat adventurous. Kind of like Indiana Jones so that you are always intrigued. And wealthy enough to allow him to live out his fantasies with you by his side.”
Finley shook her head and laughed. “You find him, I’ll marry him. This guy is too good to be true. And even more to the point, what would he want with me?”
Mooney paused mid-sip. “Finley Walker—now that I know your middle name, I have got to use it for effect—you are one of the prettiest, smartest, funniest, most charming women I know. Any guy would be lucky to have you pay him the slightest bit of attention. Stop this pity party.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Finley responded jokingly. “So, do you have someone in mind?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.” Mooney slyly swirled the last sip of wine around in her glass. “Indeed, I do.”
“Well, do I get to hear about him?”
“Nope. Not until I set it up.”
“Why? What’s wrong with him?”
“Nothing, but if I tell you about him, something is bound to be. You will find it. So, let me just arrange it, and we’ll see what happens.”
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