Grace shrugged. “It’s the Pavlov syndrome, an automatic response to stimuli. It means nothing.”
I pursued my point. “Anyway, when you’re young, you’re more inclined to settle into a relationship just because the sex is fantastic.”
“That’s a very good reason at any age, Mandy. Assuming one was the settling type.”
“Over thirty-five, you’re less likely to be satisfied by the sex alone,” I insisted, sipping wine. “And you’re less likely to hook up with someone for the express purpose of having children and raising a family. Most people take care of that issue in their twenties.”
“Not so much in this day and age. Women are having their children later and later in life.”
“I said most, not all.” I held up a three fingers. “Third, you’re also not likely to settle down in your thirties just because it makes it easier to get a mortgage. You’ve probably already done that, too.”
“You haven’t.”
“I live in Philadelphia. Real estate is ridiculously expensive.”
“So move out of the city.”
“I love the city. What number was I up to?”
“Four.”
I nodded. “Last but not least, you’re also less likely to take a mate just because society is geared almost exclusively toward couples.”
“That’s the compliance part?”
“Yes. So you see, if you hook up with someone once you get past thirty-five, I think you do it for the purest of reasons. Compatibility. Comfort. Conversation. Then throw in a little lust for fun and games. The whole situation becomes easy and noncombative. You don’t fall into a relationship for what the guy can give you, because you’ve probably already gotten it for yourself. You don’t have the need to demand anymore. You can just accept.”
Grace swallowed wine. “Oh, joy. I can hardly wait. Does this come hand in hand with crow’s feet?”
I ignored that. “It’s why I don’t date…much,” I explained. “And why I don’t have an overriding need to claw.”
“Because you’ve already got a child, you don’t want a mortgage and you don’t care what people think anymore?”
“In a nutshell, yes. I can afford to be selective now, so I am.”
Grace put her wineglass on the table and leaned forward. “Mandy. You haven’t dated lately because you spend all your free time with Sam. Let’s not lie to each other here.”
My spine jerked straight, hard enough and suddenly enough to hurt a little. “That’s not true.”
“What’s not?” Jenny Tower asked, flopping into one of the chairs. By the way she shifted her weight in her seat, I knew she was toeing her shoes off under the table. She looked tired.
“Mandy doesn’t date because she’s too busy hanging out with Sam,” Grace said.
“It’s my choice!” I was going to get that through to her if it killed me. “I can afford to wait for compatibility, comfort and conversation because I’m thirty-five!”
Jenny took her apron off and laid it on her lap, pulling a wad of tips from the pocket. She started sorting the ones from the fives. “I don’t ever want to be that old.”
“It’s better than dying young,” Grace said, “but barely.” Then she grabbed the money from Jenny’s hand. “Honey, you’re not in Kansas anymore.”
Jenny looked around the bar and blinked as though coming out of a dream. If there’s anyone in the world more trusting than Jenny is, then it would have to be Toto himself—and even Toto had the good sense to bark at that goofy wizard. “You think someone’s going to snatch it right out of my hand?” she asked disbelievingly.
Grace took the hand in question and pressed the money back into it, folding Jenny’s fingers over it. “Call me mercenary, but our rent is due in two weeks.”
Jenny sighed and pushed the money into her jeans pocket. “Okay. I’ll count it later. Let’s get back to why Mandy doesn’t date.”
I launched into my theory again. “I haven’t met anyone recently who particularly inspires me, and I don’t need all those other things I was mentioning—the mortgage and whatnot—so I won’t tolerate someone who doesn’t inspire me.”
“Which brings us back to Sam,” Grace said. She cut a look at Jenny. “We were talking about clawing his clothes off, at which point Mandy went off into this business about relationships at a certain age. Compatibility. Comfort. Conversation. Wait, what was the other thing you mentioned?” She glanced at me again and tapped a finger against her cheek exaggeratedly. “Ah. Now I remember. Lust.”
“Lust is good,” Jenny contributed. “But I agree, the other things matter a whole lot, too.”
“You and Sam are compatible,” Grace continued, still aiming her words at me. “You’re comfortable with each other. The conversation between you is great—just ask any of us who’ve ever tried to horn in on it. Therefore, according to everything you just told me, the progression is obvious. You two ought to be having sex.”
I opened my mouth to argue and realized that I had just been boxed in by my own theory. Grace was going to make one hell of a lawyer when she finished clerking for the criminal court judge.
Then she sat up a little straighter and looked over my shoulder. I turned in my chair and followed her gaze and my pulse hiccuped.
Sam had just arrived. He was standing at the bar.
Chapter Two
“Who’s that with him?” Jenny asked, leaning forward at our table to check out the situation.
My gaze hitched to Sam’s left. It was the woman he’d taken out Monday night. Surprise—she had a lot of hair and all of it was blond. “I think he said she works for Fox, Murray and Myers,” I said. “She’s a receptionist.”
“She looks like a bimbo,” Grace observed.
My gaze dropped to her not insignificant bosom. “I don’t think he wants her for her mind.”
Then, as though my attention had drawn his, Sam looked around and saw us. He grinned at me and picked up his scotch-and-water from the bar. I knew it was scotch because that was pretty much all he ever drank—Glenlivet specifically. With his glass in one hand and the blonde’s elbow in his other, he began steering her toward our table.
Jenny ogled them. “He’s bringing her here? He’s bringing his date to sit with Mandy?”
“He probably wants my stamp of approval,” I murmured.
“You two are strange,” Jenny said.
“We’re friends. Just friends. Why is that so hard for you people to wrap your minds around?”
Grace watched them approach as well. “His bimbo isn’t happy,” she decided.
I agreed. The blonde’s jaw seemed a little too set, her eyes too narrow.
Sam finished propelling her toward our table. He pulled out the last chair for her and snagged a seat from the next table for himself, then he placed it on the opposite side of the table from the bombshell.
“This is Tammy,” he said. He deposited his glass on the table and shifted his chair to face mine. “I had a thought on our Woodsen stalemate. What we need to do is get them back together. They’re shaky parents individually, but as a team they might be almost solid. Especially if we can convince Larson to appoint some kind of supervisor to look in on them from time to time. I think Lyle has a sister who lives something like two doors down.”
I