“I hope you do,” she says softly. “You’d be good to someone. You’d make someone happy. I can tell.” The untrusting part of me is screaming with the hidden meaning of her words. Because of how much money you make. Or you’re so well-known any girl would love to be on your arm. But there’s something about the kind smile Indy is wearing as she watches me do the dishes that makes me want to believe my gut. That she means I, as a man, as a normal everyday person would make someone happy, and I haven’t let that thought invade my mind in a long time.
