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And maybePeople.
“Why, um, why did you want to meet?” She tucked one side of her hair behind her ear and said, “I have to admit that your text shocked the hell out of me.”
She was definitely more tense when she was sober, which wasn’t a total surprise, and she seemed suspicious of me.
“Yeah, well, the last time we spoke—”
“The only time,” she corrected in a clipped tone.
“You expressed an interest in becoming an ‘objectress.’ ”
She’d been raising the cup to her lips, and at my words, she froze. She blinked, but that was the only move she made.
“So this is me calling on you for help,” I said, “public servant.”
Wheels were turning as her eyes moved all over my face, like she was taking in all the data.
What was she thinking?
“Listen.” She rubbed her lips together, and I could tell she was turning me down. “I don’t think—”
“Has your opinion on love changed?” I interrupted, trying to poke the tiger. Not only did I want her to do this, but I kind of wanted to see a glimmer of the girl who’d done cartwheels down the hotel hallway. “Are you now a hopeless romantic?”
“God, no.” That question shook her right out of indecision, and she looked at me like I was a moron for suggesting it. “But that doesn’t mean I want to insert myself into someone else’s drama.”
Fuck.She was going to say no, and TJ was going to be screwed. I picked up my coffee and said, “What if I’d said that aboutyourwedding?”
She paused, tilted her head, and muttered, “That’s not fair.”
“True, though.” I rubbed a hand over my chin and said, “So you owe me.”
Her eyes narrowed, and I knew I’d made a mistake. This was not a woman to be pressured. She lowered her voice and said, “We paid you for your services.”
“Your friend’s check bounced,” I lied, waiting for her reaction. “So it was a gift. From me.”
“Freaking Asha,” she muttered, rolling her eyes as if this was Asha’s standard MO. “How much do I owe you?”
“As I said, it was a gift,” I repeated, trying not to smile but fairly certain I was smirking. “A gift that spared you from a lifetime of being Mrs. Sophie... what was ol’ Stu’s last name?”
She blinked and took in a deep breath through her nose, and for a second I thought she wasn’t going to tell me. Then she said, quietly, “Lauren.”
“Oh, dear Lord,” I said, unable to keep the laugh from escaping. “You were going to be SophieLauren? Like the Italian film star but with aneinstead of ana? Sophie. Lauren. ThankGodI showed up and stopped things before you spent your entire life listening to people ask you if you’ve ever seen the movieHouseboat.”
“Cary Grant was a dream in that flick,” she said, shocking the hell out of me both by knowing the classic film and for finally—finally—sounding a little like the bride I’d rescued.
“Sophia Loren was the dream,” I corrected, then added, “At least tell me you would’ve kept your name if Stewie had managed to put a ring on it.”
“Of course I would keep my name,” she said, making a face that told me she was keeping her name no matter whom she married.
“Which is...?” I prodded.
“Steinbeck.” She lifted her chin, daring me to make a comment about the famous author.
And yes, I wanted to because it was low-hanging fruit, but I wanted her help even more.
“So are you scared? Of objecting?” I asked casually, leaning back in my chair and crossing my arms. “Is that it?”
“Kind of,” she admitted, taking the lid off her cup. She had three twinkling bands on her middle finger—silver, yellow gold, rose gold—that caught the light when she moved her hand. “I don’t like conflict, and this is conflict to the nth degree. But it also just seems like a terrible idea on so many levels.”
