“Hmm?”
“I kinda loathe you right now.”
“You’re very polite in your hatred. May I ask why?” After a second, his brows sink as if in realization. “Because I didn’t tell you sooner about your grandmother? I wasn’t allowed to with client confidentiality.”
“Okay, fine. You can toss out legal jargon for that. But I was thinking more about Remington Mathis.”
“What about him?” He leans back against the booth and stretches his arm along the benchtop, the picture of ease and relaxation.
“He asked you about me last year, and you told him you had no idea who I was. Really, Fletcher? Way to make a girl feel memorable.”
“What?” His eyes widen. “You? You’re Remington’s mystery lady? The one he couldn’t track down?”
“Do you know any other Gretas?” Maybe he does. I mean, I don’t own exclusive rights to the name. “Or am I that forgettable?”
He blows out a breath. “When Remington asked, he mentioned this charming, witty, beautiful woman.”
I don’t know if I should be flattered that Leo thought such of me or angered that Fletcher decidedly did not. “Fletcher, remember when I gave you that pep talk about how to talk to ladies? You’re regressing.”
He realizes his mistake. “No, no. That’s not what I meant. You’reall those things.”
“Very convincing,” I deadpan. “But continue. I’ll give you a chance to redeem yourself.”
He chuckles. “Youareall those things, but only when people get to know you.” He gives me a pointed look. “The first time we met?—”
“I’ve known you pretty much all my life.”
He leans forward, eyes on me. “No, I mean thefirsttime we really spoke to each other. Do you remember?”
“Vaguely.” I only revisited that encounter every night at 3 a.m. for months on end. “Something about me falling into a trash can. The details are kinda fuzzy.”
He laughs. “You saw me and bolted. Like you wanted to avoid all conversation.”
Sounds about right. “If only I could’ve avoided the trash can with the same finesse.” In my hurry to get away, I didn’t notice the giant plastic bin and landed headfirst into it. Not my finest moment.
“When I helped you out, you were covered in hives. Which you said was …”
“Allergies.”
“More specific,” he coaxes.
“High pollen count,” I confess with a frown.
“And high pollen couldn’t be the reason because …”
“It was December.” I drop my head onto my balled hands. “You’re not helping me loathe you any less. You’re actually fueling my disdain.”
His smile widens. “I only mention this because I know how you are around people. New people in particular. You’re more introverted.”
Another valid point. If extroverted-ness was like cell reception, I’m the equivalent of one bar. And it’s blinking off and on. “So you assumed that Remington’s Greta couldn’t bethisGreta.” I point to myself. “Because I have the social flair of a blind raccoon.” Which is why I was amazed at myself when I could freely talk and flirt with Leo that night. It must’ve been the ambiance of the moonlit moment.
“Now I have a question. Are you Remington’s Greta?”
“Huh?” I blink. “Yeah, I was the one who was at the park that night. Obviously, I didn’t realize he never showed because he was fighting fires. We didn’t exchange numbers or full names.”
“No, I meant are you and him … a couple?” He takes a long sip of his drink, watching me over the brim of his cup.
“A couple?” I repeat like I’m some sort of robotic parrot. “No, we’re not together.”
