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**
The next morning, I’m more relieved than anything. Emerson is fine, doesn’t even remember what dumb-ass thought or party prompted him to drink so goddamn much.
He’s conscious enough to listen patiently to my attempt at a concerned big brother talk before politely telling me to go away.
Despite my offer and Emerson’s own protests about not being a kid anymore, Landon insists on having him stay at his and Kyra’s place for the next few weeks.
While I want to stop by for another talk, apparently tonight is some family games night for Landon, Kyra & Co., plus Greyson is already stopping by.
So, I leave it for now. I’ve got the whole next few weeks to bother my baby brother with rants about the benefits of sober and love-free living.
At work, there’s more bad news. The renos are even further behind than we thought, which means… you guessed it: more money to piss down the Renovation Drain.
I don’t realize that I’ve been looking forward to seeing her until I do.
Blue sunflower-covered dress, and the kind of smile that could save a day, and that’s all it takes. I’m smiling.
Maybe, just maybe, today can be saved.
There are about ten different things in my head I want to say all at once, like:
You look pretty.
I’m sorry.
I take it all back.
Forget I ever said anything.
Lunch?
Any plans tonight?
Can you forgive me?
But, before I can say anything, she says, “Alright. I’ll do it.”
Chapter 14
Sierra
He blinks. “You’ll do it.”
God, those hazel eyes of his could lead someone off a ledge. Hopefully I’m not the one walking off one now.
“Yeah,” I say. “You were right. Not a big deal.”
“I was—I mean I am?”
One thing I’ve picked up from Josie and Wynona sometime or another: if you have no clue what you’re doing, one good strategy is to smile. So, I do.
“You’re the boss around here,” I say before I walk away, smiling.
It feels good—having the last word, saying quotables like I’m some badass instead of one confused mess of emotions. Walking off as if it didn’t take every little last iota of self-control I have.
As if just being in the same room as him didn’t involve a gravitational pull stronger than any I’ve ever known.
Still, I do it.
I ignore how the look he’s giving me might be construed as confused, maybe even apologetic, and I go back to my office to get to work. After all, that’s what he hired me for.
Although when I get back to my office, ignoring the half-hearted “Hey, Sierra” he calls after me, I find another nice surprise.
“This might just turn out to be my best week in a long while,” I murmur to myself as I eye the email.
**
That evening, I get to the cafe early, wearing the pinstripe gray and navy blazer the twins agreed was professional without being over-the-top, paired with the plain black pants Win thought were yawn-worthy and Josie thought were perfect.
Only time will tell.
I scan the cafe for my potential boss-to-be, although it isn’t easy to stay on task.
My gaze keeps straying to furry balls of cuteness. One tabby is pawing at someone’s computer cord, while a fluffy gray with green eyes is flopped in the middle of the floor like he owns the place.
“Cat cafe? The guy’s a weirdo,” Wynona declared morbidly as soon as I told them.
But maybe he just really likes cats?
Besides, with this interview being for a journalist position—an actual, honest-to-goodness journalist gig—I’m not going to find fault even if he wants me showing up in hot dog galoshes and playing the banjo.
There’s two shaggy-haired teens sniggering over something weird on their phone who can’t be Maurice. An old woman in the corner with three cats on her lap and a spoon in her bright red bun who can’t be Maurice. A man close to me frowning with a scandalized face at a nearby black cat who can’t be Maurice.
Which leaves… the fifteen-year-old braceface behind the counter?
“Miss Hill,” someone says, and I turn around.
Huh. So much for the frowning guy not being Maurice.
Although his disgusted scowl barely makes way for a simper as he sticks out his hand, it has to be him. “I’m Maurice Howells. A pleasure.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say, with my best firm-but-not-too-firm handshake.
His hand is as cold and clammy as old ham. He smells painfully clean, as if he bathed in Mr. Clean instead of regular old water.
Or maybe my nerves are just sending my observational skills into overdrive?
No sooner has my butt hit the chair, then he begins. “So. You’re a journalist?”
I nod. “Yep. Four-year-degree.”
He sips at his fruity-looking drink like he doesn’t trust the contents, but he keeps one eye on me.
“Tell me more” he says, and, as I rhyme off my various experiences, contributions and qualifications, his scowl darkens, until he sneezes, then curses. “Damned cats.”
My look must have been more quizzical than I intended—after all, I hadn’t heard of ‘The Incatredible Cafe’ until he invited me here—because he draws himself up and explains, rather officiously, “It’s the closest place to my house.”
