He barked a laugh—against his will. He didn’t want to be the kind of person who laughed so easily, but Blair could be funny. Strident but funny. It was an odd combination. And hey, apparently he could sympathize with not knowing what kind of person you were.
“There’s coffee here.” She gestured at a drip machine. “I probably should have gotten one of those single-brew machines with the pods. I hate the waste, though.” She made a silly face. “Said the woman who flew a private jet to DC three times last year.”
It was interesting how self-aware Blair was. Rich but self-aware. Strident but funny. She was a mass of qualities that should have contradicted each other.
“I’m not picky about coffee.” That was a lie. He definitely had his preferences. In his mind, there was a category called Coffee, and there was a category called Warm Caffeinated Liquid. He would settle for the latter. He just had to go into it not expecting Coffee.
“When it comes to coffee, maybe you’re not picky, but you’re gonnahatethis.” She opened a cupboard with an exaggerated flourish and extracted a giant lime-green mug with white polka dots. She set it down on the counter and waved her arms game show hostess–style in front of the shelf from which she’d taken the mug. It was home to several other porcelain monstrosities in different neon colors.
“Those are the worst of the worst,” Jack said, “because not only is the overall volume too great, they’re wide and shallow instead of just larger versions of normal mugs.”
“And that exposes more of the coffee to air, thus cooling it faster.”
He wasn’t sure if she was asking a question, but he said, “Yes.”
So tomorrow morning would feature Warm Caffeinated Liquid in the world’s worst-engineered mug. Fine. It was only one cup. LAX would have something decent.
“I’ll get out of your hair,” Blair said. “I can show you the main house tomorrow.” She paused halfway to the door. “Unless you want to come over for a drink?”
He did not want to go over for a drink. He wanted her to leave so he could figure out how to tell her he was bailing tomorrow. Or maybe he wouldn’t tell her. Ghosting was immature but efficient, and he had an established track record of being a dick to Blair, so he would only be playing to type.
“Thanks,” he said, “but I think I’ll wind down for the day. I’m on central time, so I’m tired.” That was a lie. Jack was a night owl. But he needed to be done with this conversation. And he needed to put out feelers to find a place to stay when he got back to Minnesota, unless he wanted to try to oust his subletter.
“Right, right.” She hustled the rest of the way to the door as if she were in a race but then came to a full stop with her back to him and her palm on the handle. She stood there long enough that he wondered if he was meant to say something. Before he could figure it out, she turned, wearing an expression he could not parse. It was almost but not quite one of bemusement. A shade too knowing to be quizzical. He was still trying to puzzle through it when she said, “I’m glad you’re here, Jack Branksome. I hope you can find what you need.”
And then she was gone.
Which was what he’d wanted.
So why did he feel so unmoored?
I hope you can find what you need? What did that mean? Why hadn’t she just said she hoped he could finish his book?
He shook his head. It was not his job to decode Blair Kellermoon.
He opened the Delta app on his phone and bought a flight.
He almost made it out the next morning.
“Jack!”
Damn it.
Could he doanythingright? It was one thing to not be able to write his book, but apparently he couldn’t even ghost someone properly.
He shut his computer. At least he didn’t have his suitcase with him out here. He had decided to take his coffee outside and work in the sunshine until he had to leave for the airport. One hour of summer, he’d told himself, until he had to order an Uber.
One hour of living inside his vision. Of bucking the cocoon theory of novel writing.
Except, as per usual, he wasn’t actually writing.
Blair, accompanied by a beagle on a leash, was dressed like it was March in Minnesota, in a puffer vest over a tight-fitting, long-sleeved athletic-type shirt and yoga pants. Jack was wearing shorts and a T-shirt—part of his one-hour dose of summer.
The dog barked.
He took a sip from the stupid mug. The coffee was surprisingly good. Enough to promote it from Warm Caffeinated Liquid.
Blair said, “This is Edward.”
