“Is there a study on that too?”
“Obviously.”
Scrubbing a hand across his beard, he seems dubious, so I go for the kill, leaning in close, my hair swishing back and forth across his chest. Sawyer’s gaze follows my copper strands, a little transfixed by the feel, it seems. “Mr. Darcy would do it,” I whisper.
A low rumble seems to climb up his chest before he says, “Mr. Darcy would also insist on ladies first in this…sad competition.”
“Fine. I’ll go. I’ve got a sob story for you, all right,” I say, then take a steadying breath. It’ll feel good to get this off my chest with someone who doesn’t know me. Sure, I told my friends earlier, butthe sooner I can process the day I’ve had, the sooner I can move on. And I am all about moving forward and leaving the past behind. “My ex sabotaged me at work today. He blamed me for more than one hundred balloons exploding glitter over the town square. It was like a hundred balloons busting a sparkly nut all at once,” I say.
Sawyer barks out a laugh. “One collective nut? They busted one nut?”
“Fine, they bustedallthe nuts, but don’t forget they were sparkly.”
“How could I forget about a hundred sparkly nuts?”
“But there’s more,” I say, since I’m on a roll. “He actually went into the shared drive, doctored my presentation to pretend the sparkly balloons were my idea, then set me up to take the fall. Here’s the kicker?—”
“There’s more?” Sawyer’s eyes widen.
“Believe it,” I say, emphatic. “First, I hate balloons, and I don’t hate anything. I’m so not a hater, but I hate balloons.”
“I’m very much a hater, so please take this with all the respect of one—balloons deserve it. Now, what’s the second thing?”
I pause to set up the painful payoff. Well, I want to win dessert rights. “His father owns the company I worked for. He fired me today.”
Sawyer winces, then utters a sympathetic “Ouch,” before adding, “shit, Chloe. That sucks. I’m really sorry to hear that.”
“Thanks, but I’ll figure something out. I always do,” I say, trying my best to be upbeat since…what’s the alternative? Pretty sure moping doesn’t get you ahead. “Oh, one more thing! Have I mentioned he’s not just my ex but my ex-husband? We were married for six months a few years ago. This was after our friends dared us to say “I do” at a high school reunion in Vegas. I learned my lesson—don’t work with your ex.”
“Or get married on a dare?” he asks dryly.
I lift a finger, like I’m tapping the air. “That one too. So many lessons.” I let out a long, satisfied breath. “That did feel good. Now, go,” I say, making a rolling gesture with my hand. “Your turn. Just see if you can top that.”
He rubs his palms together, blows out a breath. “Ready?”
“I am.”
“You sure?”
“Positive?”
“Be prepared to admit defeat.”
My jaw drops. “C’mon. How can you be so sure?”
“I’m sure,” he says with the same confidence he displayed when he told me he’d fuck me senseless. Is it weird that it turns me on a little bit again? Well, call me weird.
“Because of this,” he adds, then sticks out his arm. Straight in front of him.
I don’t get it. “It’s a nice forearm?”
He swings his gaze importantly to his watch. “For Christmas a year and a half ago, I got a smartwatch for my fiancée and one for me.”
I sit bolt upright, clutching my robe closed at my neck. My skin prickles. “You’re engaged?”
“No, fuck no. In fact, I’mnotengaged—thanks to this watch.”
Now I’m really lost. “Okay…?”
