“But,” she continues, cutting me off with a ferocity that’s scarily sexy. “Know this, Mister Biggest Ego I’ve Ever Seen. I deleted it the next day.” She stabs her finger against the counter to make her point. “Didn’t save your name. Didn’t google you. Didn’t stalk you. I don’t even know what your last name is! And before you even think it, mister—I’mnotpregnant. So don’t even ask.”
She’s a mind reader. “I didn’t ask,” I say.Thank fuck.
“The fact that you think I actually took a photo of your license just in case you might someday open a dog daycare in my town says more about you than me.”
I swallow uncomfortably as a morsel of shame courses through me. But I dig my heels in. Because…she’s here. I hold my hands out wide. “What else am I supposed to think?”
She draws a deep breath—the kind that says she’s trying to keep her cool. “Have you ever heard of coincidence, Sawyer?”
“Yeah, but this is a huge coincidence,” I say. I wanted a fresh start here in Darling Springs. I wanted a new life. I wanted to get out of the city. I wanted to get away from a shitty relationship. “You also smiled when you asked if it was me. A few minutes ago. When you just walked in here,” I say, trying to prove my point.
Her jaw drops. “Because I’m not a dick!”
Sounds like she thinks I am.
She holds up a hand, and I take that as my cue to shut up for a beat. She releases a long breath, the kind that says she’s letting go of her rage. Or maybe her hurt. Her lips part. But she clamps them shut, turns around, then turns back to me as she blows it out. “The fact that you think I hunted you down and leased a workspace to be near you? That is the most male thing I’ve ever heard.”
I open my mouth to protest. Maybe to apologize. Because, shit…She might be right. I might be the ass in this scenario. “I?—”
“Nope,” she says, holding up a hand. “Don’t even try. If I lose this space over your fragile ego, I’ll survive. I will find another one. But don’t forgetthis, Sawyer Whatever-Your-Last-Name-Is. I did not look you up. And we both know I could have. Let’s be honest. I’m theonly onewho evencould’velooked up the other. And did I? Did I call you?”
Talk about putting me in my place. With her hands parked on her hips, she waits for me to answer.
I gulp out a “No.”
“Did I text you?”
“No,” I mutter.
“Did I slide into your DMs?”
“No.”
Her smile is of thetake that, assholevariety. “Think about that. Because I haven’t even thought about you again. I definitely didn’t put together a care package for you. And I wore this color,” she says, plucking at her shirt, “for…me. Not you. Not any man. Because I like it. So I swear to God, if you try to tell me this is anything other than a coincidence, I will take these slices of coconut bread and shove them where the sun does not shine.”
She spins on her heel, muttering something that sounds a lot like “unbelievable,” and stalks toward the nook like it’s hers—which, I guess, it is.
And I just made one hell of a first impression on my brand-newco-worker.
10
D-GAME RETRIBUTION
CHLOE
Of course this was too good to be true. Of course the universe didn’t want me to have nice things—like a growing business or a fantastic new workplace.
After I march into the training room, I drop my backpack onto the concrete floor with a thud, then yank open the zipper, nearly ripping it off, but of course, nicking a nail instead.
I groan at the now-chipped mint-green nail polish. I did these just last night too, on the couch my dad and his boyfriend gave me when I moved into Luca’s home after he moved in with Dad. I painted them while watching the newest episode ofUpper East Siderswith Captain serving as a footrest and Bridget and Ripley commenting on every twist and turn on speakerphone.
This is all Sawyer’s fault. I can’t believe he ruined my new mani. After a few more seconds of rage-mourning my sad middle fingernail—the irony, the utter irony—I unpack the bag like theworld is on fire. I set the toys and targets on the floor with the fury of a thousand suns.
Except…dammit. I should put these in the canvas box. That’s the point of the box. I whirl around, hunting for it, but I must have left it in the car. Which means I have to go back out there and see Sawyer’s stupidly handsome face and his stupidly hot beard.
Gritting my teeth, I draw a deep breath, hoping it’ll calm me. But I am not someone who meditates. I don’t have a calming app on my phone. Lavender doesn’t work on my nerves. I am a redhead through and through—crafted with spices and fire.
New game plan—I will simply ignore the infuriating asshole when I have to see his egotistical face inthree, two, oneseconds.
