In the background, I can hear the tinkle of a piano. She’s probably still at the theater. “Sutton Foster? Jonathan Groff? Audra McDonald?”
She laughs. “A woman can dream. But close. I ran into that actress, Saffron Morgan.”
“Oh! She’s one of my new clients. Veronica referred her. I have a session with her next week,” I say. “With Ava Hartley too.”
I’ve been following both their careers for a while now. Saffron was born in Persia and moved with her family to Hollywood when her parents had an opportunity to practice entertainment law there. Ava grew up on a horse farm in Calgary and visited California for the first time in high school. They became friends when they met doing a play in Los Angeles.
“We had such a lovely chat. I told her all about my fundraiser, and she was thrilled to hear what we’ll be doing,” my mom says, then chatters on about how much Saffron loves the stage, and conversations with my mother about theater are always the perfect distraction.
Soon enough, I’m finished, and she says, “My cabaret club is here tonight. Want to join us and play piano?”
Cabaret clubs don’t help and then vanish. They don’t leave you with questions you’d rather not contemplate. They are what they are—part of my life. Fun, dependable, and mine.
I say yes.
13
BOSS TIME
SAWYER
One hundred and sixty-eight hours. That’s how long I’ve survived working with the stunning redhead who sometimes hates me, usually baits me, and nearly always taunts me.
I deserve a medal for resistance.
But I keep thoughts of Chloe to myself as my running shoes slap the pavement while the sun peeks above the horizon. It’s not like I’m going to gloat about my accomplishment in restraint to my running partner—Banks.
He knows Chloe, after all. He’s with her friend Ripley, so I won’t let on the role his girlfriend’s bestie plays in my late-night thoughts.
Banks and I reconnected when I moved here a few weeks ago. That mostly means trash-talking each other as we work out in the mornings, and today the workout includes a three-mile run, part of my triathlon prep.
I’m a few feet ahead of him and have been for two and a half miles, so I can’t resist goading him. As we pass sleepy homes and birds chirping pretty wake-up songs, I toss out, “Sucks being so out of shape, doesn’t it?”
“Sucks learning you’re about to be schooled, doesn’t it?”
“Unlikely.”
“Bet on it,” Banks says, running faster.
But I keep a fast clip too. “Race you to town.”
“You wish you could keep up.”
For several hundred feet, I stay in front of him, but barely. As we pass a horse farm, where a chestnut beauty munches on grass by the white slats of the fence, Banks closes the distance between us.
Dammit.
A few blocks later, the houses fade, turning into quaint burger shacks and bougie cafés along the outskirts of town, not far from the beach.
“Like I said,” he quips and then hits a stride a few paces in front of me.
My lungs burn, my thighs ache, and sure, he’s a bodyguard for a living, and I’m a businessman. But like I’d let him win. As we near town, I push myself, my legs eating the pavement until I catch up right as we pass Prohibition Spirit. The whiskey bar marks the edge of town, and once we’re past it, we turn onto Main Street.
“You were saying?” I ask as I pass him by a second.
“Fuck you,” he calls out. “I said, ‘fuck you.’”
“And I believe that loosely translates towelcome to town,” I deadpan, my chest still on fire as I slow down, having hit the threemiles. Down the block, a few people in aprons set up outdoor tables at Pick Me Up. Past that, the florist arranges bouquets in front of her shop, setting out gorgeous pink, orange, and white flowers. I wonder which ones Chloe likes best? She seems like a yellow tulip person. Or orange. Or, hell, she seems like an all-tulip fan.
