“Why do I need a do-over? We agreed you got dessert rights last night,” I say, then…oh, shit.
Awareness dawns on me hot and fast. Is she…asking me to dinner again? Is this some subtle way of asking me out by suggesting she won dessert rights today? Like we’d be vying for dessert rights atanothermeal? I should not say yes. I should not even be thinking about saying yes.
“Oh, we did,” Chloe says with a playful smile. “I just thought it’d be nice—for you to bring more treats. There are so many good things at The Sweet Spot. Croissants, brioches, challah bread, donuts.”
Okay, so she’snotsuggesting dinner again. I’m a little deflated but relieved, too—I don’t have to cross that bridge. “Pretty sure dessert rights don’t need to be daily.”
“A good boss would bring treats every day,” she goads, then clears her throat, getting the attention of, well, everyone here—the groomers behind me, the manager, the daycare wrangler. “Show of hands. Should Sawyer bring us breakfast every day?”
Everyone raises their hands.
“Do it, do it,” Levi chants.
“Best boss ever,” Zuri goads.
“I can’t wait till tomorrow,” Hazel sings.
“I vote for brioche,” Nisha says.
I hold up a stop-sign hand. “This is not a daily thing. Do not expect it,” I say, since the last thing I want is to be known as the treat boss. A daily habit like that breeds complacency rather than gratitude.
I swing my gaze back to Chloe and mouth“troublemaker” then return to my office for the rest of the day.
That night, I’ve got just enough time before I see Banks to hustle over to Duck Falls for a meeting that’s been on my agenda for a while. The meeting goes well, and the bar owner at Pour Decisions extends a hand when we’re done.
“Looking forward to this,” says the grizzled guy with sleeves of tattoos.
“Same here,” I add, glad to have struck that deal at last.
I head out, hop into my car, and drive to meet Banks back over in Darling Springs at Mister Fox.
We rack the balls at the pool table. “All right. Tell me what I need to know about winning a deal with a Hollywood producer.”
Banks gives me a wry nod as he rubs chalk on the cue. “Discretion. That’s the key to everything.”
I listen as he tells me more.
The next day, I’m ready. I want this to work—because it’s good business. And because Chloe deserves the win too.
16
CONFIDENCE, BABY
CHLOE
“You’ve done it before! Of course you can do it!”
But I don’t know that I have the time to do it well. That’s the issue. I’m trying to convince my mother that I’m not the right accompanist for her cabaret fundraiser, even though, yes, of course I’ve done it before. My brother did warn me about her request, but I’m still not entirely prepared for the scope of it. Just yesterday I met with her about the piano music, but she didn’t mention she wanted me to play along foreverynumber.
“But you know the music, Mom,” I point out, in case she’s forgotten she knows how to play too. She did teach me after all. I grew up on an eclectic diet of my mother’s music—from show tunes to her classic rock loves like the Beatles and her alternative loves like Pearl Jam and Nirvana. I reach for my bag, which is hooked on the front-row seat of the community theater. I really should get to work.
“Of course I do. And I’m not just saying this because you’re mydaughter, but the student became the teacher. You’re simply better than your former piano teacher.”
Mom crosses her legs like she’s given the last word.
“Thank you. I’m flattered.”
“It’s not flattery. It’s truth. Besides, you’ve done it before,” she says again, seeming undeterred. “And you know plenty of the songs too. Noah is singing ‘Fly Me to the Moon’ for his final number. Plus, I want to close it with a fun little Fred Astaire–Ginger Rogers jazzy dance interlude before he sings the final verse. He’ll offer you a hand at the piano bench, and you’ll stop playing and the pre-recorded instrumental break will kick in, so he can do a little dance number and dip you back onto the bench.”
