Jay: I’m not doing ‘Islands in the Stream’ with you.
Chloe: Trust me. That’s on my list of things that’ll never happen.
Jay: Mine too. But what specifically was I right about?
Chloe: She roped me in, hook, line, and piano-accompanist sinker.
Jay: For the whole show?
Chloe: Yup.
Jay: She’s good. She’s really good.
Chloe: She’s a mistress of flattery, and it gets her everywhere!
But as I head to work, I noodle on that talent of my mother’s. Is it flattery, or is it just taking the time to compliment people? To highlight what they’re good at? Find their strengths? And really, isn’t that something we all should do for each other? Cheer others on?
I imagine her cheering me on for my Webflix meeting, and that feels pretty damn good.
* * *
Later that day, I’m working from home on training reports for clients when my phone pings with a text.
Sawyer: Want me to pick you up for the Webflix meeting? We could go over any final notes in the car together.
Hmm.Is he thinking about my shitty car door?my inner skeptic wonders.
But the other inner voice adds,Or maybe it’s just a good idea?
I read the message again, looking for hints he feels sorry for me but finding none. What will he think of my home though? It’sa tiny one-bedroom. It’s not even truly mine. My dad’s boyfriend rented this little bungalow from his uncle, who lives in Greece. When Luca moved in with Dad, he offered me the sublease for his place for a screaming-good deal. I’m not sure if he felt sorry for me because I wasn’t making a ton of money as a bartender-slash-nightclub-piano-player-slash-dog-trainer then, or because he knew I was eager. Either way, I leapt at the chance.
Now, I’m aware of how small it is, and how sad my car is. Sawyer can probably afford a couple of these homes with pocket change. Well, I did eventually look him up. Dog Tails does well. He has an eye for business.
But I swallow my pride as I reply.
Chloe: Do you like dogs in your car?
Sawyer: In and out of it.
That works for me, so we set a time—in the late afternoon.
When he arrives ten minutes early, I’m already waiting outside my home. It’s easier that way. No need to show him around or let him see pieces of my life. We’re business associates—partners in a way. He doesn’t need to see the dog place mats on the floor, or the vintage rubber ducks scattered on the coffee table, or the millions of serums on the vanity, because, well, a girl’s got to have a guilty pleasure, and I doubt I’ll regret skin care.
I walk across the small stone path to the curb right as he pops out of his black electric car looking so very Sawyer. I swear the man never dresses down. He’s wearing burgundy slacks and a crisp whiteshirt, along with a dusty-blue patterned tie. “Admit it—you don’t own jeans.”
“Hmm. Wasn’t I wearing jeans the day I met you?” he asks, stroking his beard.
“Nope,” I say with a quick headshake. “Khaki shorts.”
A gotcha smile spreads on his too-handsome face. “That was a test. To see if you remembered.”
I groan. “You ass.”
“And you pretended you never wanted to see me again,” he says.
I gesture to the road. “I think I’ll walk.”
He pats the roof of the car. “Get in, woman,” he says—an order, and I hate that I like it. Especially when he leans in and says in a sexy whisper, even though it’s just us here, “And you wore the sexiest white dress I’d ever seen.”
