Page 7 of Unmanageable

“See?” Jenna says, popping a macaron into her mouth. “You’re already mentally bonded. It’s disgusting. I love it.”

“It’s a coincidence,” I snap, busying myself with my pen.

“The numbers don’t lie, Scottie,” Cash says, leaning over the seating chart. He points a finger at a table near the floor. “Why am I at Table Six with Jenna’s marketing people? Are you trying to get me killed by boredom?”

“Yes,” I say smoothly. “I’m hoping one of them convinces you to do a hair care ad so I can take my fifteen percent and buy an apartment so far away from you that you can’t find it.”

“My hair is naturally magnificent,” Cash says, running a hand through it. “It doesn’t need corporate sponsorship.”

“It needs a pair of scissors,” Dean says without looking up from his phone. “You look like a golden retriever that got stuck in a dryer.”

“Et tu, Brute?” Cash gasps, clutching his chest. “The brotherhood is dead.”

The tasting winds down as the sugar crash hits everyone. Dean starts helping clear the plates, leaving the rest of us with the charts.

“Seriously though,” Callahan says, leaning over the table, a stray streak of white frosting somehow caught on his jawline. “If we don’t finalize the tier count by three today, the baker said she’s going to charge us a massive rush fee. Scottie, where are we on the total guest count? Are we accounting for the late RSVPs?”

I tap the tip of my pen against my index card. “I gave them a hard deadline of yesterday at midnight. Three people tried to text Ivy this morning saying they might bring a plus-one. I told them the kitchen was already locked in. We don’t compromise on the headcount this close to the wire.”

“God, you’re brutal,” Cash mutters, though there’s an undeniable trace of amusement in his eyes. “Imagine getting a text from the Shark saying you can’t bring your date because you missed the buzzer by six hours. That’s cold.”

“It’s called budget management, Finnian,” I say. “If I let everyone do whatever they wanted, this entire day would cost twice as much.”

Ivy leans her chin in her hands, looking drained. “Honestly, at this point, just put everyone in alphabetical order. I don’t care anymore.”

“Alphabetical is a disaster for family drama,” Jenna chimes in. “You’d have the divorced side of the family sharing a bread basket. Trust the seating chart Scottie made. She’s literally built a fortress.”

“It’s all going to be fine,” I add, checking my watch. “And we need to clear out of here anyway. The owner’s looking at us like we’re loitering.”

“We’re paying guests,” Cash says. “Well, Callie is paying. I’m just here for moral support and accurate cake analysis.”

“Your analysis was useless,” I tell him, gathering my folders and clicking my pen shut. “You literally compared a sponge cake to a defensive line shift.”

“And I was right,” he says, grabbing his jacket. “The vanilla bean has no transition game. It just sits there.”

The group thins out, their voices carrying through the front door into the brisk air outside. I can hear Jenna already arguing with Callahan about where they should get lunch, her voice high and sharp over the rumble of city traffic.

Ivy stays back for a second, squeezing my arm.

“You okay?” she asks.

“I’m fine,” I say. “Just trying to keep everything moving. Go on, get some air before Callahan decides to buy another round of pastries.”

She laughs, a small, genuine sound, and slips out the door.

That leaves just me and Cash.

He doesn’t follow the rest of them toward the sidewalk. Instead, he lingers near the glass display cases, his fingers hooked into the pockets of his jeans, watching me pack the last of my workspace into my leather briefcase.

“You’re still avoiding the question.”

“I’m not avoiding anything,” I say without looking up from my zipper. “I gave you my answer yesterday. I gave it to you again twenty minutes ago. My schedule doesn’t have an eight-week hole in it, Cash.”

“Your schedule doesn’t have a ten-minute hole in it because you don’t let it,” he says. He steps into my line of sight, blocking the doorway. “Look at me for a second, Scottie.”

I stop pulling the zipper and look up.

He looks different when the others aren’t looking. The cocky goalie who gets into shouting matches with referees shrinks away, leaving just the guy whose joints ache when it rains and who hasn’t slept more than four consecutive hours since January.