Page 22 of Keepsakes and Kismet

“Fair enough.” I knew I wouldn’t escape unscathed, but at least this gives me time to sort out a good redirection. “So, what else is on the docket?”

Romy’s sharp black fingernails tap the surface of her desk. “We need to talk about the golf club assignment. The owners emailed again for an update.”

A pit forms in my stomach. My goal to grow Good Taste is at odds with having to partner up with a man in order to do it.

I clear my throat. “I’m, um, still thinking about it.”

“Not to be harsh, but you’re running out of time to ‘think about it.’”

It’d be easier if the assignment was to simply hire a guy to attend—Romy could just interview some short-term contractors. But the owners want a couple for the gig, requesting me specifically. And the affection couples show is usually rooted in touch.

My therapist has been encouraging more advanced exposure therapy for a while now. I’ve done visualization and distance exposure, and I’ve made tons of progress. Theoretically, I should be ready for the next step. Small touches. Shaking a hand. Brushing fingers while giving out one of my business cards. But I’d rather start with someone I know—not a random temp—and I haven’t had time to build trust with any men in Waterton yet.

“I can go in your place, Peyton, if you need. I can do that for you.” Romy’s voice sounds much softer than normal. “I just really think we need to try something new if we want to stay in the green.”

I shake my head. “No, it’s not your job to influence, and out of any assignment, I’d never make you visit a golf club. That must be on the list of places you’re allergic to.”

She snickers. “It’s definitely in the top ten.”

“When’s the response deadline again?”

“Next week, if we want to find a man in time. And, I don’t want to guilt-trip you, but, if you take on this job, we’ll be able to make our sponsorship goal for the epilepsy foundation without you having to work ten additional gigs.”

Nodding, I take a deep breath. “I’ll give you an answer by the deadline. Promise.”

“Alright. Let’s focus on tonight then—the country-western restaurant in Detroit.” She types on her keyboard, most likely reviewing the brief. “The mechanical bull launch.”

“Yep. They want someone to be the first to ride it. Set the tone for the night.”

She peeks around the side of her monitor. “They also wanted someone with a Texas accent, remember? To add ‘authenticity’ to your opinions.”

I chew on my lower lip. “It shouldn’t be an issue.”

Probably.

Romy doesn’t look convinced. “Can I hear a sample of it?”

“Totally. But let me put on my outfit first. The bar is doing a ‘Cowprint Night’ theme. It’ll give you the whole picture.”

Her eyebrows raise. “If you say so…”

I slip away to the back closet and check out my outfit hanging on the rack. Cow print stretch jeans, a square neck denim corset, and a blush pink cowboy hat to top off the look. As I get changed, I whisper some words in my accent, saying little southern phrases to get into character. By the fifteenth “y’all,” I’m feeling pretty good. Or good enough. My cowgirl boots click on the wooden floor as I walk back into Romy’s line of sight.

Her jaw drops. “Holy shit. You look hot as fuck.”

“For real, though. Do you think I look right for the job?”

“Girl. You don’t even have to ride the bull. Just sneeze over it and everyone will get in line. You’re a real-life cowgirl doll.”

I don my best Southern accent. “Aw, shucks! Bless yer heart. I simply cannot wait to ride this here bull. Y’all.”

Romy closes her mouth. Opens it. Closes it again. “I think you should lean into more of a gameshow model persona tonight.”

“But they don’t talk.”

She nods grimly. “Exactly.”

“It’s that bad?”