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“That didn’t sound the way I intended,” Brooklyn confesses.
She’s letting me off the hook. Classy.
“I’d be happy to start whenever it works best for you. Is next week too soon?”
“No.” Next week? You mean, I will see her again next week? Oh, God. Why can’t I stop looking at her? Maybe because she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. She is. Completely. It’s a bit unsettling. I need to recover. “The sooner the better for my office, and hopefully, my sanity. I admit when I walk into my office, I feel overwhelmed. It’s like a tsunami hit my desk. Can you believe my electric bill got buried under notes? Thank God they don’t shut off the power for one late payment.” Why did I tell her that? Of all things. Because I talk too much when I’m nervous. Be quiet, Carter.
“Never set up bill bay?” Brooklyn asks with a hint of amusement.
“Nah. I know I should. Ali is on me all the time about writing checks. She says it’s for old people. I don’t feel like I accomplish anything if I don’t write out the check and put it in the mail.”
“Nothing wrong with that.”
I’m genuinely surprised at her response.
“As long as you don’t lose the bills and the checkbook,” Brooklyn says. “I am curious, though.”
“About my checkbook?”
“In a way. When you say you don’t feel you’ve accomplished anything—”
“Weird, right? I don’t know. My mom taught me to pay bills, balance my checkbook—the whole drill. I remember her sitting at the kitchen table in the evening writing out checks for the monthly bills, tearing off the paper slips, and licking the envelopes. She must’ve had a thousand different address labels. One for every season.” It’s true. I set out to explain. “My mother gave little bits of money to lots of charities. Back then the thank-you gift of choice seemed to be address labels. She had them for Christmas, Easter, and Halloween. She had ones with animals and the American Flag.”
“Sounds like my grandmother.”
Her grandmother? I think I might be sick. Ali’s right. I’m an old person. I ask the most inappropriate question imaginable. Maybe not the most. Close. “How old are you?”
“Older than you think.”
“You don’t know what I think.” Yes, she does. She knows exactly what I think. Maybe not exactly. Close.
“I think I can guess,” Brooklyn replies. “Thirty,” she tells me.
Thirty. Well, that’s better than twenty. Comforting. Or not. Thirty? Dear God. My nephew is twenty-eight. “Thirty is a good year.”
“Is it? I guess I have another couple of months to prove your theory.”
“A birthday soon, huh?”
“January 10th, I’ll reach the wonderful milestone of thirty-one. Then when someone asks, I can say I am thirty-something with confidence.”
Does she have to be charming? On top of drop-dead gorgeous, is it necessary for Brooklyn Brady to be charming? Beauty and charm. These are not my gifts. I was never the last kid picked for dodge ball. I would likely be the last one selected for modeling or charm school. Brooklyn would be at the head of the line. She’d probably be the Head Mistress. There’s a visual I don’t need.
“Carter?”
“Huh?”
“I assure you my credentials are solid.”
Shit. She thinks I’m questioning her credentials. “I have no doubt,” I tell her. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?”
“I just—I tend to think of people in terms of my nephew and my mom. Everyone falls somewhere on that age spectrum. I’m the middle.”
“Let me guess. I’m on the low end of the spectrum.”
“It’s not the best system.”
