AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“He stiffed you with the bill?”
I grinned, shaking my head. “He’d booked the table, and you know how Marcie started collecting addresses of bookers since the Coastal became the ‘it’ place?”
“No!”
“She’s forwarded him the bill. I got to enjoy a great dinner for free.”
“How did she do that?”
“Apparently, he booked on the website, and there’s small print that states the booking party is liable for the bill in the event of a date gone wrong. Well—probably not that, but enough to cover poor little women like me who get stuffed because the guy is a dick.”
Mom shook her head and sighed. “At least Marcie has a plan in place for those dicks.”
“Only because the last guy she dated thought their date would be free because it was at Coastal,” I reminded her. “Marcie thought he’d be gentleman enough to pay, but nope.”
“I’m so glad I don’t have to date now,” Mom said. “I don’t think I could stand it. I’d likely be locked up for murder.”
“You’ve been married to Dad for ten years next weekend. Isn’t that similar to jail?”
She’d been drinking her wine when I’d said that, and she snorted, clapping her hand over her nose. I burst out laughing as she squealed and choked.
“Damn it, Kali. How can I drink properly if you keep making me laugh?”
I grinned.
“And for the record, no, marriage is not like jail.” She paused. “Most of the time. At least in jail there’d be a rotation of whose turn it is to load the dishwasher.”
“Mom, please. Every time Dad loads it, you redo it.”
“It’s not my fault if he does it wrong. I keep hoping he’ll take the hint.”
I tapped my finger against my chin. “Do you think if I wrote, “NOT THE SECRETARY” on my bio on the dating site people would get it?”
“No. I think you should say you are the secretary, then shock them when you can build Ikea furniture without swearing.”
“And without the instructions.”
“That’s just cocky.”
“Exactly.”
She rolled her eyes, but her wine glass hid a smile. “Whoever marries you better have the patience of a saint, Kali Hancock.”
“They’d better have more than the patience of a saint. I want the cock of a God, too.”
She blinked at me for a moment. “Do you ever think I should be less of the best friend kind of parent and more of the “don’t speak like that” parent?”
I twisted my lips in a wry smile. “You tried that once. It lasted a week.”
“Maybe it’s time to try again.”
“Fifty bucks says you last three days.”
She tapped her fingers against her knee. “You’re right. Besides, you have your dad for that.”
Once again, I grinned, thankful for having a mom and best friend wrapped into one.
Chapter Two
One week later
Note to self: a girls’ night out the day before a consultation with a potential client was not the best idea I’d ever had.
Neither was the vodka.
Really, I knew better. Me and vodka weren’t friends. By this point in my life, I should have been able to say no the allure of any cocktail with it in—and I definitely shouldn’t be giving in to peer pressure when it’s the shots round.
All things considered, I was a pretty lousy adult. But, hey. My best friend was back from a work trip that took her away for a month, and the night out had been planned long before I got Brantley Cooper’s email.
Thankfully for me, right now, I’d drank enough water to quench the thirst of a herd of elephants, had scarfed down—ahem—three bagels, showered, and brushed my teeth at least five times to kill the alcohol grime the drinking session had left behind.
I was feeling almost human. Almost.
My professional head would take over when I walked inside the house. I had my toolbox, even though I didn’t think I would need it. It was mostly for the tape measure that I would undoubtedly lose if I took it out of the box.
I was always losing the damn thing. I was about ready to buy them in bulk and store them in my basement.
I swallowed a mouthful of water before I started up my truck. The bright-pin freshener swung from the rearview mirror as I pulled out of my driveway and away from my modest, two-story house.
The address Brantley Cooper had given me wasn’t too far from my own house. A five minute drive, a ten minute or so walk, since you could cut through the park that separated our neighborhoods. I also knew it to be part of a block of houses that had mold issues ever since they were built. The original buyers had been given compensation for the problems it had caused, but that didn’t count when you were buying it from one of them.
In other words, Brantley Cooper was in for the long—and potentially expensive—haul if he’d bought this house, and I was almost certain he had.
