Bailey leans in. “Do you think he’s...you know, big? He’s a big guy, so it stands to reason. But I’ve encountered some disappointing cases before. Like, ‘Is it in yet?’ disappointing.”
I roll my eyes so hard I’m afraid they might get stuck. “Bailey!”
“What?” she asks, the picture of innocence. “For science.”
“You need to learn to think quietly,” Jill tells her. “Can’t you see Cora’s having a hard time? You don’t need to rub salt in the wound. Or other things in other places.”
“Where is he now?” Bailey asks, undeterred. “Isn’t he supposed to be here protecting you? Or does he only show up for the dramatic rescues?”
“Ryder? He’s in the guest house. He doesn’t sleep here.”
“I could go get him,” Bailey offers, a mischievous glint in her eye. “For security purposes.”
“Absolutely not,” I grasp her wrist. “He made it very clear he’s just working here. The last thing I need is you playing matchmaker.”
“So, you told him you want him?” Bailey bounces in her seat. “I knew it! Someone should write a book about your story. You’re such a cliché. Rich girl falls for her brooding bodyguard. It’s veryThe Bodyguard, minus the singing career plus a lot more sexual tension.”
“Thanks for reducing my life to a cliché,” I groan. “Can we please change the subject? Maybe back to the voodoo dolls? That might be less painful.”
“You know,” Jill says, breaking the brief silence, “it’s okay to want something for yourself, Cora. Even if it’s complicated. Even if it’s a cliché.”
I sigh, leaning back into the couch. “I know. It’s just... It’s not that simple.”
“It never is,” Bailey says, serious for once. “But that’s what makes it worth it.”
“Okay, enough about my love life disaster. What about you two? Any interesting dates?”
Bailey shakes her head, but Jill’s face lights up. “Oh boy, do I have a story for you.”
“This sounds promising,” Bailey says, leaning in. “Spill!”
Jill takes a deep breath. “Okay, so I met this guy on Tinder. He seemed normal enough—good job, cute photos, didn’t ask for nudes. So, we agreed to meet for coffee.”
“So far, so good.” I nod.
“That’s what I thought,” Jill continues. “I get to the coffee shop, and I see this guy who looks like his photos but better. Like, way better. I’m talking, ‘did he hire a professional Photoshop artist to make him look worse online?’ better.”
Bailey whistles. “A Tinder miracle!”
“Right?” Jill says. “So, I’m already thinking this is too good to be true. We talk, and he’s charming, funny, the whole package. Then he excuses himself to go to the bathroom.”
I lean forward, sensing the twist coming. “And?”
“And he doesn’t come back for, like, twenty minutes,” Jill says. “I’m thinking he climbed out the bathroom window or something. But then he returns, looking a bit...disheveled.”
“Oh no,” I groan.
“Oh yes,” Jill nods. “He sits down and says, straight-faced, ‘Sorry about that. I have irritable bowel syndrome, and sometimes I need to do handstands in the bathroom stall to, uh, get things moving.’”
Bailey spits out her wine. “He did not!”
“He did,” Jill confirms. “And gave me a detailed explanation of his dietary restrictions and bathroom habits. Did you know there are at least fifteen different words for diarrhea? Because I do now.”
I’m laughing so hard I can barely breathe. “What did you do?”
“What could I do?” Jill throws her hands up. “I sat there, nodding and smiling, while calculating how fast I could finish my latte and make a run for it.”
“Please tell me you didn’t agree to a second date,” Bailey says.
