He stands, smoothing his suit jacket."It won't be a disaster.I don't do disasters."
"Clearly you've never experienced goat yoga."
"No," he says, heading for the door."But I have a feeling that's about to change."
He pauses in the doorway, looking back at me still sitting among the drop cloths and spackling paste.
“Miss Winters?Thank you.For agreeing to this."
"Thank me when it works," I say.
"It'll work."His smile is quick but genuine."I'll see you next Saturday."
He disappears into the lobby, leaving me alone with the sound of rain and the weight of what I've just agreed to.
Luke Sterling is going to be here every weekend.
A collaborator.A business partner.
In my space.In my life.
Looking for system glitches and technical problems while I hide the biggest glitch of all—that I’m a fraud.
"Well," I tell the empty dining room."This should be interesting."
From the office, Buttercup bleats in what sounds like agreement.
Or possibly a warning.
With my luck, probably both.
7
TOE-TAL DISCLOSURE
SAGE
Seven days after shaking hands with Luke Sterling on a deal that could save my inn—or destroy what's left of my dignity—I'm white-knuckling my way through Seattle traffic on a Thursday afternoon, heading to my monthly sister-mandated pedicure appointment like a defendant approaching trial.
October in Seattle has shifted from "atmospheric drizzle" to "aggressive waterboarding," and my ancient Honda's wipers are fighting a losing battle against the downpour.
The familiar skyline rises through the rain like a reminder of everything I left behind.
The career.The fiancé.
The ability to afford windshield wipers that actually work.
"You can do this," I tell myself, navigating the familiar streets of Capitol Hill."It's just a pedicure.With your sisters.Who definitely won't interrogate you about your life choices while you're trapped in a massage chair."
My phone, duct-taped to the dashboard because the holder broke last month, buzzes with a text from Claire:Already here!Got your favorite chair!Can't wait to hear EVERYTHING about your billionaire boyfriend!!!
The multiple exclamation points feel like tiny daggers of impending doom.
I pull into the parking garage beneath Bliss Spa & Nail Studio, the same place we've been coming since Harper made partner at her firm and decided we needed "standing sister maintenance."
The fact that I can barely afford my share of the bill anymore is just another thing I'll pretend isn't happening.
The spa's interior assaults me with its aggressive tranquility—all bamboo fountains and essential oil diffusers and music that sounds like whales having an existential crisis.
