It’s...nice.
So is that scent of hers, the orange peel and vanilla that makes Paisley smell too damn good.
“We’re headed to a diner a couple blocks over,” Robyn says to me. “If you’d like to join us?”
“He can’t,” Paisley rushes to say. “He needs to get back to work.”
I don’t tell her I clocked out. What’s the point?
“Oh?” Robyn raises her eyebrows as much as she can. Her forehead is stiff. “What do you do for work?”
It’s clearly a test to see if I’m good enough to be dating her daughter. That’s laughable, considering the last ten minutes have been nothing but lies. Briefly, I consider telling her I am a circus clown, but decide not to, because that would probably only serve to embarrass Paisley. And even though I started all this with the goal of embarrassing Paisley, at this point, I’m beginning to feel sorry for her.
“I’m a bartender.”
Robyn nods curtly.
If I were actually dating her daughter, and cared what she thought, that would sting.
It’s annoying, though, so I add, “I’m doing that while I wait for my agent to sell the publishing rights to my novel.”
Paisley’s gaze bores into the side of my head. Considering she believes I am at fault for ruining her illustrious future writing career, she’s probably not super happy to hear I’ve written a novel.
Robyn does not appear to be impressed. “Hmm. A starving artist. How... artsy.”
What the hell? I’m not over here painting a rock the color red and then calling it a masterpiece. I poured over that manuscript for years. I skipped social engagements, typed bleary-eyed scenes at two a.m. only to delete them eight hours later when I woke up.
The group is silent, and it seems to clue Robyn in tothe fact that she has been rude. She scrambles, saying, “Are you working with Paisley’s marketing firm?”
Marketing firm? Now that’s interesting. Marketing happens to be the thing I’m worst at. It pains me that I can write all those words, but I don’t know how to talk about them.
“We’re working out the details,” Paisley answers, sounding like she can’t wait for the end of this conversation. “Anyway, Klein needs to go back to work. And there’s a plate of onion rings with your names on it.”
The group waves goodbye, but Sienna turns back, forming a megaphone around her mouth and yelling, “I’ll see you on Bald Head Island, Klein.”
I scratch the back of my head with two fingers and try to figure out what Sienna is talking about. I come up empty. Paisley’s eyes are wide, saucers, telling me she’s horrified by what her sister said.
Paisley watches the group disappear down the street. “Obviously she’s not going to see you on Bald Head Island.”
I shrug. “I don’t even know what a Bald Head Island is.”
Paisley shoots me a withering look. “It’s aplace.”
“A noun, in either case.”
The corner of her mouth quirks, but she bats away the tiny semblance of a grin. “I’m dead on my feet. I need to rip off these high heels immediately and fall into bed.” She points down to her feet. “Unless you want to come upstairs and keep playing the role of boyfriend and rub my feet.”
Does that sound appealing to me? Yes it does.
I’m not a foot guy, but I’m also notnota foot guy. I admit, the idea of caring for Paisley intrigues me. She was joking though. Of course she was.
Taking the hint, I say, “See you around, Paisley.”
She steps away, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “See you around, Klein the stripper.”
Laughter steals up my throat. I like her dry, teasing sense of humor.
She disappears into the fancy hotel, and I’m left out here on the sidewalk shaking my head.
