It doesn’t matter that I ever liked Paisley, because she has made it clear she is far from my biggest fan.
And now there’s a hundred dollars on the table, plus being able to brag that I knew what I was doing all along.
This is all going to be a piece of cake.
Wedding cake, to be exact.
CHAPTER 11
Paisley
I’m tryingmy best to pay attention during this video call with a coffee chain out of Seattle, but how can I when I feel so… so… unsettled?
My palm glides over the gleaming table, the very same table Klein and I faced off across earlier this week. Over and over in my mind, I see the way his shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of him when I told him I gave up my inheritance.
A text message from Paloma flashes on my screen. I glance at her across the table, my eyes squinting with question.
She looks pointedly at my phone, indicating her message.
Without being obvious, I swipe open her text.
Thinking about Klein?
I give a tiny nod.
I can see why. He’s gorgeous.
I know.
He’s more than his good looks, though. A lot more.
Paloma holds her phone below the table, out of eyesight of the woman on the screen. Her message pops up.
Like Brad Pitt in Troy but his hair is shorter and not as blond. And he writes books. And he’s bigger.
I fight to keep a straight face as I respond.
So, not at all like Brad Pitt in Troy?
Paloma rolls her eyes only a quarter turn.
Ok, fine. He looks like he should play football.
Quarterback! Because he throws his words out there. Get it?
Paloma shakes her head solemnly.
I’ll see myself out.
We stop texting after that, focusing on Stephanie, the store owner, as she takes us through the results she sees day-to-day following our marketing initiative.
Stephanie’s biggest problem when she came to us wasbranding. She hadn’t yet figured out the soul of her company, and we helped her distill it down to a few words, then rebuild from that idea.
Paloma and I finish up our call. Paloma turns off the video while I snap my laptop closed and surreptitiously glance at my phone. I’m looking for a text from Klein, the one that is supposed to tell me what time dinner is tonight and his mother’s address. I don’t like that this is the fourth time today I’ve looked at my phone hoping for a message from him. Or that I did the same thing seven times yesterday.
I’m sipping my late afternoon mocha cold brew with two pumps of raspberry when the long-awaited text comes through.
Hey, Royce.
