A flush crawls up his neck. “Surprising. Garrett’s the kind of guy who likes control.”
“Hm. Garrett had plenty to say about you, too.”
I regret saying that instantly. Calder’s face clouds over, his eyes like an arctic lake. The air thickens, my skin buzzing. Calder shifts on his feet, and for a half second, I expect him to lean in. To put his hand out. To?—
He steps back, leaving the door in plain view. “Staying for open play?”
I swallow, my throat thick. “No.”
He drops his eyes, nodding. “Well. I won’t break your cover.”
I fight to catch my breath without making it obvious I’m about to pass out. “Great. Thanks.” My hand somehow finds the handle. I drop it and yank, sucking in air as soon as I clear the threshold.
The market on Tuesday afternoon sprawls down 16th Street like a painter spilled a palette of color. White tents billow in the breeze, and the smell of roasted nuts mingles with fresh espresso and something herbal—lavender, maybe? The afternoon sun glints off the glass towers behind the booths, and the whole street hums with music and chatter. If anyone at Paper and Pixel wants to take the client gift purchasing assignment from me, they’ll have to pry it from my cold, dead hands.
I wander between vendors with my phone balanced on my shoulder, Sam’s voice in my ear. I forgot my earbuds back at the office. “So, let me get this straight—youdraggedhim into the shower room?”
“Ipulledhim,” I correct, scanning a display of hand-thrown mugs shaped like mountain peaks. “There was no dragging.”
“Semantics. You locked yourself in with him.”
“I didn’tlockit,” I protest. “And I didn’t plan it. It was just heat of the moment. I needed him to not say anything to Garrett.”
“Uh-huh.”
I finger a mug painted in a wash of turquoise and gold, pretending I’m not thinking about Calder’s face when I mentioned Garrett talking about him. “He said he wouldn’t rat me out.”
“Well, yeah. Of course he won’t.”
I frown. “What does that mean?”
Sam exhales. “You know what it means, babe. We already talked about this.”
“Girl. He’s not into me, and I’m . . . I don’t know what I am.” That was the truth. Confused. Probably the best adjective at the moment.
I choose a couple of mugs and some gourmet hot chocolate, then hand my card to the vendor. “He gave me pickleball glasses.”
“Garrett?” she hisses.
“No. Calder.”
The woman wraps the mugs carefully, tucking them into a stamped recycled-paper bag.
“You didn’t want to tell me.”
“Right.”
“Because it’s evidence that improves my theory.”
“Maybe.” I take the bag and weave through the crowd toward a table stacked with candles that smell like the inside of a fruit bowl. “He said he never tells white lies. Like when he’s interested in someone.”
She laughs. “Well, la-dee-da.”
“That’s what I said!”
The air fills with the echo of a busker’s guitar, and I pause to listen a moment.
Sam perks up. “Hey, Megan was telling me there’s a singles’ night at Smash Point tomorrow night. Want to go?”
