“It’s a shame to cover up such a fine specimen,” she calls after him, “but we can’t have the HOA getting involved.”
“Uh, thank you,” Noah’s voice rings through the window.
Viv sips her coffee. “Next time, leave a tip on the nightstand and call it even.”
I groan and cover my face with both hands.
Viv sits down on the bed beside me, resting a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry, honey. The first pancake is always a little messy.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Why, why, did I pick last night of all nights to have sex for the first time in two years? And not just sex. Sex with someone who isn’t Owen. Sex with his best friend.
Yep. I’m going to widow hell.
What was I thinking?
I cannot do an interview today. My body is still confused, and my brain feels like it's been lightly scrambled. I should cancel. Would it be rude to back out with only two hours’ notice?
I can already hear Viv’s voice in my head lecturing me about self-sabotage and my dare: Don’t talk yourself out of the interview.
I’ve changed my outfit four times. First, a blazer that makes me look like I manage a dental office. Then a dress I wore to a PTA fundraiser last year. Then a floral blouse that whispers “Pinterest mom,” followed by the same floral blouse with a black cardigan to tone down the whisper. Now I’ve settled on a pair of high-waisted black, dress pants that may or may not be back in style, a tucked-in boat neck top that keeps trying to untuck itself, and a pair of nude pumps.
I stare in the mirror. I look like a woman who is trying really, really hard not to look like she hasn’t worked in two decades.
Viv pops her head in the bedroom door. “You good?”
“Nope.”
Marin’s head pops in under Viv’s. “Too bad. You’re gonna be great.”
I pull at the hem of my top. “You don’t think this screams ‘please give me a job, I swear I’m still relevant’?”
“Nope.” Marin shakes her head. “But even if it does, you are. Now go. Be dazzling.”
“Do I look like I know how to use Google Docs? Is that even something you can convey with an outfit?” I’m panicking, and Viv sees it.
Crossing the room, Viv rests her hand on my arm. “Woman, you survived the PTA elections in 2009 and the HOA statue debacle in 2012. You could take Google in a cage match.”
Then Viv reaches down to lift my leather briefcase. Technically Owen’s lucky leather briefcase, the one I found in the back of the closet and tried very hard not to cry over.
“Good God, what do you have in here? A small anvil?”
“Just the essentials.” I straighten my blazer. “A few copies of my résumé, backup hairbrush, gum, tissues, granola bars.”
Viv sets the case on the bed and pops it open with the suspicion of someone diffusing a bomb.
“A few résumés?” She rifles through the stack. “Birdie, there have to be at least twenty in here. Are you planning to hand them out to tourists on your way through the lobby?”
She pulls something else out: two enamel pins.
One says, “Van Gogh Hard or Go Home.”
The other: “I Was Framed!” with a tiny gilded frame illustration.
She holds them up like she’s caught me trying to smuggle contraband.
“Birdie. Please tell me you were not going to pin one to each boob and stroll into your interview like a walking Etsy cart.”
