“You sound all breathy,” she says. “Did you run here?”
I laugh. “Right. You know me and running don’t get along.”
“Well, what’s the matter?”
“How many hours a week does he work here?” I ask her.
“Who?” she starts to say, and then she looks at my face and laughs. “Ohhhh.” She goes back to looking at her schedule.
“June!” I put my hands on my hips. “How many?”
“Every hour that he drives you wild. Get it?”
“Ha, ha.”
“He asked me about you,” she says in a softer tone.
My damn pulse goes haywire. “What do you mean?”Did he tell her we’d met before?
“I mean you caught his attention.”
“But he didn’t say anything…” I try to sound nonchalant when I add, “about high school?”
June wrinkles her nose. “High school? Why would he have brought that up? You guys went to different schools.”
“I know. Of course.” I exhale in relief.
Luckily, June is distracted.
“I’m a pretty good matchmaker, you know,” she says, a mischievous gleam in her green eyes. “You really should trust me on this Brayden and you thing.” Now her eyes actually glow with excitement.
“I. Am. Engaged.” I let out a deep exhale after spitting out those three words. “You can’t play matchmaker to someone who’s taken. Don’t forget.”
“Not possible,” she tells me. “But I want you to be happy.”
I struggle to shift the conversation back to a comfortable place. “Have you heard from Mom and Dad?”
“They sent an email this morning. Some cruise ship passing by gave them Internet access where they were both anchored off the coast of New Zealand. They said they tried to send the email to both of us, but yours got spit back for some reason. Dad called it electrical sputterances. You know him. Making up words as he goes.”
“Well, how are they?”
“They’re fine. Everything’s going smoothly and according to plan.”
Of course it is. No bumps in the road, no doctoral issues or Braydens for them.
“They’re worried for you,” June says. “They feel badly about what you’re going through.” She glances at my outfit. “Speaking of, are you planning on dressing for your dissertation for the rest of your life?”
I look at her outfit. Jeans and a flannel.
“You look awfully casual,” I say defensively as I tug at my blazer and look down at my black pants.
“I look the part of a natural grocery store owner,” she says. “You look like a student interviewing for her first job.”
I sigh. My sister may be younger than I am, but you wouldn’t know it the way she talks to me. She’s always been a little bossy, and she’s never stopped pushing my buttons.
“Okay, truce.” I head for the door. “Just tell me what you need done, and I’ll get started.”
* * *
