But then—then—she’d Googled him.
And he was not an accountant. He was not a lawyer. He wasn’t even an instructor over at the gym up the street.
No, the Google search was an easy one because he had loads of articles about his recent addition to Dimefront.
“I’ve gotta go.” Ashley stood. “Work will eventually notice that I’m not there.”
She worked a few blocks over at a brokerage firm.
Why couldn’t Tanner sell mortgages? That would be so much more convenient.
Ashley stopped at the wall-mounted chess board and did a quick maneuver with her queen. She turned to Sam. “Check.”
Ashley stopped on her way out the door, pausing with her hand on the handle. “Don’t overthink. Just do.”
“That doesn’t work for me,” Sam said in a whisper.
“It didn’t work once. Give it another shot.” Ashley winked, then scurried out the door.
Sam’s phone pinged. She glanced at the screen and the image of Tanner that Ashley had airdropped.
Only once before in her life had Samantha truly known she was toast. That was ages ago, and she learned her lesson.
Bagging a drummer for the most in-demand rock band would mean exposing herself to more of that same ridicule she’d already escaped once. Resurrecting the ghost of Sami Jo and her adoration of mozzarella sticks.
Yuck. God. Ew.
Lunch break over, now was time to get back to work. So she set aside her guitar, checked herself quickly in the mirror, and headed toward the front desk to sort the Sharpies and the pencils for tonight’s artistic activity.
Each light thud of her footfalls on the commercial carpet of the hallway tapped out a different message:
He’s not worth it…
He might be worth it…
What if he’s not?
What if he is?
Dammit. This was nonsense. The two of them didn’t even swap numbers. Even if she wanted to reach out to him, she’d have to track him down.
Lies. Lying to yourself is a bad idea.
So is talking to yourself.
The number thing was not a deterrent. Not really. Nadzei—Babushka would know how to reach him.
Gah. Why was this hard? She clenched her fists, then released them, absolutely refusing to pick at her nails. She hadn’t done that in ages, and she wasn’t about to start up again now.
Okay, so when life started being an asshole, she took stock and formed lists. Pros and cons. Since she sat right on the center line, and Ashley was Team Go For It, she needed someone to give her an unbiased review. See what they thought.
Uh-huh, she needed an outside opinion. She stepped up to the front desk where Betty Jane was accepting a delivery.
“You find a better grilled cheese in Denver, and I will eat my words.” Ted, the delivery man for Denver Sandwich Co., grinned at Betty Jane. “Have a good day, then.”
Someone entirely uninvested in the situation… or her.
Ted was a fifty-something guy who owned the sandwich shop. He loved the residents at Purple Peony, so he always made the deliveries himself.
