“Okay, Miss Bossy,” Hanry laughs, settling closer to me. Wow—he smells good. I already knew this, but it bears repeating.
“Humans can get a little boring,” Hanry says. “I like staying on my toes. Or at least, I’m used to it.”
“Is that why you’re so tall? All those toe stretches?”
He nods, feigning seriousness.
“Well, good for you, Sir Toe Fetish.” On that note, it’s time for my next question. “Were you really collecting pine cones that night?”
Hanry nods, reaching for one of my cheesy crackers. “I use them to make wreaths. And sell them.”
“Ew,” I say. “Those things grandmothers buy?”
“And great-aunts.”
“At least you know your niche. Are you on Etsy?”
“Definitely not,” Hanry says after swallowing a bite. “I’m bad with computers.”
“I’m a spreadsheet champion,” I brag. “Which is what makes me so great at my true calling.”
“Auditing.” Hanry nods.
For the rest of the date, Hanry and I talk about work—which sounds boring, but it’s not. He tells me about traveling up and down the inland highways of the Northeast, playing nice with small-town strangers, selling foraged and wood-hewn wares at farmers’ and handcraft markets. It’s clear he’s not the college type. This should mean he’s notmytype. How could pine cones pay for a blasé McMansion in the burbs? I shouldn’t be so enraptured by him. But I am.
Hanry’s playful nature makes it hard to be rational. The simplest things seem to give him joy—including being with me, for some reason.
Besides, there’s something about his physicality that gets me. I really like Hanry’s hands. They swallow mine up when he holds them. They’re also slow enough to let me grab the last doughnut.
And they support my weight with gentleness when I lean forward to plant a kiss upon his lips.
At once, the chill in the air falls away. The warmth of Hanry’s mouth, the sweep of his arms encircling me, it’s like being wrapped in a wool blanket. I’m riddled with sensation—with heat. When Hanry’s hand slips under my sweater hem and slides across the sliver of skin exposed below my ribs, my breath hitches. I push myself toward him gratefully. But Hanry moves back.
“Sabby—” he starts, but I interrupt.
“It’s cold out, damn it. You’ve got a job to do,” I say.
When I hook my hand on his neck and pull his face down again, I feel Hanry’s laughter; how it shakes his chest, how his lips turn up at the edges against mine. His thick stubble grazes my cheeks and chin.
And as we kiss again, I answer his smile with one of my own.
13I AM THE GIRL BOSS, COO COO CA CHOO
MY DATE WITH HANRY WAS,simply put, a rousing success. So much so that before he says good night, we make tentative plans to hang out again on Friday. It gets even better: first thing in the morning, I finally hear from someone at EFG.
It’s my HR admin contact. Apparently, Steve is in trouble for failing to reply to me within a seventy-two-hour window. Also, FMLA is a touchy subject with HR, and they’ve ensured me they’ll fix things—and that I should have as much as twelve weeks, per company policy. This gives me rapturous relief. Twelve weeks is certainly a long enough time that I can figure out how to help Grandma’s spirit ascend. I text Jane about the situation, promising to keep paying rent while I stay in Massachusetts for ambiguous family reasons. She speculates that Steve and the admin might have internal work drama I can use to my advantage. She says Desmond is nice.
Presumably, this is why the winds of fate—those cruel, stupid, Salem-y winds—fail to shift any more in my favor.
For one thing, when I get puddled while attempting to board the commuter rail at 7 a.m., the rail guard openly laughs at me. This has become a daily occurrence.
For another thing, while I’m trying to brew a pot of coffee in what may not actually be a coffee maker, I catch my grandmother’s friend Matilda gathering the flamingos from the front lawn. She wanders awaywith them tucked beneath her arm, which I’m fairly sure is a criminal offense. Why is she doing this? Unwilling to engage further, I wave a solemn farewell.
For a third thing, the late afternoon wedding I’m crashing at Hamilton Hall is a thousand times duller than Dave and Amanda’s. It’s got some lovely points, though: for one, there are exactly zero vampires present. This major win aside, the bride’s choice of fringe tulips as an accent flower is inspired. So is the silver-and-lilac color scheme, and the extra chairs she sets aside for unexpected plus-ones—or wedding crashers like me. This is about where the highlight reel ends. During the long-winded, boring speeches, I employ my powers of invisibility, standing near the various doorways of the venue like a well-dressed fly. I listen intently to the drink staff whine about the bride’s desire for a champagne tower, forcing them to serve flat, warm champagne. And while I shovel dry, gray, blueberry-crusted cake off a chipped ceramic plate, I overhear the planners manage the unexpected presence of someone’s pet rabbit and source a spare battery for the videographer.
Evidently, the devil’s in the details when it comes to weddings. Which is good news for me. I love details! Finally, a transferable skill.
I don’t get caught in my nefarious wedding crashing until I’m purloining samples of couple-themed goods. The wedding planner chases me halfheartedly down Chestnut Street, but I blend into a tour group and lose her. All in all, I’d call my spy mission a success. Mandy and Bulan, the recipients of two pilfered, overly herbal cake balls, agree.
