Sam can work with that.
“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” she manages after a moment. She’s wearing a white tank top over a black sports bra, barefoot on the concrete. Sam is very, very careful to keep his eyes on her face.
“I was going to call,” he says, “but I thought you might not pick up.”
“That was very astute of you,” she says. Then, peering over his shoulder with no small amount of horror: “Is that your car?”
Sam turns and follows her gaze to where the Tesla is gleaming, freshly washed, at the curb. “...Yes?”
Fiona opens her mouth to respond to that, then seems to consciously decide not to, nodding instead at the plant in his arms. “What is that?”
“Oh!” he says, holding it out in her direction. “It’s a bird-of-paradise. My mom would kill me if she knew I came to somebody’s house empty-handed, so. It’s called a Wisconsin Hello. I mean, that’s what my mom calls it. We’re from Milwaukee. To be fair, it might mean something else on Urban Dictionary.”
He’s rambling. Fuck, he’snervous. Why is he nervous? He wasn’t nervous yesterday. Fiona blinks, an expression he doesn’t recognize flickering across her face. “You brought me a plant?” she asks quietly.
“I did,” Sam admits.
“Fiona, honey?” someone calls from the backyard. “Who is it?”
Fiona’s spine straightens. “Nobody!” she calls back.
“Ouch,” Sam says, just as a woman in her seventies hobbles out into the front yard, ropes of paper towel threaded between her freshly painted toes. A teenage girl in silk pajamas follows at her heels.
“It doesn’t sound like you’re talking to—oh!” The older woman stops on the grass and abruptly rearranges herself at the sight of him, throwing her shoulders back and thrusting one hip out. “Well, hello there.” She turns to Fiona. “Who’s your guest?”
Fiona sighs theatrically. “This is Sam,” she reports. “He’s not staying.”
“I brought her a plant,” Sam offers. He smiles at the girl—Fiona’s sister, he realizes suddenly, pulling her name from the foggiest depths of his memory in a flash of utter brilliance, if he does say so himself. “Claudia, right?”
Fiona whirls on him. “How do you know that?” she demands. “You couldn’t remember Max, but you remember my little sister? What are you, some kind of perv?”
“Fiona,” the woman chides mildly, holding out one manicured hand in a way that suggests she expects Sam to kiss it. “Estelle Halliday.”
“Sam Fox,” Sam says, pressing his lips to her knuckles.
“Oh, we know,” Estelle says, as Fiona tsks in audible exasperation. “We’re big fans of your show.”
“It got shitcanned,” Fiona reports bluntly.
Estelle’s eyes widen. “Fiona!”
“Well, it did, didn’t it?” She turns back to Sam. “That’s why you came to the print shop yesterday. And that’s why you’re here.”
“He came to the shop?” Claudia asks, her eyes wide.
Fiona yanks her hair roughly out of its giant bun, flipping her head forward and massaging her scalp for a moment before righting herself so quickly that Sam almost gets whiplash just watching her. “They want to rebootBirds,” she announces.
Claudia and Estelle both startle, their expressions twin caricatures of shock sixty years apart. “They do?” Estelle asks softly.
“Why didn’t you say something?” Claudia wants to know.
“Because I’m not going to do it. Which I already told him.” She turns to Sam. “Am I wrong?” she asks, her voice rough and demanding. “Isn’t that why you’re at my house right now?”
Sam stares for a minute even though he’s trying not to. Her hair is a long, curly lion’s mane around her face, darkly golden—movie-star hair, he thinks. Her eyes glow like two hot coals. “I came to ask if you wanted to go to lunch,” he hears himself say.
Fiona gapes at him. He can see her pulse ticking in the soft, vulnerable skin of her neck. “I can’t,” she tells him flatly, at the same time as Estelle says, “She’d love to.”
Fiona glares at her. “I’ve got things to do,” she protests. “I was literally just on my way out.”
