Page 43 of The Heartbreaker Next Door

I nodded. “Understood.” Then I took a step closer, to see if she’d retreat. She didn’t. “But if you change your mind⁠—”

“I’m not going to,” she cut in, a touch too fast.

“Okay,” I said, and meant it.

She blinked, as if she’d expected a fight, or at least a little pushback. “You’re not going to argue?” she asked, like I’d let her down by not making it harder.

“You said no.” The words were simple, but they carried more weight than I’d intended. Maybe because, I wasn’t lying about wanting to respect her boundary. Maybe because I’d already made the decision to want her, and if waiting meant playing by her rules, I’d do it.

14

POISON IVY WITH ABS

Felicity

The universe, in a rare act of pity, had blessed me with a temporary lull in the chaos of my post-lunch Mondays. I’d barricaded myself in my office with an extra-foamy latte and committed to catching up on paperwork. It had almost worked. Then, thirty minutes early—an act of sadism among event planners—like some kind of gorgeous natural disaster in color-blocked Anthropologie, Genevieve Russo blew through my door and dropped herself into my guest chair with the confidence of someone who’d already won an argument I didn’t know we were having.

She was no stranger to me. I’d met Nonna’s granddaughter, event-planning prodigy, and the only person who maintained an arms race with me for “most balls juggled at one time” the first week I moved to town when she was visiting her grandma. I liked her immediately. She’d welcomed me to town and her energy gave friend-who-would-tell-you-you’ve-got-something-in-your-teeth and also bring-the-shovel-to-bury-the-body vibes.

Gen ran the entire event calendar for the Hearts Afire Resort and Spa, and owned her own boutique event company that specialized in “experiences that go viral,” and still had time to style her hair in a manner that told me she was either a gifted makeup and hair stylist or she’d watched a ton of GRWM videos from beauty influencers on YouTube.

Today, she was in full “make things happen” mode, an iPad, and spiral notebook on her lap with a gel pen spinning between her fingers and a kinetic energy that made the air in my office crackle.

After a quick greeting, Gen got right down to business.

“Okay, let’s be real,” Gen said, flipping past the polite small talk and heading straight for the jugular. “The Founder’s Day Festival is a shitshow, and unless we come up with some extra funding, we’re one vendor short from a full mutiny.”

I chuckled, Selma had given me the rundown on the Founder’s Day Festival and Lockhart Ranch’s participation in it, which was significant.

Gen doubled down. “I’m serious, welcome to Valentine Bay. The entire economy runs on controlled anarchy and petty vendettas. The mayor’s already threatened to cut the fireworks display, which would be a disaster, so we have exactly three weeks to keep this thing from becoming the kind of disaster people make commemorative T-shirts about.”

“What do you need from us?” I got straight to the point.

Gen laid out what the Lockhart’s—Selma’s—involvement had been over the years in financial sponsorship and logistic support and asked for an even greater commitment. I knew whatever I agreed to, the Lockhart matriarch would back me up. But she wasn’t the only one who I’d have to deal with, since she didn’t control the purse strings. I’d have to speak to the person who I’d categorized as poison ivy with abs. If I got near him, he overtook me, and I couldn’t not scratch the itch.

But this was bigger than my personal issues. I needed to increase the financial commitment without taking it out of the ranch’s budget. Which meant one thing to me, fundraiser.

“Done.” I knew how difficult an undertaking of this size would be, and I hoped that if the shoe were on the other foot, Gen would have my back as well.

“Seriously?” She blinked.

“Seriously.”

“Damn, I should have asked for more.” Gen extended her hand across the desk, and we sealed the pact over a mutual hatred of bureaucracy. She tucked her iPad and notebook away in her tote, then leaned back, sizing me up with a new, almost mischievous energy. “Now that official business is done—” she said, drawing out the words, “—girls’ night on Friday? Ella’s making her ‘famous’ sangria, I’m handling apps, and you’re bringing the best gossip.”

Ella owned a shop in downtown Valentine Bay and was married to one of the Valentine brothers, who had as much of a reputation as the Lockhart’s. I’d made a spreadsheet of everyone I met and who they were either related to or connected in someway. I’d met her exactly one time at the farmer’s market, and we instantly bonded over our shared love of garden gnomes. I’d liked her. I liked Gen too, she was a straight shooter, which was rare among people who spent most of their lives staging elaborate, photogenic lies. “That sounds amazing,” I enthused, feeling excited at the prospect of getting to know the women better. “I’ll see if I can get a sitter.”

Nonna had Bingo on Friday nights, and I wasn’t sure what Selma’s schedule was.

Gen’s smile got wider, more genuine. It was the kind of smile that made you want to spill your entire backstory, secrets and all. Which, as it turned out, is exactly what she was gunning for.

“So,” Gen said, switching to her ‘we’re in a circle of trust’ voice, “speaking of your adorable son, what’s the story with his dad?”

I froze for the briefest second at the U-turn this conversation had taken onto Personal Life Avenue. It was such a smooth transition. She had a gift. “You sure you’re not secretly a tabloid reporter?”

“No, but I do think I missed my calling there,” she grinned. “But seriously, you can tell me to go fuck myself. I just—” She hesitated, then shrugged. “The whole town is coming up with theories, I’d rather hear it from the source.”

I’d met too many people who wanted the tea and had no problem talking behind someone’s back to get it. Gen was direct, and I appreciated that.