Chapter 18
Danni
“What was that all about?” Morgan asks through my phone, which is face up on my bathroom vanity.
“What was what?”
“You’ve been ignoring me since Skittle Pong.”
I dip my brush in loose powder and dust it on my face. “I was busy.”
“Busy avoiding me.” Morgan is sitting in her car waiting for Kayla to join her. She angles her face toward the camera to give me her stern look, but it just makes her nose look big.
“I was avoiding everyone,” I say as I spread blush over my cheekbones.
“So you’re still going tonight?”
I bend over so she can see me, brush in hand. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because you’re acting weird.”
“No, I’m not. I’m just existing.” I straighten and get back to work on my eyeshadow.
“Is it because of the way Chance was looking at you?”
My hand freezes and a natural blush brightens my cheeks. “What? No. How was he looking at me?” I glance down at my phone to make sure Morgan can’t see my eagerness.
“Danni, he was flirting with you so bad.”
“I didn’t notice.”
“Your face said you did. And it also said you liked it.”
The slight blush in my cheeks turns to flames that nearly singe my face. I click my eyeshadow palette closed. “I hope it’s not a pitch-in tonight because I’m not bringing any food.”
Morgan chuckles at my diversion tactic. “Okay. Fine. I didn’t notice the way he couldn’t stop stealing glances at you, or the way he pulled you over for a private conversation with his face inches from your face, or the way he hung onto you like a baby possum on its mother’s back.”
I bend over my phone, presenting my skepticism to Morgan in all of its glory. “We were just trying to win the game.”
“Of Skittle Pong.”
“You said to have fun.”
“Chance had fun.”
A car door opens and Kayla says, “Shoot! I forgot my swimsuit bag. Be right back.”
“You guys are bringing your bathing suits?” I ask while I fiddle with my bangs.
“Yeah. Are you?”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“The pool is haunted. You have to swim.”
“I thought we were watching Temporal Grifter.”
“We might get bored.”
“Okay, I’m back,” Kayla says breathlessly. A swipe of color crosses the screen. Kayla offers me a brief hello and then settles back into her seat.
“Danni’s bringing her swimsuit too,” Morgan says.
“I am?”
“Bye–eee. See you there.”
The call ends.
I contemplate my face in the mirror.
My no-makeup makeup look is flattering, refreshing but not overpowering. If I swim, my no-makeup makeup look will wash away; however, I’ve never swam in an actual haunted pool, and if I’m wearing a swimsuit, Chance might also be wearing a swimsuit.
The blush returns to my cheeks and deepens as my thoughts pause on the memory of Chance shirtless on the beach. Tonight is a team-building exercise. It’s for work, and if work involves me seeing Chance shirtless again, I can’t help that, can I?
Remember what you said on the boat? You said you are not kissing Chance. Ever.
Because kissing leads to a relationship, and a relationship leads to emotional abuse by a code maverick, which leads to a painful break up, which leads to bumping into each other all over town, which leads to awkwardness and regret. Just no.
But catching a glimpse of someone from afar while that person is frolicking in the water and doing cannonballs isn’t a relationship. It’s just part of the professional, team-building experience.
I blink at my reflection.
I hope I don’t regret this.
I turn left onto Benton, a tree-lined street in historic Charleston that’s home to some of the city’s wealthiest residents. Built over a century ago, the homes possess the character of their age with detailed trim-work, long porches, ample square-footage, especially for the era in which they were built. The front yards are modest but well-kept, anchored by lumbering oaks as old as the houses and immaculate landscaping replete with colorful perennials and flowering bushes. Christopher said Luke’s house would be easy to spot because it’s the only home with a large front yard and a guest house out back.
An impressed, “Whoah,” crosses my lips when I locate it. Luke’s mansion makes the other homes along the street seem small. Broad, heavy oak boughs stretch over the front lawn like giant arms protecting the property. They split in the middle, framing the home’s grand porch, many windows, and rooftop cupola.
Cars line the driveway, their left tires encroaching on the grass, which leaves room to park in front of the detached garage, but I want to be able to make a quick exit if I get bored or annoyed, or both. Probably both.
I opt for a spot along the street and then make my way up the cobbled driveway. The side door is open to a mudroom, its fancy cabinetry visible through the glass storm door.
Since I’ve never met Luke or Cassie, I opt for the front door, feeling awkward as I poke the doorbell with my finger. A minute later, I feel like a full-fledged dweeb, and I almost abort this “team building” mission, but the door finally opens and a tall, handsome man in cargo shorts and a gray polo shirt appears in the gap.
“Hey. You must be one of Christopher’s minions.”
“I think he’s actually the minion,” I say in a friendly jab at Christopher’s short stature.
“Good point.” He motions me in. “Feel free to use the side door to go in and out. We’re all friends here.”
Of course I used the wrong door. I’m a dork. That’s what dorks do. Why is socializing so hard? I enjoy my coworkers at work, but by the end of the day, I’m done people-ing. And yet, here I am being a team player, because…annual reviews. Christopher is nicer than my old boss, but his enthusiasm is exhausting.
“Everyone is in the theater room, down the hall and to your right. There’s plenty of food and snacks to munch on in the kitchen.”
Luke’s house is twice as impressive on the inside: new glossy floors, an open staircase that curves to the top floor, a modern chandelier that probably cost more than my paycheck.
Luke peels off to the right. I head to the left down a long, wood-paneled hallway that’s brightly lit with antique brass sconces. The rumble of conversation greets me before my coworkers do. Actually my coworkers don’t greet me at all. When I enter, Bruce and Juanita are huddled against the wall with Reese. Morgan, Kayla, and Violet are circled up in front of the very large flatscreen TV, and Chance is leaning against the wall by the snack table.
Okay, one person greets me. Chance. We lock eyes. He lifts a finger, the others still wrapped around his plastic cup. His lingering gaze shoots through me like a lawn jart. Stricken, I contemplate turning around and leaving through the side door–because I’m a friend–but Morgan calls my name.
I have to cross in front of Chance to get to her. Right in front of him. Why does his face have to be all angles and shadows in the right places, with highlights where it counts, and that hair? I wonder what it would feel like to thread my fingers through it? Annoying? Because I think I’m annoyed. How am I supposed to act professionally when he looks like that?
Luckily, I don’t have to. We’re team building not working. I muster up the courage to hustle past Chance while my mouth says, “You holding up that wall?”
“That’s the plan,” Chance says, a hint of a smile curving those resistable lips. Chance is resistable, and I’m resisting. I’m forming a resistance. Me, myself, and I are going to win this war, a.k.a. the one where I code a benefits app without developing any emotional attachments.
“What’s wrong?” Morgan asks when I slide up to her. She’s wearing a flowy A-line dress with cork-soled sandals.
I look at her innocently. “Nothing’s wrong.”
“You look constipated.”
Kayla nods in agreement as Violet exits the conversation in search of snacks.
“I’m just–I hate forced socializing. You know that.”
“You like socializing with us,” Kayla says. She takes a swig of her drink and then adjusts her shirt collar. It’s a white, short-sleeved button up that hugs her curves.
“You’re two people. This is a room full of people.” I glance over at Abeer and Heng who have already claimed their spots in the third row.
“That you work with every day,” Morgan adds.
“Which makes it a little bit worse.”
Morgan pats my shoulder. “Doesn’t it, though?”
“I’m only here to earn cool points with Christopher,” I mumble.
“Bruce just said Christopher isn’t coming,” Kayla says. “The CIO gave him a last-minute tasker. He’s gonna be up all night working on it.”
The injustice of her comment turns my face into a funhouse entrance–the big clown face with the wide open mouth. “Why am I here then?”
“To watch every episode of the new season of Temporal Grifter, dummy,” Morgan says.
“I don’t like Temporal Grifter,” I say.
“Who doesn’t like a show about time-traveling werewolf space cowboys?” Kayla asks, her expression matching her feigned disbelief. She’s well aware of my viewing preferences.
“Me.”
Kayla flips a wiry curl over her shoulder. “Danni doesn’t like time-traveling werewolf space cowboys,” she announces to the room.
My punishment is a chorus of gasps followed by shocked silence and a roomful of stares. I face it head-on. “Time-traveling werewolf space cowboys are dumb,” I say, shrugging.
“Danni isn’t a real nerd!” Juanita hollers over the rising cacophony of disbelief.
Chance’s wide grin glows in my peripheral vision.
“Start the show. Start the show,” Juanita chants. Everyone joins in. I’m vastly outnumbered.
I throw up my hands. “I’m a bigger nerd than all ya’ll.”
Violet chuckles. “Danni tried to sound southern.” Her purple top matches her name and her lipstick. “That was cute.”
Morgan and Kayla find seats in the second row. Behind them, people settle in, the light dims, and the screen lights up with the Netflix home page. Drew is manning the controls. He pulls up Temporal Grifter and tabs down to Season Two, Episode One, hits play, and a cowboy-hat-wearing werewolf temporal grifter named Wayward appears on the screen, tips his hat, and smiles at us before being sucked into a wormhole.
Hunger tickles my stomach so I visit the snack table. As I’m transferring squares of cheese to my tiny plate, Chance walks up beside me. He pokes a strawberry with a toothpick and plops it into the fruit dip. His nearness makes my hands tingly. I take a deep lungful of air as inconspicuously as possible.
“I don’t like time-traveling werewolf space cowboys either,” he says as the show’s theme music swells into the room.
“Which part don’t you like? The werewolves or the cowboys?”
“Cowboys are cool. Shapeshifters aren’t my thing.”
“I forgot. You’re a cowboy.”
“Yep.” He smiles down at me, tips his imaginary hat, and then finds a seat in the back row.
Even though it was imaginary, Chance’s hat-tipping was way better than Wayward’s. Chance really could be an actor, or a model, or anything else in front of the camera. Yet, he works at JetAero in South Carolina, moonlighting as a serial online dater. There must be more to his story, and I feel unexpectedly curious to learn what it might be. However, the show has started with a mean space battle causing all kinds of laser strikes and explosions. Not a setting amenable to getting to know a person.
I poke a few strawberries of my own and slide them off the toothpick onto my plate, and then I head up to the second row and claim a chair by Morgan. Forty-five minutes later, I like time-traveling werewolf space cowboys even less and I’m still hungry.
“I’m going to grab something to eat from the kitchen,” I say to my friends. “Wanna come?”
They both decline, which leaves me to myself. As I’m walking up the aisle, I quickly scan the crowd. My coworkers are engrossed in the intro to Episode Two, a couple of them munching on kettle corn. Chance isn’t among them. What if he’s in the kitchen? The thought makes my stomach flutter. Unacceptable. I need to maintain an air of authority, even during forced fun-time, and that’s what I’ll do. Hopefully he’s in the bathroom.
I search for the kitchen, letting my nose be my guide. When I find it, I’m relieved. Or is it disappointment? Either way, Chance isn’t there, but a gorgeous woman with wavy brown hair and pink joggers and a hoodie is. She’s cutting up more cheese while she monitors another batch of home-popped kettle corn.
“Hey there,” she says when I enter. Her perfect complexion complements the immaculate decor which consists of clean-lined cabinetry–a little modern but still appropriate for a historic home–shiny quartz cabinets and stainless-steel appliances that would be at home in any professional kitchen. Luke must take his cooking very seriously.
“Hey.”
She sets down her knife and walks over to shake my hand. “I’m Cassie.”
The owner of MatchAI, successful entrepreneur, girlfriend of a wealthy venture capitalist. That explains the professional handshake. This woman is out of my league.
“Help yourself. The empanadas are in the warmer along with stuff to make cheesy nachos and chicken fajitas.”
She heads back to the stove and gives the stainless-steel soup pot a shake so the popcorn doesn’t burn. “And you are?” she asks over her shoulder.
“Oh, sorry. I’m Danni, minion to the minion.”
She responds with a healthy laugh. “Is that what Christopher calls you? His minions?”
“Nah. He calls us his plebes.”
Cassie laughs again and then takes the popcorn off the burner and pours it into a bowl.
For being rich, Cassie seems pretty down-to-earth. After my dad left, my mom, sister, and I survived a couple of years just above the poverty line. When my mom became head manager at the grocery store, things got a little easier, but there wasn’t any extra for fancy kitchen remodels and haunted swimming pools and spare bedrooms. If mom knew how much money I’m making now, she’d think I’d won the lottery. I’d quickly remind her that a large chunk of my lottery winnings is going to school loan payments.
“You have a really nice house.” I head over to the island where blue flames are warming a row of aluminum pans.
“It’s not mine. I’m just here a lot. Wait a minute!”
I freeze.
“Oh, sorry. You can grab some food. I just remembered. You’re the person Christopher gave the MatchAI coupon to. And he bought you tickets to the Excursion’s maiden voyage?”
“Yup. That’s me.” I start moving my muscles again, plating a couple empanadas and a pile of corn chips that I douse in white cheese sauce.
Cassie leans against the counter by the stove and folds her arms. “How did the date go?”
I glance behind me to make sure no one is listening, particularly Chance. “That’s a tough one to answer.”
Cassie’s expression falls. “Not good?”
“He used an avatar, so I thought he was a blond guy, but turns out he wasn’t.”
“That’s against our terms and conditions. Did you report him?”
“No. It’s fine. After the date we found out we’re neighbors, and then the following Monday, he started working at JetAero.”
Eyes can’t really light up, but Cassie’s eyes don’t know that because they do. She covers her mouth with her hand.
I rest my plate on the island, preparing to set her straight.
“That’s three ‘coincidences,’” She uses air quotes.
I let out a gruff “Ha ha” followed by, “My friends and I already had this discussion. This isn’t some cosmic sign, or God giving me any kind of hints, trust me. Chance and I have no future.”
Cassie clasps her hands. “His name is Chance?”
“No. I mean, yes. But no. Again, not a sign. He just goes by that name. His real name is…it starts with a ‘J’ and has a lot of syllables.”
Cassie settles against the counter, a pleased smile on her face. “You know, when I pressed Choose, my ex came up. Turns out, he had some guy named Drew fudge the algorithm.”
“No way. Drew Dinwiddie?”
“Yeah.”
“I work with Drew.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“Anyway, the second time I pressed Choose, guess who Cupid chose?”
“Drew?”
“No, my ex-boyfriend, now fiancé.” She flashes me her very large diamond ring.
“What a random, not in any way cosmic or fateful coincidence.”
She crosses her arms, hiding that gorgeous gem under her thin bicep. “Hmm. Well.” She’s trying hard not to smile, but I can tell she already has this story tied up in a little bow. Chance and I are not chance, we’re meant to be together because God said so. Ha! Right. “I don’t date coworkers.”
With her smile finally tamed, Cassie says, “Of course not. That would be messy,” and then she goes back to cutting the cheese.
“Soooo messy. Been there, done that.”
“Hey, how about I give you a free month or two on MatchAI?”
“Heh heh. No thanks. I’m not into online dating or dating of any kind. Not right now. I’m having fun being single and pretending I’m in college except I don’t go to classes and I’m not poor and I don’t have roommates.”
After a few deft slices of her knife, Cassie pops a square of cheese into her mouth. “I get it. It’s not for everyone.”
“It’s for Chance, though.”
Before I finish my sentence, Cassie continues, “There are tables by the pool if you want to enjoy the outdoors while you eat. I’m guessing you’re not into space cowboys, otherwise you’d be glued to the screen.”
“I’m not into werewolf space cowboys. I might go for a plain space cowboy, though.”
Cassie’s eyes do that light-up thing again. She smiles like she knows something I don’t.
“Is your entire backyard haunted or just the pool?”
“You heard about our pool?”
“Christopher told us.”
“Nothing back there is haunted. We just happened to find skeletons when we were digging the pool. We respectfully relocated them.”
“That’s so freaky.”
“It’s not really. It’s just a story we tell when we’re ready for our guests to leave. But not you. You can stay all night. Luke has plenty of space.”
“I like my bed. But… You’ve piqued my interest. I think I’ll do a little ghost hunting.”
“You should definitely do that. Right away. Like now.”
“O…kay.”
“Did you bring your swimsuit?” Cassie asks as I turn to leave.
“I’m wearing it under my clothes.”
“Perfect,” she says with an odd, satisfied smile. The light has returned to her eyes, glittering like her ginormous diamond.
“Kay,” I say. “And the pool is? This way?” I point to the left with my elbow.
“Yep, through the family room. You’ll see it.”
I cross through the family room into an indoor/outdoor room with folding glass doors that overlook the pool. The doors are open to the hot South Carolina night, with Chance as the main attraction. I think I’ve been had. I glance over my shoulder, but Miss Sneaky, I mean Cassie, is nowhere to be found. I’m quite sure she orchestrated this little encounter. Matchmaking must be in her blood.
Chance is doing laps. He hasn’t seen me. If I turn slowly, quietly, and walk away…
While I’m pivoting, he pauses in the shallow end and stands, the chlorinated water cascading over his muscles like water soaring down a rocky cliff. Eyes closed, he slicks his hair back, triceps bulging, pecs putting on a show, abs knitted together in perfect symmetry.
I should have turned quickly and ran.
After what feels like five hours, he opens his eyes and notices me standing there, frozen like an ice sculpture but I’m not cold. I think I’ve discovered a new state of matter, one that looks solid but is really a liquid. Oobleck. That’s what I am. I’m oobleck.
“Hey,” Chance says.
I force my liquid legs to act like a solid and walk over to the poolside table, where I set my food, which is no longer appetizing. Shirtless Chance makes my empanadas look like rocks. Who wants to eat rocks when I can devour some eye candy?
I need to get a grip.
“It’s not safe to swim alone,” I say.