Chapter 18 #3
“Just give me a piece of cheese and bread or something.”
“I’ll do you one better than that. I’ll make you a grilled cheese,” he says, giving me a wink. “I think I have some tomato soup too.”
My stomach makes a noise again because that actually sounds amazing right now.
Fifteen minutes later, we’re both back on the couch. A wooden tray on my lap, a steaming bowl of tomato soup, and the yummiest-looking grilled cheese sandwich on a plate.
“Is this sourdough?” I ask, picking up half.
“Yep,” he says. “You don’t get crappy sandwiches at Chez Wilder.”
I forgive him for that stupid joke when I take a bite of the grilled cheese. It’s incredible. Perfectly grilled, with a lovely cheese pull, and he’s added some herbs that take it to the next level.
“This is so good,” I say around a bite.
He smiles, pleased with himself. “Glad you like it.”
“You brainstorm while I eat,” I say. I’m not trying to be dainty about it. I’m scarfing this down. This isn’t a date, anyway. I’m not trying to impress anyone.
“Okay, well, we haven’t heard anything from Victoria yet,” he says.
“We will, though,” I say, dipping the edge of my sandwich into the soup before taking a bite.
“Right, so better to get ahead of it now before she calls.”
“But how?” I ask before taking another bite. “It’s Friday night; whatever we do will get buried.”
He nods, rubbing his jaw with his fingers. “That’s true. Maybe we don’t do anything?”
“Crap,” I say, looking down at my dress, tomato soup dripping down the front of it. I guess I was a little heavy handed with my last sandwich dunk.
“Shoot.” Luke gets up from the couch. “I’ll get you a towel. You need to get that out or it’ll stain.”
“It’s fine,” I say, even though I love this dress.
I hear him run the water, and then he comes back to the couch, handing me a wet towel.
I try dabbing at it, but it’s not doing anything.
“I can treat it with something,” he says.
“Really?” I say, impressed that Luke knows how to do that. I assumed he was the type who sends all his clothes out to be cleaned.
He shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “My mom taught me everything she knows.”
“Well, small problem,” I say. “I have nothing else to wear.”
He raises his eyebrows, a mischievous smile on his face.
“Luke,” I chide.
“I’m kidding.” He holds his hands up, all innocence. “I have a whole closetful of clothes. I’ll get you something.”
Five minutes later, I walk out of the bedroom swimming in Luke’s T-shirt and joggers, the waistband of which I had to roll a few times to keep up. They smell like him. Detergent with a hint of that spicy cologne.
I walk over to where he’s sitting on the couch and hand him the dress. He takes it, but not before a small smile appears on his face when he sees me in his clothes.
“Don’t,” I say, cutting off whatever comment was about to come out of his mouth. This is Luke. He can’t help himself.
He gives me an innocent look. “I wasn’t going to say anything. But you do look good in my clothes.”
I roll my eyes.
He takes the dress over to a door near the bathroom and opens it to reveal a small closet with a stackable washer and dryer. He treats the stain with a spray before putting it in the washer and starting it.
This feels so domestic, Luke doing my laundry while I sit on his couch wearing his things. I’ve never gotten to this part before—the easy, settled feeling of just existing in someone else’s space. The curse always ends things before they begin. I wonder if I’ll ever get here with someone.
“Okay,” Luke says, shutting the door of the closet, slightly muffling the sound of water filling the washer. “Should we get back to work?”
“Yes,” I say, already sitting on his couch, my feet tucked under me.
“I checked my email—still no word from Victoria,” he says.
“Her silence is almost scarier,” I say, and he nods. “She wouldn’t fire us over this, would she?”
Luke lifts a shoulder. “I hope not. Things were going so well.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, feeling like it’s somehow my fault.
He gives me a questioning look. “For what? Your client made what she thought was an innocent post.”
“True,” I say. I’m grateful he’s being so kind. If the tables were turned, I’m not sure I’d offer him the same grace.
We sit in silence, both thinking, the sound of the washing machine running as background noise.
“Remember when Ella posted that photo with her ex’s dog and everyone thought they were back together?” Luke asks.
I drop my chin. “How could I forget?”
Her relationship with her ex—another country singer—was so toxic, and everyone knew it, and the picture had every fan of hers in an uproar.
“What did we end up doing about that?”
“Nothing,” I say. “We just let it sit and then posted her album announcement two days later, and everyone moved on.”
“We need to do the same kind of thing here.”
I shake my head. “The cat post could get major legs over the weekend.”
“Not if we hit it with more behind-the-scenes shots tomorrow,” he says.
“That’s a good idea,” I say. “But what could we use? I think the only thing we have are the clips of them rehearsing that Victoria nixed.”
“Maybe she’d let us under the circumstances?”
I look at him. “Should we ask?”
We send an email to Victoria from Luke’s laptop.
Hopefully she’ll appreciate us trying to stop this thing in its tracks.
She might also think we’re total idiots for asking again.
We’ll just have to wait and see what she comes back with.
Perhaps the email will just say: “You’re fired. ” Anything could happen at this point.
I send a text to Bailey to let her know we’ve got a plan and that I’ll keep her updated.
Then, because I’m bored, I put both feet on the ground, and leaning toward the coffee table, I start looking through the loose puzzle pieces, needing something to do other than fret over Victoria’s response.
“Do you mind?” I ask Luke, with a nod toward the puzzle.
“Go for it,” he says.
I start searching for pieces to fill the inside of the border, and it’s not long before Luke is next to me.
“How was your date before the cat disaster?” he asks as we both work on filling in gaps.
“Um,” I say, caught off guard by the question. He’s just so casual about it, like we talk about this kind of stuff all the time. “It was . . . good. He’s a nice guy.”
Luke looks at me, and I keep my face forward, focused on the puzzle. “Nice, huh?”
“Yeah. We didn’t get that far into the date before I had to leave. But it was pleasant.”
I see Luke shake his head in my periphery.
“What?” I ask, a loose puzzle piece in my hand as I turn to look at him.
“Nice. Pleasant. Sounds like a review for your dentist. Was your routine cleaning satisfactory?”
I laugh. “I don’t know what else to say.”
“Well, was he clever? Did he make you laugh?” He nudges me with his shoulder.
“It was a short date.” I look back at the puzzle.
“It doesn’t take long to figure that out.”
“Maybe I don’t want someone who makes me laugh,” I say.