11. Paisley
I’m tryingmy best to pay attention during this video call with a coffee chain out of Seattle, but how can I when I feel so… so… unsettled?
My palm glides over the gleaming table, the very same table Klein and I faced off across earlier this week. Over and over in my mind, I see the way his shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of him when I told him I gave up my inheritance.
A text message from Paloma flashes on my screen. I glance at her across the table, my eyes squinting with question.
She looks pointedly at my phone, indicating her message.
Without being obvious, I swipe open her text.
Thinking about Klein?
I give a tiny nod.
I can see why. He’s gorgeous.
I know.
He’s more than his good looks, though. A lot more.
Paloma holds her phone below the table, out of eyesight of the woman on the screen. Her message pops up.
Like Brad Pitt in Troy but his hair is shorter and not as blond. And he writes books. And he’s bigger.
I fight to keep a straight face as I respond.
So, not at all like Brad Pitt in Troy?
Paloma rolls her eyes only a quarter turn.
Ok, fine. He looks like he should play football.
Quarterback! Because he throws his words out there. Get it?
Paloma shakes her head solemnly.
I’ll see myself out.
We stop texting after that, focusing on Stephanie, the store owner, as she takes us through the results she sees day-to-day following our marketing initiative.
Stephanie’s biggest problem when she came to us was branding. She hadn’t yet figured out the soul of her company, and we helped her distill it down to a few words, then rebuild from that idea.
Paloma and I finish up our call. Paloma turns off the video while I snap my laptop closed and surreptitiously glance at my phone. I’m looking for a text from Klein, the one that is supposed to tell me what time dinner is tonight and his mother’s address. I don’t like that this is the fourth time today I’ve looked at my phone hoping for a message from him. Or that I did the same thing seven times yesterday.
I’m sipping my late afternoon mocha cold brew with two pumps of raspberry when the long-awaited text comes through.
Hey, Royce.
You’re not going to be able to call me Royce in front of my family, so you might want to start kicking the habit now.
I decide when I kick a habit. Royce stays.
I flick the phone screen with my middle finger.
Stubborn ass.
Can I pick you up at six?
I’m capable of driving myself.
You’re capable of plenty. That doesn’t mean other people can’t do something for you.
My mom lives across town. So, again I ask, can I pick you up at six?
Briefly I consider putting my foot down and insisting I drive. It would keep some degree of separation between us. But then I fire off a text that says yes, because I wouldn’t mind being chauffeured. We live in a driving city, no mass transportation except for a light rail that moves through downtown Phoenix, and I happen to hate driving.
Address, please?
I send him my address and tell him I’ll be ready at six.
Paloma walks into my office, throwing herself in the chair opposite my desk. “I hate that man,” she wails, a touch of venom in her tone.
“What man?”
She points a stiff finger to her right. “The guy who owns the architecture firm next door.”
I suppress my smile. It’s never a good idea to show mirth of any form while Paloma is mad. “What did Daniel do now?”
“What didn’t he do?” she seethes. “That man is on my last nerve. All day long he stands in front of his store, right next to my office, and yammers away on the phone. It’s like he’s scared of his own desk.” Her hands fly into the air, exasperated. “I want to pour boiling water in his ear.”
“That would kill him.”
“Exactly.”
“Murder is an offense punishable by law.”
“Ahh, but that’s the beauty of this method.” She mimes pouring water, then brushes one palm against the other. “It leaves no trace.”
I study her. “You’re terrifying.”
She half-grins and shimmies her shoulders. “Thank you.” She stands abruptly. “That’s it. I’m finished complaining. What about you? Do you have anything to complain about?”
“Other than the fact I’m going to meet Klein’s mother tonight?”
“You’re meeting your friend’s mom, not that you can call him that. Big deal.”
I don’t like how much emphasis she puts on the word ‘friend’.
“Right,” I nod, shrugging one shoulder. “Big deal.”
Paloma gives me a knowing look, and I’m not loving how much she appears to be enjoying my discomfort.
“Tell your word slinger quarterback I said hello.”
“He’s scared of you, I think. At least a little.”
She pauses in my office door. “Good.” She repeats the pouring water motion. “He should be.”
Is therea dress code for meeting your fake boyfriend’s mother?
Moreover, is there a handbook for how a fake girlfriend should behave?
Klein will be at my apartment in fifteen minutes. I am on my seventh outfit change. The wide leg trousers and tank top was too ‘cocktails after dinner’. The flouncy floral patterned sundress was too ‘walk on the beach at dusk’. Don’t even get me started on the plum colored joggers. They lasted all of three seconds before I ripped them from my legs.
“Argh,” I groan, shaking a fist at the small pile of clothes on my bed. I’m not usually indecisive when it comes to dressing, but tonight I seem to be having issues.
I’m standing in my underwear and bra when there’s a knock at my door. “Dammit,” I mutter. Klein is four minutes early.
Marching into my closet, I grab the closest thing on a hanger and pull it over my head.
I pause at my front door, dragging a deep breath into my lungs. “Everything is good,” I coach. “You’re fine.”
And I am fine. I am slap-my-ass fantastic. Whatever that means.
I wrestle open the door, and there is Klein. All six foot something of him, leaning against the wall next to my potted hot pink Hibiscus flowers. With nothing more than the strength of his upper body he propels himself forward.
He’s so handsome it causes actual physical pain. A squeeze in the center of my chest.
He steps into the space made by the open door, gripping the top of the doorframe and leaning forward. “Were you talking to yourself?”
My words tangle in my throat. It should be illegal for a man to grip the doorframe and lean forward like that. He must know what he’s doing, the way his biceps pop and flex, the way it takes an expansive chest and expands it even more.
He knows, right?
He knows. He has to. And if he doesn’t, I will not be the one enlightening him.
Crossing my arms, I ignore his question and say, “You’re four minutes early. I really could’ve used those extra four minutes to decide on what to wear.” His gaze drops, starting with my bare feet and lifting up up up the rest of my body until he meets my eyes.
“You look fine,” he grunts.
“Don’t sound so enthusiastic.”
“Do you want me to sound enthusiastic?”
I give him a dirty look. He smirks. “Thought so. Are you ready?”
“Let me grab my shoes and I’ll be on my way. Unless you want me to show up shoeless.”
“You can show up however you want. My mom won’t care.”
“Well then, I’ll change into one of those giant trash bags used for landscaping trimmings. Much more comfortable.”
“Lovely,” Klein counters.
I growl, throwing up my hands and spinning around. Should I be concerned about how crazy this man makes me? Probably. But considering I’m low on men raising their hands and offering to join me in a weeklong sham, I’ll have to put up with Klein.
Leaving him in the open doorway, I head for my room. I grab a pair of heeled sandals and slide my feet in them, then wind my purse over one shoulder. When I come back out, Klein is standing in my living room, looking at a family photo I keep on my shelf. He points at my little brother.
“Is his name Scooter?”
My lips tug into a frown. “No. Why?”
Klein shrugs. “He looks like a Scooter.”
“How does a person look like a Scooter?” I gripe, joining Klein to examine the photo. I’ve seen the picture a hundred times, but maybe I missed something. The photo is of me, and my brother and sister, attempting to bake an apple pie in my mom’s kitchen at Thanksgiving three years ago. It was my first holiday after Shane broke up with me. My brother wears a Burberry polo with pressed shorts. Ok, yeah, he could be a Scooter.
“His name is Spencer,” I tell Klein.
“I was close,” Klein says.
“When he was little we called him Spencer the Terrible because he was a rotten toddler.” I poke at the smirk on my brother’s face, the mischievous glint in his eyes. “He’s seventeen. Has no idea where he wants to go to college. Claims to be uninterested in higher education. Doesn’t do well making any meaningful conversation with adults.” A heavy breath slips from me. “He has a little bit of a Peter Pan thing going, and my mother doesn’t appear to care.” She’s too busy living her best life post-divorce.
Klein nods. “A refusal to grow up.”
“He claims to be waiting for the right time.”
Klein laughs and I elbow him. “See? You already like him. It’s kind of hard not to, even if a majority of interactions with him consist of him grunting most of his responses or teasing people.”
“And your sister?”
“You’ve already met her.”
Klein looks down at me. He’s awfully close. “Yeah, but what about her? I’m going into this thinking she’s not a very good sister. Is that the case?”
I sigh heavily. “She’s... selfish. But I guess we all are, to a degree.”
“Some more than others,” he says amicably.
“She’s not a bad sister, though,” I hurry to defend. “I told her it was ok to date my ex.”
Klein doesn’t have a response. His gaze wanders away from my eyes, slipping down over my cheeks, lingering on my lips. Eventually he makes his way back to my eyes. His thorough inspection elicits a feeling deep in my belly, a coiled snake unraveling.
“Do I have something on my face?” I run my finger pads under my eyes, in case there is mascara built up underneath them.
“You’re perfect,” Klein says. Panic flips through his eyes when he realizes what he said. He steps back. “Your outfit, I mean. For what it’s worth, it looks nice on you.”
Try as I might, I can’t help feeling a bit of a glow at his compliment. Looking down, I smooth my hands over the mint green short-sleeved knit sweater dress I ended up pulling on. “Thanks,” I murmur. “It’s nothing.”
Klein has already turned away, but I swear the deep timbre of his thick voice mutters, “It’s something.”