10. D-Game Retribution
D-GAME RETRIBUTION
CHLOE
Of course this was too good to be true. Of course the universe didn’t want me to have nice things—like a growing business or a fantastic new workplace.
After I march into the training room, I drop my backpack onto the concrete floor with a thud, then yank open the zipper, nearly ripping it off, but of course, nicking a nail instead.
I groan at the now-chipped mint-green nail polish.
I did these just last night too, on the couch my dad and his boyfriend gave me when I moved into Luca’s home after he moved in with Dad.
I painted them while watching the newest episode of Upper East Siders with Captain serving as a footrest and Bridget and Ripley commenting on every twist and turn on speakerphone.
This is all Sawyer’s fault. I can’t believe he ruined my new mani. After a few more seconds of rage-mourning my sad middle fingernail—the irony, the utter irony—I unpack the bag like the world is on fire. I set the toys and targets on the floor with the fury of a thousand suns.
Except…dammit. I should put these in the canvas box. That’s the point of the box. I whirl around, hunting for it, but I must have left it in the car. Which means I have to go back out there and see Sawyer’s stupidly handsome face and his stupidly hot beard.
Gritting my teeth, I draw a deep breath, hoping it’ll calm me. But I am not someone who meditates. I don’t have a calming app on my phone. Lavender doesn’t work on my nerves. I am a redhead through and through—crafted with spices and fire.
New game plan—I will simply ignore the infuriating asshole when I have to see his egotistical face in three, two, one seconds.
With my chin up, I open the door to the foyer and…we’re not alone.
Kaylie Pauline Simmons stands at the counter, wearing her beige uniform, her sheriff’s hat covering her long curly hair.
She’s nodding at something Sawyer just said.
Her little tan Chihuahua mix, Baxter, lounges in her arms, like he’s showing off how reformed he is.
I trained the spicy boy, who used to guard all the toys in Darling Springs until I worked with him.
“I heard from Linus this place was reopening under new management. Good thing, because I was about to take my boy over to Duck Falls to a daycare there that does nail trims too,” she says, her voice just shy of chiding, like she’s issuing him a warning for speeding.
“I promise to take good care of him,” Sawyer says, all earnest and solemn. I want to kick him in the shins for being so normal after the presumptuous shit he said to me.
She pets Baxter’s head as she doles out instructions.
“I packed him a healthy snack—carrots, of course, grown in my garden. He’d like to spend the day in the small dog room.
And he can play with toys around other dogs, thanks to—” She stops, turns her wise face my way, seems to register I’m here, then lights up.
“Oh! What do you know? This young lady. The finest dog trainer in California—no, the country,” she says, her tone softening when she sees me.
Ha, ha, city boy. This small-town girl is beloved.
The sheriff looks back at Sawyer, all no-nonsense again. “She taught Baxter how to share.”
Sawyer nods and says evenly, “Great to hear.”
I flash him a smile that loosely translates to don’t mess with me because I will haunt you forever as the world’s meanest ghost.
“And Baxter learned how to be such a good boy, didn’t he?” I say, striding over and stroking the pup’s soft little chin. “Proof that dogs can be trained,” I say pointedly to Sawyer. Then I leave, letting the door thunk shut behind me as I stalk to my car.
I grab the door handle, snag the foldable canvas box from the floor, then slam the door shut.
But…I slammed it so hard, the car’s practically rattling. Is the handle looser than before?
Oh god, I hope not. Worry wiggles through me as I test it. It is looser. What if I have to start getting into my car like an action heroine, jumping in through the open window? No way can I pull that off.
I pet the car in apology. “Sorry, Roxie,” I say to the trusty old dame. “I’ll do better next time.”
I can’t take my frustration out on my car. And really, why does Sawyer’s opinion even matter so much? He’s not right. I didn’t do any of the things he said I did. But then again, I didn’t order the balloons that exploded in the town square, and my former boss blamed me for those.
Which reminds me…Sawyer knows all that. I opened up to Sir Full-of-Himself that night in San Francisco. I shared my vulnerable underbelly in our “whose day sucked more” contest.
Ugh.
I wish I had a time machine. I don’t even want to go back into Dog Tails right now. I’m contemplating finding another workspace somewhere in this town or buying a fantastic new bra that’ll show that jerk what he’s missing when a voice calls out, “Hey, troublemaker.”
It’s Ripley.
Relief crashes into me. Just what I need. A friendly face. She can calm me down. Turning around, I spot my friend cruising down the street on her purple bike, the basket stuffed with wrapped bouquets of lavender. She must be doing her morning deliveries.
“Look!” I raise my middle finger.
“Whoa,” Ripley says, braking at the curb next to me, then hopping the bike up onto the sidewalk. “What did I do?”
“I’m not giving you the finger. I’m showing you my botched manicure, and it’s all Sawyer’s fault,” I say as fumes billow off me. And…I guess I’m still not calmed down at all. I’m worked the fuck up.
Ripley’s brow knits, a crease visible even under her helmet—the one her boyfriend, Banks, bought for her. “Sawyer?”
“Yes, Sawyer,” I say like it’s obvious, as I brandish the evidence of his insult. “I’m like Iago in Aladdin. I’m so ticked off I’m molting. I mean, just look at my nail.”
Ripley takes a breath, nods, then says, “Let’s start at the beginning. Why is your nail broken, and what does it have to do with someone named Sawyer?”
“I sent you his license photo!”
She purses her lips, then after a beat, Ripley says, “His name is Sawyer? That guy you met in San Francisco?”
“Yes! Hello. I sent his license to you and Bridge. Did you even look at it?”
“Hold on. You sent it to us so we would know who your killer was if you never came back. Dramatic much?”
I huff out a breath, but don’t concede. “Well, that’s the point of sending a pic. For future retribution if things go south. And they went south today!”
“But it’s a month later,” she says calmly.
“Also, because no self-respecting Darling Springs native goes googling a guy till after the first date, I didn’t even look at his picture.
It was there for safekeeping, but first thing in the morning it was gone, poof, you deleted it from the thread because you—as evidenced by the parrot molting in front of me—are alive and well.
And not in need of true retribution. So I ask again, what’s going on? ”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, releasing a long, harsh breath as I mutter, “Who made the no-googling rule? That was dumb.”
She clears her throat. Points at me. “You.”
“I know,” I say in a small voice, mad at myself, really.
Even if they had googled him that night and reported back that we worked in the same field, he would probably have already been balls deep inside me by the time they’d tracked down those details.
Besides, who knows if him being the owner of this business is even intel that’s available online anywhere?
I let it go, since that’s not what matters.
I meet Ripley’s gaze and shrug helplessly.
“My sit on my face one-night stand is the new owner of the town’s doggie daycare, which means the man who had serious D-game, the man who extracted orgasms that can shake a skyscraper out of me, is in there,” I say, pointing with my maimed nail in the general direction of Dog Tails.
“He’s my brand-new co-worker. Landlord. Colleague. Whatever.”
Ripley snort-laughs. Then tries to smother her smile. “Really?”
“It’s not funny!”
“It’s a little funny.”
“When I showed up with coconut bread from The Sweet Spot as a first-day gift, he accused me of stalking him,” I say, enraged all over again.
Ripley’s spine straightens, and she dismounts her bike, searching, perhaps for a streetlamp or sign to rest it against. “I’m going to give him a piece of my mind.”
I clap. “That’s what I’m talking about.”
But as she unclips her helmet, I grab her arm. “As much as I love you and want you to march in there, I can’t let you.”
“Why not?”
“He’s not worth it. Also, can I just vent?”
She softens. “Of course.”
Oh good. I love venting. “Can you believe the gall of him?” I say, then recount in precise detail what Sawyer said to me, stopping only when Sheriff Simmons strolls down the street, hat on her head, aviator shades on, giving me a nod and a hello to Ripley.
When she’s several feet away, I return to the story.
“He implied I was unstable. I’m trying to build my business and my credibility.
Can you even imagine if any of my new clients had heard him? ”
“He’s a dick, for sure,” Ripley says, one hundred percent on my side and then some, it seems. But then she tilts her head and asks thoughtfully, “But did they hear?”
I sigh heavily, admitting, “No.”
“And are you going to storm off and refuse to work there?”
“I want to,” I say, but I know that’s a pointless wish.
“Chloe,” she says.
I blow out another breath, then gaze skyward, trying to find some peace about this awful new work situation. I return my focus to my friend, who’s steady and patient and loyal. “You’re right. I need the space.”
“Exactly. You need to work with this guy. This is your shot. Don’t mess it up by being all hot under the collar. Yes, he said some dumbass things. But you know what you have to do?”
With a wince, I ask, “Behave?”
“Talk to him,” she says. “Clear the air.”
She’s right. I know she’s right. I hate that she’s right. “Why are you so good at this?”
“It’s the curse of being an older sister and my parents dying when I was fifteen,” she says, but matter-of-factly, not sadly. She’s used to being the problem solver among us since she had to take care of herself at a young age.
“I won’t give him a piece of my mind then,” I say, cooling off maybe a little.
“Will you clear the air?”
“That’s debatable.”
Ripley just shrugs. “I can only ask for so much.” She glances down at the lavender in her bike basket. “So, um, do you want to bring the lavender into Dog Tails, or should I?”
“You’re doing business with Sir Fuckface?” I’m indignant all over again.
“I didn’t know who he was when he placed the order.” Her brow knits. “Also, I think I ran into him a year ago or so when he was looking for space in town. I was with Banks. He knows him.”
“You should have warned me then! Both of you!”
“Warned you that a year into the future you’d rave about his D-game?” She nods to my new workplace. “Go behave, my friend.”
“Fine,” I huff, “but I’m not delivering the lavender.”
“That’ll show him,” Ripley teases, then locks up her bike and walks into the scene of the crime with me.