15. All My Roommates Are Plants
ALL MY ROOMMATES ARE PLANTS
SAWYER
When I pull into the garage ten minutes later, I do my best to shake off the night. Can’t have those tempting memories chasing me the rest of the evening, or the enticing scent of Chloe invading my mind.
I shut the door with a decisive snick and switch on the lights, illuminating the gray couch my sister picked out from Second Time Around, the mid-century coffee table she tracked down there too, and the stools framing the white marble countertop at the kitchen island, from another thrift shop—gently used and you’d never know it.
I’ve been living here for a few weeks now, but I still feel like I’ve walked into a staged home every time I come through the door.
There’s no scrabble of paws to greet me like I’ve wanted to hear for a while, but hadn’t when I lived with Katya.
There’s also no voice calling out softly You’re home, then the sound of her feet padding into the kitchen, asking Want a nightcap?
And…fuck. I do not need to be thinking about Katya and the life we shared. She probably asked that other guy for a nightcap too. My shoulders tighten at the thought, but I try to roll them out and let it go. Like I’ve tried to do over the past several months. Just shuck off the reminders of her.
Letting out a long breath to resettle my thoughts, I toe off my shoes and put my wallet down on the slim black table by the front door that Juliet said would look nice.
She’s right. It does look good, and so does the plant on it that Rachel gave me when she came up to check out my new home. It’s a peacock plant, she said.
She brought some other plants too. A Chinese money plant and a lipstick plant. “You should name them,” she said when she told me how much water and sun they’d need. “I suggest Dick, Bill, and Pucker Up, respectively.”
“I’ll call them…Plant, Plant, and Plant,” I’d told her.
“You can’t give them all the same name,” she’d said.
“Watch me,” I’d said.
She’d rolled her eyes, naturally.
“Hey, Plant,” I say to one of them now. But the words feel weird coming out of my mouth. I don’t talk to plants. Or maybe it’s the echo of my voice in the house. The way it reverberates but then fades into the empty spaces.
This house just doesn’t feel personalized to me. I’ve barely hung any art. I’ve hardly had time. I will. Eventually.
At least that’s the plan.
And…fuck. Now I’m up in my head in a whole new way. An annoying way. So what if this place isn’t lived in yet? I haven’t lived that much in this house.
I tell the hub to “Play me some new tunes,” then drop-kick these pesky thoughts out of my mind as I flop down on the couch.
I’m all business. I text Banks, asking if he can meet tomorrow night. He knows a thing or two about working with Hollywood types. He might be able to give me some pointers.
He replies right away with a succinct yes. We set a time, and I enter it in my calendar, right after another evening meeting.
Grabbing my laptop, I settle in with some music and some emails for another couple hours. I prep for my Zoom meetings over the next week with the seven other managers besides Zuri.
And I do my best not to think of the evening with Chloe, or the dog I don’t have. Someday, maybe someday.
The dog, that is.
Not the woman.
* * *
After a solo morning bike ride, I return home to shower, then change into work clothes—tailored black slacks and a sapphire-blue shirt.
On the way to Dog Tails, I’m locked into the all-business zone still.
I swing by The Sweet Spot for the first time and survey the offerings.
What will win me dessert rights for today?
Everything looks mouthwateringly good, from the banana bread to the chocolate croissants to the monkey bread.
You really can’t go wrong with monkey bread—it pulls double duty with the taste and with a name that makes people want to devour it.
I’m about to opt for a sliced loaf when the baker sails past me with a silver tray of fresh-baked cinnamon rolls.
“I’ll take a half dozen of those, please,” I say.
I bring them to work, set them on the counter, then all but secure my victory as I say, “Breakfast is on me.”
The staff descends like seagulls. It’s a beautiful sight, and so satisfying when Chloe grabs the last one, holds it up, and declares, “Cinnamon. I like cinnamon.”
I don’t dare crack a smile as I say, “So do I.”
She bites into it with a decadent moan. Her eyes fly to mine as she chews and swallows. Which makes me think about other uses for her sweet, pretty mouth.
The things she offered that night in San Francisco.
The things I didn’t take her up on even though I can still hear her say, Let me…with you.
The things that are distracting the fuck out of me once more at work.
With barely a glance, I turn away from her, not even bothering to gloat about the dessert rights I just won.
I need to get to my office. Stat. Before anyone notices I have a fucking hard-on for the woman I work with.
* * *
Chloe’s busy most of the day, and so am I.
That helps me keep my mind off her and square on business—where it should be, especially with this Webflix possibility.
I do some research in the late morning on the producers, slip into Chloe’s training room for a second to ask her a question about scheduling, then return to my office.
A few minutes later, I tell Zuri I need to take off for a bit to pick up some supplies we need.
“I’ll hold down the fort,” she says.
“Appreciate that.”
As I pass Chloe’s training room on the way out, she’s saying hello to a cuddly Pit Bull mix named Teddy.
Looks like she’ll be busy for at least an hour.
That’s good too. I handle my errand and return right when Chloe’s saying goodbye to Teddy on the street outside Dog Tails, telling him what a good boy he was with his obedience.
A minute later, she strolls back in through the door and catches my eye at the front counter. “The cinnamon rolls were excellent, but the coconut bread went faster.”
I scoff. “Not even close.”
“Hmm. I’m not so sure about that.”
I set my palms down and stare straight at her. “The cinnamon rolls were gone in less than ten minutes.”
She hums doubtfully, her voice just audible over the roar of a doggy hair dryer in the back of the room. “Are we sure about that?”
“Yes, we are very sure.”
“Tell you what—I’ll give you a do-over just to be certain.”
“A do-over?” I ask, incredulous, but also more amused than I’d like to be with her bluff.
“Yes, that thing where you get another chance. You’ve heard of them before, surely?”
“Why do I need a do-over? We agreed you got dessert rights last night,” I say, then…oh, shit.
Awareness dawns on me hot and fast. Is she…asking me to dinner again? Is this some subtle way of asking me out by suggesting she won dessert rights today? Like we’d be vying for dessert rights at another meal? I should not say yes. I should not even be thinking about saying yes.
“Oh, we did,” Chloe says with a playful smile. “I just thought it’d be nice—for you to bring more treats. There are so many good things at The Sweet Spot. Croissants, brioches, challah bread, donuts.”
Okay, so she’s not suggesting dinner again. I’m a little deflated but relieved, too—I don’t have to cross that bridge. “Pretty sure dessert rights don’t need to be daily.”
“A good boss would bring treats every day,” she goads, then clears her throat, getting the attention of, well, everyone here—the groomers behind me, the manager, the daycare wrangler. “Show of hands. Should Sawyer bring us breakfast every day?”
Everyone raises their hands.
“Do it, do it,” Levi chants.
“Best boss ever,” Zuri goads.
“I can’t wait till tomorrow,” Hazel sings.
“I vote for brioche,” Nisha says.
I hold up a stop-sign hand. “This is not a daily thing. Do not expect it,” I say, since the last thing I want is to be known as the treat boss. A daily habit like that breeds complacency rather than gratitude.
I swing my gaze back to Chloe and mouth “troublemaker” then return to my office for the rest of the day.
That night, I’ve got just enough time before I see Banks to hustle over to Duck Falls for a meeting that’s been on my agenda for a while. The meeting goes well, and the bar owner at Pour Decisions extends a hand when we’re done.
“Looking forward to this,” says the grizzled guy with sleeves of tattoos.
“Same here,” I add, glad to have struck that deal at last.
I head out, hop into my car, and drive to meet Banks back over in Darling Springs at Mister Fox.
We rack the balls at the pool table. “All right. Tell me what I need to know about winning a deal with a Hollywood producer.”
Banks gives me a wry nod as he rubs chalk on the cue. “Discretion. That’s the key to everything.”
I listen as he tells me more.
The next day, I’m ready. I want this to work—because it’s good business. And because Chloe deserves the win too.