Chapter 3 #2
“My boyfriend is so hot.” I follow Eloise’s gaze, firmly attached to Grayson Hawke, who’s standing in a small circle of hockey players, looking—as expected—very serious.
But then he looks up at her, and the corner of his mouth tugs upward in a smile so subtle most people would miss it.
Another twinge of jealousy.
“I’m going to go see if he wants anything to drink.” She looks at me, and I don’t know what my face is doing, but she says, “You know you deserve to be with someone who adores you, but you’ll never find him if you don’t put yourself out there.”
I frown. “I don’t even know what that means, Eloise.”
“Yeah, you do.” She smiles, then walks off, leaving me standing there.
Alone.
Blech.
I try not to look the way I feel, which is awkward and a little out of place—reminding myself that this is my sister’s engagement party, and I’m one of two maids of honor in her wedding. I belong here.
And yet, I feel like an outsider.
Like I don’t belong.
“Thought you could use this.”
I find Finn standing next to me, but not looking at me. He’s holding out a brown bottle in my direction. I frown. “You know I don’t drink.”
He peers at me sideways, and my breath hitches in the back of my throat at a memory I’ve tried to bury—and the reminder that he knows something about me that no one else does.
“It’s some fancy cream soda.”
I take the bottle. “Thanks.”
We stand there in silence for a few long seconds, close enough that I can feel the heat from his shoulder against my own. I take a drink, then look at the back of the bottle.
“It’s basically a bottle of liquid sugar,” he says, as if he knows what I’m looking at. “That’s why it’s so good.”
After a beat, I ask, “Where’s your yoga instructor?”
He chuckles. “She’s talking to the wives. And she’s not my anything.” He nods toward a small group of women on the other side of the deck. It feels a little like high school all over again.
I always kept myself on the outskirts of popularity—too focused on where I was going after high school to trouble myself with what was happening while I was there. I never really fit in with girls my age.
As if on cue, Kaylee and a few of the wives burst into laughter.
A litany of criticisms rolls through my brain: Too stand-offish. Frigid. Scary. Serious. No fun. If you hear those things enough, you start to believe them.
More than that, I started to own them.
“She seems really nice,” I say.
He laughs. “You’re a terrible liar.”
Ugh. I thought I hid it better than that.
“Just be careful, okay?” I look at him now.
He frowns. “Careful? Why?”
“Look, I know they probably don’t have gold-digging content creators in Montana—”
“They absolutely do, they’re just on horseback,” he jokes.
I shoot him a look, and his face sobers. “She just seems like maybe she’s looking at this as a networking opportunity, and not, you know, a celebration for her boyfriend’s friend.”
“I love how concerned you are about me, Hart.” He takes a drink from his own brown bottle—probably not cream soda. “People might start talking if you keep carrying on like that.”
Flirty, as always. I brush it off, as always.
“I’m just thinking about the liability it could be for the team.”
“Right. The team,” he repeats.
“Yes, the team,” I say right back. “If anyone’s going to get swindled out of all of his money by trusting the wrong person—it’s you.” I steel my jaw. “And that would be a PR nightmare.”
He frowns. “You really think I’m that stupid?”
“I mean . . .” I shrug a mock if the boot fits.
He lets out a laugh. “Huh. I didn’t realize you had a sense of humor tucked in there.”
I take another drink. “I’m full of surprises.”
“No doubt.”
There’s a moment of silence, almost comfortable, and I default into telling-people-what-to-do mode.
“Look.” I pat his arm, which is much firmer than I expected. “I think you’re nice, and if I’m honest, a bit too trusting. You’re nice. And that’s one of your best qualities—but makes you an easy target.”
His gaze drops to my hand, still on his arm.
I pull it away. “Just some friendly advice.”
“All I’m hearing is that you have thoughts about my ‘best qualities.’”
I roll my eyes. “Oh, for the love. Go back to your girlfriend.”
He grins, leans closer, and looks so far into my eyes I can feel it in the back of my head.
“She’s not my girlfriend.”
My breath catches.
And then he walks away.
I stand there, on the perimeter, watching people move in and out of the space—laughing, smiling, having loud conversations. Telling jokes and making memories. And I’m on the fringes.
Just like always. And it’s getting harder and harder to believe that it’s my choice.
Maybe my sisters are right. Maybe it’s time I actually put myself out there. To figure out what I want in a relationship—and what I don’t—and then go for it. In a way that doesn’t make me lose my head.
My phone buzzes in my bag, and I pull it out and look at it.
It’s a notification from an app that’s a lot like Fiverr, but exclusively for young professionals, called Métier.
Post what you’re looking for, and you’ll have twenty recommendations within ten minutes.
Need signage for your next event? A caterer for a work luncheon?
A new administrative assistant? It’s a way to connect to people who have firsthand—and in-depth—knowledge for just about anything you need.
Anything I need.
I often need a date to these kinds of things.
And then an idea begins to form . . .
Métier isn’t a dating app. It’s more like job postings. But why can’t it be both?
I’m not in this for romance. I’m not looking for a traditional date—or even a traditional relationship. What I need is, well, someone like a business partner. A co-laborer. Someone who will agree to enter into a partnership with a clear understanding of the expectations.
It’s just that partnership is dating.
I could make a post, take resumés, interview candidates, and potentially end up with someone to help take the pressure off events like this.
If things go smoothly, there could be upward mobility—someone to eventually split the bills and the chores.
After that, if they show promise, it could work itself into a marriage arrangement built on cordial feelings and mutual respect.
The more I think about it, the less romantic it sounds.
And I’m okay with that, honestly. After all, if I could bypass all the messy emotions, the over-the-top reactions, the blowups, the pining, the dramatic feelings, maybe I’d find stability, respect, and common goals.
Maybe I’d find someone perfect for me.
I like this. The possibilities excite me . . .
“Dinner is served!” Dallas calls out to the group. “Let’s eat.”
I tuck my phone away and catch Finn’s eye as Kaylee grabs his hand on the way to the table.
My heart starts to buzz, and my brain says, See? Exactly why this will work.
No feelings. Just a simple, easy business transaction that will end in a solid partnership between two goal-oriented people.
It’s perfect.
“Raya, you’re sitting by me.” Poppy motions for me to take the seat beside her. I glance down at the place card to my left and see Finn’s name, written in perfect calligraphy.
I look up and find Eloise smugly watching me just as Finn finds his name. He picks up the card and looks at me. “Were you in charge of the seating arrangements?” He smirks.
I scoff. “In your dreams.”
And, in a quick-witted callback, he says in the same tone I used earlier, “I mean . . .” His shrug also seems to say “if the boot fits.”
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly.
He pulls out my seat, and I sit, side-eyeing Eloise, who looks like the cat who just swallowed the canary.
Yes, Finn is fun. He’s good-looking and will probably make someone incredibly happy someday.
Just not me.