F I F T E E N
- Avery -
T he night already wasn’t going to plan. I was supposed to pull something out of my closet, love how I looked in it, and waltz out the door. Granted, that had never happened before, but I didn’t see why pulling all my clothes off their hangers and making a pile on the bed that would dwarf an Egyptian pyramid had to be part of my process.
Except I did understand. As much as I hated to admit it, I was excited to go out with this guy. This man. Because he was a man. I could no more picture his shovel hands around a video game controller than I could imagine him forgetting his wallet at dinner. But I was nervous. Not only because Oliver’s undivided attention was a flavor of intensity I’d never experienced before but because, to be honest, I felt a little rusty.
For months, I’d been behaving myself. For months, I’d been saying no to every opportunity that wasn’t a hell yes. For months, I’d been replacing the batteries in my vibrator every time I got the urge to reinstall Tinder.
And then our chance meeting happened so organically. We met. There were sparks. He pursued me. It seemed like giving him a chance was the polite thing to do. Plus, the menu for the place looked amazing. I was slightly unsettled by the high prices, but I had to assume he wouldn’t take me there if he couldn’t afford it. Not that I hadn’t been burned making that assumption before. Still, I’d offer to go Dutch like I always did even though something told me he wouldn’t be up for that.
After all, all signs pointed to this being a carefully crafted seduction on his part. But to my surprise, I actually found his honesty refreshing. When he admitted he wanted to sleep with me, he didn’t start undressing me with his eyes. He just said it like a man reciting his license plate number or stating the time. Like his desire for me was a fact. Just thinking about it made my tummy flutter.
Speaking of time, I was running out of it fast. I’d buffed and shined my body from head to toe to give myself the mental edge I needed to face Oliver Harrington across the dinner table. But unless Mary Poppins rapped on my window in the next thirty seconds, I’d have to deal with the mess of clothes in my bedroom later. Then again, maybe that was for the best. Can’t accidentally jump into bed with a guy if he can’t find your bed!
I glanced at the clock on my phone a moment before it rang in my hand. “Well, if it isn’t the winner of the Star Baker Festival.”
Grace laughed. “I wish I could say that was getting old.”
“Are you kidding? It hasn’t even been two weeks. I’d say you can dine out on that for at least a few months.”
“I was hoping you’d say years,” she said. “I’ve actually been thinking of changing my legal name to Grace Star-Baker.”
I laughed as I modeled two different heels in front of the floor-length mirror hanging on the back of my closet door. My short green dress was one of the flirtier outfits in my wardrobe, but I liked how the delicate white flowers along the bottom looked when I twirled. It was a girlier look than I’d usually go for on a first date, but I felt like the only way to balance out Oliver’s overwhelming masculinity would be to embrace my feminine side.
“Kayleigh told me you guys had a busy week.”
“Crazy busy,” I said. “But in a good way. I think the only time I felt a little overwhelmed was during the Thursday lunch rush, but we got through it. No question business was boosted by the festival, though. There’s no other explanation for the footfall we had this week.”
“So, the place is still standing?”
“Taller than ever.”
“And what about the winning pie recipe? Do you feel like you’ve got a handle on it?”
What did she think I was going to say? No? And risk stressing her out when she was supposed to be enjoying her hard-earned vacation. “I don’t want to brag, but I could braid apple strudel crust in my sleep.”
“You’re the best.”
“I’m sorry you’ve missed the joy on people’s faces. One woman even said—and I quote—‘I can never afford to buy any of the stuff on Oprah’s favorite things list, but at least I can afford to treat my family to this year’s winning pie.’”
“Wow.”
“Right? I felt extra good about that sale. Especially since you and I both know you couldn’t have invented a more labor-intensive, pain-in-the-ass recipe if that had been your main objective.”
“Sorry, what was that? I can’t hear you over my Star Baker award.”
I rolled my eyes. “Touché.”
“Anyway, it sounds like you’ve got everything under control. Maybe I don’t need to hurry back from Paris after all.”
“Stay as long as you like but know that I can only sustain these hours if I get a fat raise.”
“I’m not unwilling to negotiate,” she said. “But based on how things are going, we’re still planning on catching our flight home. The idea of living in Paris permanently is fun to fantasize about, but I’m liable to turn into a macaron if I keep up this pace.”
“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.”
“I am,” she said, her voice warm. “So much.”
I walked over to my closet and stood on my tippy toes so I could pull down one of the smaller purses I saved for those special occasions when I wanted to seem decidedly dainty. It was small, but at least it had a strap so I wouldn’t have to clutch it all night or set it on the table.
“What about you?” she asked. “How are you unwinding after your big week?”
“I’m going out to dinner, actually.” I scrunched my face, half wishing I hadn’t mentioned it.
“Oh yeah, who with?”
“Oliver Harrington.”
Silence.
Was she still there?
“The Oliver Harrington?” she asked finally.
I exhaled the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “Uh-huh.”
“How did that happen?”
“He came into the café and asked me to join him for dinner.”
“You must’ve made quite an impression on him at the festival.”
I wasn’t sure I liked her tone. “I guess so.”
“Well, I hope you have a nice time.”
“It doesn’t sound like you hope that.”
She sighed. “What am I supposed to say, Avery? I’ve been listening to you go on and on for months about how you’re done dating assholes, and now you’re telling me you’re going out with the king of the assholes.”
“He’s not king of the assholes.”
“Based on what? He was nice to you for two minutes? You’ve been reading that guy’s column for years, and we watched all those clips of him on that restaurant nightmare show. You can’t possibly argue that he’s not an asshole.”
“Just because he makes a living from being an asshole…” I couldn’t bring myself to finish the sentence. How could I without sounding like a complete moron? “Whatever. What was I supposed to say? He practically insisted, and he’s handsome and employed and—”
“It’s fine if you like him,” she said, like it wasn’t really fine at all. “Just don’t say he’s not an asshole.”
“Thanks for your support,” I said sarcastically.
“I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”
“I appreciate that, Grace, but what am I supposed to do? Not put myself out there? Never go on a date again? Never give anyone a chance and be one of those scorned women who settles for the company of cats?”
“Cats are great company.”
I groaned. “That’s not my point.”
“What is your point?”
“I don’t know.” Was it so wrong that I might want to go on a romantic getaway to Paris someday with a handsome man who thought I was a catch? Was it so wrong that I wanted one night away from my neighbor’s incessant drumming and hammering and pranking? Speaking of which, maybe I should bring Oliver back here just so I’d have an excuse to moan my head off. Not that I couldn’t do that anyway. Though the prospect of faking earth-shattering sex seemed even sadder than my obsession with disturbing the dickhead in number eight.
“I didn’t mean to be unsupportive,” she said. “You deserve to go out and have a good time. And who knows? Maybe I’m wrong about the guy. Maybe everyone in the country’s wrong about him.”
“You were doing so well till the sarcasm creeped in.”
“Like I said, I just don’t want to see you get hurt any more than I want to see you break promises to yourself that you made for a reason.”
“Thanks, Grace. I’m feeling super sexy and psyched for my date now.”
“As you should,” she said, ignoring my sassy tone. “I hope you have an epic night. It’s the least you deserve after a busy week of baking up a sweat.”
“Better,” I lied, knowing I was going to have to pump myself back up with a punchy playlist the second she got off the phone. “Anyway, I have to go or I’ll be late and—”
“Have fun,” she said. “No doubt he’ll take you somewhere fab.”
But it was too little too late, and when I opened the door to leave, things only got worse. Because there was an offering on my doormat that clearly wasn’t the package I ordered on Amazon. Nor was it, as I admittedly feared, crap. Not that that would’ve been much worse.
Because there, in a neat little coil, was a clearly used dog leash, and as I swallowed my anger, the thought occurred to me that maybe Grace wasn’t the only person who thought I should rein it in.