Chapter 2
two
I blink, Sam’s words sitting on the surface before finally sinking in. “Wait. You mean—?”
She nods, biting her lip. “Garrett met her in the breakroom. They talked. He ran his hand through his hair—”
I gasp, my hand flying to cover my mouth. Each of those three data points is shocking in its own right. Garrett doesn’t loiter in the breakroom, nor does he meet people and chat.
Sam’s smile is apologetic. “He offered to carry a signboard that looked like it weighed less than my left sandal to the admin desk. For her.”
Who was this vixen? This fictional woman who could inspire such out-of-pocket behavior? “What the hell, Sam? Say the damn name!”
“You’re not going to like it.”
“Well, I don’t especially enjoy sitting in purgatory, either!”
“It’s Megan.” She says the name like she’d recently read it on an obituary.
My body goes rogue. First, my stomach plummets like an elevator cable snapped. Then my throat clenches shut as if I’d eaten a pound of shellfish for lunch.
Megan is one of our top designers. If I didn’t already have a crush on Garrett, she would be next on my list. Not only can she put together creatives that turn me into a seagull spotting something shiny, but she is the closest thing to a Sidney Sweeney look-alike I’ve ever seen.
Soft, dirty blond hair that hits the middle of her back. Perfect hourglass figure. Doe eyes and high cheekbones.
“Girl.” Sam stands and rounds the desk, holding out her arms. She has to press my head into her ample bosom because I can’t force myself to move.
“I can’t compete with all that.” I mumble into her sweater.
“Well, her personality—” Sam starts, but I pull away.
“Her personality is more addictive than Reese’s Christmas Trees, are you kidding? She’s always smiling, she never panics with deadlines, she says kind things about everyone, even that guy in design with the handlebar moustache—”
“Geez, you make it so difficult to help you feel better.” Sam’s face is still pinched into a grimace.
My body turns gelatinous, spreading over the chair like a suicidal starfish. “Her voice is like the silky narration from those sleep stories on YouTube.”
“I think some of them might actually be her . . .”
“Serious?”
Sam nods. “I heard Nina talking about it. I guess she used to do some modeling and commercial work.”
Of course she did. It absolutely tracks that Megan would excel at everything. That she chose this job because she loved it, not because she didn’t have better options.
I close my eyes, draw in a deep breath, and attempt to keep my chin from wobbling as all my dreamy romantic subplots with Garrett crash and burn.
It’s not that I need it to work out with him, but I’m twenty-four and my dating history has been patchy at best. I spent the last two years complaining about how men are the problem, but the proof is right in front of me.
He’s putting effort in somewhere. Just not with me.
“You never know . . .” Sam drops my arms and walks back to her desk, rifling in her drawer for our emergency chocolate.
“You never know, what?” I groan.
Sam returns, forcing a square of Argentinian 75% dark into my mouth. “Maybe it’ll just be a fling.”
“A fling?” I suck on the chocolate for a moment, then give in and chomp.
“Yeah. Like you said, Garrett is a closer. He likes to sign the contract, then move on to the next thing.”
I did say that. She has a point. “But what if she’s the one who changes that?
Keeps him interested forever?” Of anyone, Megan is capable of that.
She’s like the sweet, innocent daughter of a business mogul in small-town romance novels.
They always win over the CEOs, convincing them to leave their high-profile jobs to bake bread in a small shop in the mountains.
Sam shrugs, dropping to half-sit on the edge of her desk. “What if she’s not?”
I wet my lips. Okay. Not impossible. I can work with that.
My executive functioning comes back online with the influx of theobromine now in my system. “What was the board?”
“Hm?”
“You said he carried a board.”
Sam blinks. “Oh, yeah. I have no idea. I saw the fingers in the hair thing and—Alecia!”
I’m already halfway out the door. Sam follows me down the hall, bumping into my back as I pull to a halt at the admin desk.
“Hey, Nina.” I flash my most winning smile. It’s nothing like Megan’s.
She flicks her eyes up from her monitor. “Morning.”
I scan the desk, the wall, the— “Oh, wow! Is this new?”
The poster board sits propped against the wall on the thin strip of side counter we just passed. Paper and Pixel Pickleball Club is written in gorgeous, loopy calligraphy across the top. Handwritten, not printed. Damn it, Megan is a goddess.
I force my eyes down to read the details. Fridays after work at the new club, The Court Collective, that opened a few blocks down on Eighteenth. Then I see the sign-up on the clipboard next to the pin-up. Garrett’s name is at the bottom of the list.
Hope bubbles in my chest. This whole thing might not be about Megan.
Garrett loves pickleball. Ever since The Court Collective opened, he’s been bringing his bag to work.
The first time I saw him emerging from the men’s restroom wearing a white T-shirt and shorts that hit him mid-thigh, I almost fainted.
But did Megan play? Why else would she plan something like this if she didn’t? Unless it was a team-building exercise she’d volunteered for. That was absolutely something she would do.
I scan the list and find her name at the tippy top. The first person on the list. This was her idea.
Daaaang. She’s into him, too. She has to be. Even if she volunteered to organize an extracurricular, there are a thousand different options. But this one equates to sweat, tank tops, and tiny tennis skirts.
I do the mental math. First day of the club is—I check the calendar on my phone—October 10. That gives me—
“Red flag, A,” Sam hisses.
I scoff. “What? This is a recreational activity. I do actually like sports.” True. I probably wouldn’t have ever considered this one had Garrett not signed his name on the line, but relationships were supposed to broaden your horizons, weren’t they?
“It’s barely a week and a half.”
I reach for a pen from the cup organizer on the countertop below. “I played tennis in high school.”
“Pickleball isn’t tennis! I don’t think?”
The truth is, neither of us has any idea, but how hard could it be? There’s a net and a racquet or paddle—something to smack the ball with. Easy, peasy.
I hand the pen to Sam, fluttering my eyelashes. “I hear learning a new sport is really great for mental health.”
“You know what’s not great for mental health? Rediscovering your lack of athleticism in front of all of your coworkers.”
I press my palms together. “We’ll take lessons together.
” The plan is already taking shape in my mind.
Plenty of time. We’d have at least a couple of lessons and time to practice in between.
All I have to do is find an instructor and open courts.
Not at The Court Collective, obviously. We don’t want anyone here getting wind of our extra practice.
“I’m not a sports person,” Sam insists.
“How do you know, huh?” I nudge her, guiding her hand to the sign-up.
Sam hesitates a moment, then locks her eyes on mine, and I know I’m in for it. “You know that Oktoberfest bar hop?”
“The one on the pedal cart? Sam—”
She brandishes the pen like a weapon. “You’re doing it.”
I grit my teeth, my eyes flicking between the ballpoint and the sign-up sheet.
This could be my last chance to make an impression before Megan unintentionally convinces Garrett to give up the company and buy a bakery in Granby.
I could endure six hours trying to figure out how all of the pedals on that cart were connected to make the wheels move in one consistent direction. “Fine. I’m in.”
Sam nods with approval, then scrawls her name under mine. “Find us some damn lessons.”