Chapter 3
S AM’S SHOULDERS SLUMPED. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Daphne’s—if that was even her real name—smile fell, and with it, her hand. “What?”
“It figures that the one time I decide to ignore my gut and share my feelings with some supposedly well-meaning stranger, it turns out to be a grift.”
She couldn’t rightly explain why she was so pissed, not in any way that wasn’t humiliating.
Daphne had been nothing but rude to her, all barbed comments and condescension since the moment they’d met.
But she’d gone to such lengths to get Sam to open up that …
well, Sam guessed that for one brief second she’d experienced a glimmer of hope that Daphne was right.
That a second opinion really couldn’t hurt. She should’ve known better.
This was the day from hell, after all.
“A grift.” Daphne spoke carefully, brows pinching. “You lost me.”
She was a decent actress, Sam would grant her that, managing to sound genuinely confused, but Sam refused to be so easily snowed. Fool her once and all that.
“Come on, be honest,” she prodded. “What is it you’re selling?” Sam held up a hand, stopping her before she could speak. “No, no, wait. Let me guess. A self-help course? I bet it’s called something dumb like ‘How to Get Your Ex Back in 5 Steps or Your Money Back.’”
“Five steps?” Daphne arched a brow. “Optimistic of you.”
Bitch. “Whatever it is you’re selling? Workshops or a selfhelp book? I don’t give a fuck. Take it somewhere else, because I’m not interested.”
The arch of Daphne’s brows paired with the twist of her lips somehow managed to communicate confusion underscored by an ever-present, infuriating measure of condescension. “Bold of you to assume I’m trying to sell you something.”
“‘I’m about to make you an offer you won’t want to refuse.’” Sam deepened her voice, parroting Daphne’s words back at her. “I’ve heard it before, Marlon Brando. I’m not interested in your pyramid scheme.”
“Well, damn .” Daphne pursed her lips. “Now that you mention it, Hell does operate rather similarly to an MLM.”
“ Hell? What is that, an ironic name for a new dating app? A little on the nose, don’t you think?”
Daphne frowned. “I believe you and I are having two very different conversations.”
“I’d rather not be having a conversation with you at all.” Sam crossed her arms and slunk deeper into her slouch.
“Contrary to whatever far-fetched, misguided idea you’ve brewed up inside your brain about dating apps and MLMs, I’m not here to sell you anything.”
“No.” She rolled her eyes. “You’re just here to make me an offer I can’t refuse.”
“Offer you won’t want to refuse,” Daphne corrected, as if the semantics were what mattered here.
“At the end of the day, doesn’t it amount to the same thing?”
“It really doesn’t.” Daphne laughed. “Unlike some of my … let’s call them colleagues, I’m not in the business of coercion. Now, persuasion, that’s a horse of a different color, but every deal I’ve ever made? Was entered into willingly.”
Sam applauded, extra slow, imbuing each clap with as much sass as she could muster. “A salesman with ethics. Wonders never cease.”
“Sales woman .” Daphne sniffed, nose rising haughtily into the air. “With that attitude, I am beginning to wonder whether you might be more trouble than you’re worth, Samantha Marjorie Cooper.”
“Join the club, you absolute—Wait.” Sam frowned. “How the hell do you know my middle name?”
“I’m psychic.” Daphne tapped her temple.
“That, and until an hour ago you were dating an influencer who can’t burp without broadcasting it.
Half the internet knows your name and the other half is sure to know it after your now ex inevitably makes her story-time video about tonight’s epic gaffe, thereby hard launching her new single status.
You are about to be the most pitied person on the planet. ”
To Sam’s absolute horror, tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. She worked hard to blink them back, practically choking on the lump in her throat.
She hadn’t said anything Sam didn’t already know, but hearing it put so plainly was akin to having salt poured in a still-fresh wound. “You’re a real bitch.”
Daphne winced. “Okay, maybe that was a little harsh—”
“You think?” Sam scoffed.
“Fine. A lot harsh. Sorry.” There was a genuine edge of contrition to Daphne’s voice that convinced Sam to meet her eyes.
Daphne had the decency to look abashed, and that was …
something. “Look. What would you say if I really could help you win your girlfriend back? That I could offer you a solution no one else can?”
Oh joy. It was finally time for the value-proposition stage of the sales pitch, the part where Daphne explained what all the fuss was about.
Sam would bite. Not because she was interested, but because she didn’t have anything better to do, stuck for the time being in this godforsaken elevator, too weary to keep arguing when she really just wanted to curl up into a ball and cry. “In that case, I’d ask how you intend to do that.”
Daphne’s eyes brightened. “You really want to know?”
“You’re the one who keeps goading me.” She gritted her teeth. “So, sure. Hit me with it.”
Daphne beamed and scooched closer, abandoning her unspoken half of the elevator in favor of kneeling beside Sam, legs tucked up under her poofy skirt.
“Okay.” She cleared her throat and quickly brushed the hair out of her face, practically vibrating with excitement.
“Oh, I just love this part. Are you ready?”
Sam rolled her eyes. “I’m ready. I’m riveted. I’m on the edge of my—”
Daphne smacked her arm. Hard. “Hush. This is the part where I monologue.”
“ Fucker. ” Sam massaged her arm, scowling sullenly. For being so petite, Daphne sure packed a whopper of a punch. “You know, so far, this sales pitch of yours is leaving something to be desired.”
Daphne glared flatly back at Sam. “Are you done being a smart-ass?”
“Said the pot to the kettle.” Sam swept out her stillthrobbing arm. “By all means, monologue away, Dr. No. Tell me all about the bridge you want to sell me. I’m a captive audience.”
Literally.
“What if I told you,” Daphne began, choosing to ignore Sam’s cheek, “that for a very nominal fee—”
“You just told me you weren’t trying to sell me anything. I hate to break it to you, but I’m pretty much one paycheck away from broke. I don’t have money.”
“Money?” Daphne laughed and batted at the air between them. “I don’t deal in anything as common as that. Think of it more like … bartering.”
“Bartering,” she repeated, skeptical. “Before you ask, I’m pretty freaking attached to both my kidneys.”
“Your kidneys ?” Daphne wrinkled her nose. “You seriously believe that I”—she gestured down at herself—“am some sort of black-market organ dealer? Me? ”
When she put it like that … no, not really. But better safe than sorry. “Maybe that’s the genius of it. Who would suspect the pretty blonde in the pink dress to be performing back-alley nephrectomies?”
“Aw.” She beamed, dimples bracketing her ruby-red lips. “You think I’m pretty?”
Sam supposed she had implied that, hadn’t she? “Pretty demented, maybe.”
“Oh, Sam.” Daphne chuckled and for some reason the hair on Sam’s arms rose.
“You have no idea. Now, where was I?” She drummed her fingers against her chin.
“Ah, right. For a nominal, nonmonetary fee, I’m offering you the opportunity not only to win Hannah back, but to give you anything and everything you’ve always dreamed of having. ”
If something sounded too good to be true, it was.
“Is this one of those power-of-positive-thinking sorts of things? Where you tell me if I journal my thoughts and envision my perfect life every night before bed, where I’ll then sleep with a crystal under my pillow, I can manifest my dreams?
” Sam shook her head. “Because thanks, but no thanks. I’m happy if it works for you, but I’m not interested. ”
Wishing for something didn’t make dreams come true; otherwise, she’d be back at the restaurant, splitting a decadent chocolate soufflé with Hannah, and the engagement ring in her pocket would instead be resting on Hannah’s well-manicured finger.
“I’m not a snake oil salesman. I’m talking cataclysmic power here! You make a wish”—she snapped her fingers in front of Sam’s face—“and I make it happen.”
“What are you?” Sam laughed. “A genie?”
Daphne tossed her hair over her shoulder, shooting Sam a filthy look that could’ve stripped paint. “Do I look like someone who’d be caught dead in harem pants?”
“Okay, I’ll bite. You expect me to believe you have the power to grant wishes, how?”
“Promise not to tell anyone?” Throwing the concept of personal space to the wayside, Daphne reached out and drew an invisible X right over Sam’s left breast. Her touch, even through Sam’s coat, made her shiver. Daphne’s lips curved in a sly smile. “Cross your heart and hope to die?”
Against her better judgment, she nodded, unable to find her voice.
“I’m a demon,” Daphne said. “ Duh. ”
“A demon ?” Of all the weird shit this woman had said so far, that took the cake. “ Okay. ”
She snickered softly, shaking her head. A demon. And Sam was the queen of England.
Daphne fell back on her haunches with a resignedsounding sigh. “You don’t believe me.”
“What I think is you’ve had one too many martinis.” She held out her thumb and pinky and mimed knocking back a drink.
“Sober as a judge.” Daphne held her arms aloft and, one at a time, brought each index finger to her face, booping her own nose in what Sam imagined was meant to be a display of dexterity but instead just looked silly. “Do I honestly seem drunk to you?”
Sam took a second to study her a little closer. She wasn’t slurring or staggering or slumped over. Her blue eyes weren’t bloodshot, and she didn’t reek of alcohol. And while she lacked tact, Sam had a sneaking suspicion that was all Daphne.
“If you could just suspend your disbelief and buy into this I’m-a-demon thing, it would spare us both a lot of headache.”