7. Dessert Rights
DESSERT RIGHTS
CHLOE
“Consider the noble French fry.” I hold up one of the salty snacks in admiration after scooping it up from the plate on the tray between us.
“I’m considering it,” Sawyer says, his tone serious, going along with me.
“Name a more versatile food item.”
He hums, like he’s deep in thought. “A slice of bread?”
I scoff. “Nope. The fry’s both more versatile and tasty.”
“Not sure about that.”
“Sawyer,” I chide, shooting him a withering look. “Just let me tell you about the French fry.”
He slumps back against the cushioned headboard. “Fine, tell me about the fry.”
We’re lounging in bed, dressed in fluffy robes, a nearly finished tray of room service spread out before us.
I’ve plowed through the roasted brussels sprouts and the seared cauliflower, and now it’s time for the best part of any meal.
“You can dip it in ketchup, pesto, mayo, hot sauce, ranch, barbecue sauce—the list goes on. You can have them loaded. With truffle shavings if you’re bourgeois.
In a paper cup at a football game. You can have them as a snack or a side or a meal.
Fries go with sandwiches, with eggs, with veggie burgers.
They even go with salad. Hence, their versatility.
” I pause, to make my point. “But they also pair with ice cream and milkshakes. And chocolate. Ergo, the noble French fry really is the perfect food.”
“I still think bread is,” he says, resolute.
I stare at Sawyer like he can’t be serious. “Really?”
“What? I do.”
“How can you choose bread over French fries?”
“I like bread. It’s an appetizer, a temporary fill-you-upper, the essence of a sandwich, and it’s also the unsung hero in…wait for it…avocado toast. The dish the world didn’t know it needed until it needed it.”
Damn. He has an excellent point. But I shrug it off, since so do I. I wrap my fingers around the tray and tug it closer to me on the bed. “You may be right, but that just means I can keep these all to myself.”
“Hey, don’t hoard the fries, woman,” he says.
“Ah, so you’re admitting the French fry is best?”
With a fearless look in his eyes, he shakes his head. “Nope. But if I caved, you wouldn’t like me.”
“Who says I like you?”
His dark eyes journey down my body. “It’s eleven. You’re in bed with me. You invited me to your room. You like me.”
I growl. “Stop saying mean things like that.”
He laughs. “What’s worse? That I prefer bread or that I know you like me?”
“Both,” I mutter, then take another fry and defiantly munch on it.
He reaches for one on the plate. “It’s cool that you like me. Just means you have good taste.”
“I have good taste? You have good taste,” I counter.
He finishes chewing, then wiggles his brows as he looks my way. “You bet I fucking do.”
The compliment lands with a little zing in my chest, and I bask in it for a beat as Sawyer parks his hands behind his head. It’s a good look—this whole man in repose in a hotel bed thing. “But I will concede,” he says, “there’s nothing like French fries to erase the day.”
I smile, relaxing my shoulders. “They’re truly the perfect escape. Though honestly, wine and ice cream help too,” I say, and to emphasize my point, I reach for my chardonnay from the nightstand and lift the glass.
He takes his and clinks it with mine.
We drink, then munch on a few more fries before moving the tray off to the bureau. After I polish off my glass of wine, I’m thoroughly feeling the escapist vibes. Just to be sure he’s on the same page, I ask, “So, we agree this is a one-time thing, right? We needed an escape tonight?”
He laughs, the dry kind, then nods. “Definitely.”
I’m not even bothered by the speed of his answer.
I don’t have the time, space, or interest for anything romantic in my life.
Let alone with a man who likely lives nearly two hours away from me here in the city.
My car would never be able to handle regular trips to date.
With that detail settled, I feel the freedom to ask the next question.
Or, really, to offer a challenge. “Since we’ll never see each other again, tell me what you needed to escape, and I’ll do the same.
Whoever has the better sob story gets to pick the dessert we’ll order. ”
He lets out a low whistle. “Damn, woman. Just pry around in my heart, why don’t you.”
I’m emboldened though. “It’s a proven fact that venting gets rid of all the bad vibes.”
He scoffs, shaking his head. “Pretty sure you’re making shit up.”
“Nope. It’s true,” I insist. “You know what else is fact?”
Sawyer rolls his eyes, but says with a laugh, “Tell me.”
“Treats taste better if you have to vie for them.”
“Is there a study on that too?”
“Obviously.”
Scrubbing a hand across his beard, he seems dubious, so I go for the kill, leaning in close, my hair swishing back and forth across his chest. Sawyer’s gaze follows my copper strands, a little transfixed by the feel, it seems. “Mr. Darcy would do it,” I whisper.
A low rumble seems to climb up his chest before he says, “Mr. Darcy would also insist on ladies first in this…sad competition.”
“Fine. I’ll go. I’ve got a sob story for you, all right,” I say, then take a steadying breath.
It’ll feel good to get this off my chest with someone who doesn’t know me.
Sure, I told my friends earlier, but the sooner I can process the day I’ve had, the sooner I can move on.
And I am all about moving forward and leaving the past behind.
“My ex sabotaged me at work today. He blamed me for more than one hundred balloons exploding glitter over the town square. It was like a hundred balloons busting a sparkly nut all at once,” I say.
Sawyer barks out a laugh. “One collective nut? They busted one nut?”
“Fine, they busted all the nuts, but don’t forget they were sparkly.”
“How could I forget about a hundred sparkly nuts?”
“But there’s more,” I say, since I’m on a roll. “He actually went into the shared drive, doctored my presentation to pretend the sparkly balloons were my idea, then set me up to take the fall. Here’s the kicker—”
“There’s more?” Sawyer’s eyes widen.
“Believe it,” I say, emphatic. “First, I hate balloons, and I don’t hate anything. I’m so not a hater, but I hate balloons.”
“I’m very much a hater, so please take this with all the respect of one—balloons deserve it. Now, what’s the second thing?”
I pause to set up the painful payoff. Well, I want to win dessert rights. “His father owns the company I worked for. He fired me today.”
Sawyer winces, then utters a sympathetic “Ouch,” before adding, “shit, Chloe. That sucks. I’m really sorry to hear that.”
“Thanks, but I’ll figure something out. I always do,” I say, trying my best to be upbeat since…
what’s the alternative? Pretty sure moping doesn’t get you ahead.
“Oh, one more thing! Have I mentioned he’s not just my ex but my ex-husband?
We were married for six months a few years ago.
This was after our friends dared us to say “I do” at a high school reunion in Vegas.
I learned my lesson—don’t work with your ex. ”
“Or get married on a dare?” he asks dryly.
I lift a finger, like I’m tapping the air. “That one too. So many lessons.” I let out a long, satisfied breath. “That did feel good. Now, go,” I say, making a rolling gesture with my hand. “Your turn. Just see if you can top that.”
He rubs his palms together, blows out a breath. “Ready?”
“I am.”
“You sure?”
“Positive?”
“Be prepared to admit defeat.”
My jaw drops. “C’mon. How can you be so sure?”
“I’m sure,” he says with the same confidence he displayed when he told me he’d fuck me senseless. Is it weird that it turns me on a little bit again? Well, call me weird.
“Because of this,” he adds, then sticks out his arm. Straight in front of him.
I don’t get it. “It’s a nice forearm?”
He swings his gaze importantly to his watch. “For Christmas a year and a half ago, I got a smartwatch for my fiancée and one for me.”
I sit bolt upright, clutching my robe closed at my neck. My skin prickles. “You’re engaged?”
“No, fuck no. In fact, I’m not engaged—thanks to this watch.”
Now I’m really lost. “Okay…?”
“Katya and I—my ex-fiancée—liked to work out together. To motivate each other. We trained together for a couple triathlons.”
Triathlon—that explains a lot about his strong body. I nod for him to keep going.
He scratches his jaw, then continues. “So the smartwatches were part of that. The tracking. We synced them. And we talked about all the triathlons we’d do as a married couple as well.
We bought a house together, planned for the wedding in the early fall, and all.
Sent out invites, reserved an event venue in the Presidio overlooking the ocean, ordered the cake—a three-tier coconut cake. ”
My mouth waters. That does sound good.
“I had my tux, she had her dress, we were getting the RSVPs. But one night in late summer, about a month from the wedding, she was out of town for work. And I noticed her activity levels were spiking on the app. She liked to do Pilates classes, so it wasn’t so odd at first.”
The wheels in my brain turn till I figure out why it wasn’t odd at first. “But she wasn’t actually working out then?” I ask carefully.
“Not at the gym. Not at the Pilates studio,” he says, his tone brittle, laced with a cold edge. “Her workout was in a hotel bed. At four in the morning. With a guy she worked with.”
My heart aches for him. “Oh my god, Sawyer,” I say, since there are no good ways to learn your fiancée is unfaithful, but that’s a particularly sad one, since those watches were supposed to be for them. “I’m so sorry.”
He blows out a breath. “Yeah, it pretty much sucked…one hundred nuts.”
I smile lightly, appreciating his gallows humor, but then the smile vanishes, replaced by genuine concern. “And you had to call off the wedding? Well, of course you did.”