19. Juggle My Ducks
JUGGLE MY DUCKS
CHLOE
Am I the asshole?
All my adult life, I’ve prided myself on not being one. But there’s something about the hard set of Sawyer’s jaw and the precise movement of his fingers as he zips up his slacks that has me wondering.
Was that—asking him to leave—the kind of male behavior that women will often dissect and debate over vanilla lattes and croissants the next morning until we can officially apply the asshole designation to a friend’s hookup?
Sure, I kind of want him to stay, but that would be a mistake.
In my bedroom, I tug on a T-shirt Ripley gave me from her farm. Underneath an illustration of bees buzzing in a bouquet of lavender are the words: Save the Bees. No Really, Save the Fucking Bees.
With the shirt hitting my thighs, I head back out to the living room, my stomach churning with…nerves as Sawyer buttons his shirt now, with a deliberateness too.
“We just have to be professional, right? That’s what we talked about initially.
We’re working together,” I say, and maybe I’m overexplaining my comment.
But it feels necessary. Partly because of the way he’s standing.
Or really, where—on the other side of the couch. It feels like a barrier between us.
He looks up, but his fingers don’t stop moving on the buttons. “Of course,” he says, casual and almost nonchalant. He spins around, hunting for something on the floor. His tie? Oh yes, his tie.
I tossed it to the edge of the living room in a flurry to get him naked. “I’ll get your tie,” I say, hustling to pass my coffee table—then I walk smack into it.
With my knee. And the pain shoots up my thigh, right into the center of my soul and back to my kneecap.
“Holy shit.” I wince, bending over.
“You okay?” Sawyer advances toward me, real concern in his eyes. Almost boyfriend levels of concern.
But that’s a silly thought.
I ward him off, waving my hand. “I’m fine, I’m fine. It’s just the table. Those rubber ducks tripped me up. My bad,” I say, but it feels…well, I’ll just say it.
Like the table’s punishing me for what I said.
Maybe I did say the wrong thing when I told him he should go? I’m not just an asshole, I am a flaming asshole. I wince and turn, despite the pain shooting through my leg.
“I juggle them,” I blurt out as I hand him the silk neckwear.
As he takes the tie, his face is blank for a second, but then I point to the ducks. “The ducks. I juggle them. I do it for…relaxation.”
The line digs deeper. He seems to be picturing it. “I was not expecting that.”
“Did you think I took baths with them?”
He shakes his head, then scratches his jaw. “No, actually, I didn’t…”
But he doesn’t finish. He lets the sentence die awkwardly. Like this night is ending awkwardly. With me talking about a weird, random hobby of mine.
“Anyway, I’m good to go,” he says, looping the tie around his neck, but he doesn’t knot it.
“I’m sorry,” I say, since I clearly can’t leave this well enough alone. Being the asshole, that is.
He shrugs, like he’s exonerating me. “We’re all good.”
But are we?
I want to ask, but we’re not at the are we okay stage. We’re not at any stage. But I don’t like where we’re at, that’s for sure. “Sawyer, it’s just…we got the job, and we need to focus on that.”
His stony expression disappears, and a smile, almost conciliatory, appears in its place. “We are one hundred percent on the same page, Chloe.”
“We are?” My voice pitches up.
“Absolutely,” he says. “It was a mistake, but we’ll put it behind us, go back to work, and be professionals because we’re working together on this show, and you can juggle your ducks, and I can…wear anything but jeans.”
Juggle my ducks.
It feels like a slap. His words feel like a slap.
Maybe we’re both assholes.
“Sure. Of course.” I walk him to the door, then gesture to Captain, who’s curled up on a dog bed in the corner of the living room, watching this scene play out with something like amusement in his dog eyes, like of course we’d fuck up something so basic as fucking. “Thanks for taking the dog out.”
“Thanks for the condom.”
On that bizarre thank-you, he leaves, striding down my steps late at night with his tie undone. Looking far too sexy for my own good.
As he hops into the car, I stand here on my porch, the streetlamps casting a soft glow on him as the engine hums to life.
I have a strange urge to blow a kiss, wave goodbye, or do something silly like lift my shirt, tug down my bra, and flash him my tits.
I want it with an intensity I didn’t expect. Like flashing Sawyer feels like something he’d appreciate. Something I’d do. Something that would be our thing.
But I think about that email we got tonight. The job on the show. This might be the break I’ve been looking for. The chance to finally make it. Not just live off the generosity of my father and his boyfriend. To not get a job because of my ex-husband. To not be sabotaged because of a lover.
Something tightens in my chest painfully. Or maybe it’s this unexpected feeling of whiplash from wanting to do something girlfriend-y to fearing sabotage. I feel all twisted instead of satisfied.
Especially since the more I get to know Sawyer and the more I let him in, the more he could do the very same to me—hurt me.
And I’ve been down and out for a while now.
It’s best that I deny that impulse to run back inside, grab the rubber ducks, and show him how I can juggle them. Who really cares?
They’re just rubber ducks.
I head inside, shut the door, and let out a long sigh. I trudge to the coffee table, pick up a trio of yellow ducks, and toss one, two, three in the air.
Then I juggle them. Alone. And it only sort of calms me down.
* * *
The next morning, when I trot down the steps and head to the passenger side door, I stop short with my fingers on the handle.
Right. He fixed my car.
I don’t have to do the scoot and bump. I don’t have to bruise my thighs.
I walk around the front of the car, feeling like this moment is a little surreal.
I haven’t gotten into my car the regular way in…
a year. Not since the handle was banged up while I was parked at a farmers’ market in Duck Falls, where I was meeting a guy I’d met on an app.
His name was Casper, he had a mustache of course, and he made his own pickles. He wanted to show me where he worked.
Served me right. He droned on about brine while some fucker in a tricked-out truck—probably, because that’s who I parked next to—banged my car as he pulled out.
And I didn’t have the money to fix it.
Little did I know a gorgeous colleague who’s incredibly handy would fix it.
And that settles it.
It’s time for the big guns. I have no choice but to call for reinforcements. I’ve got an hour before my first training appointment, and this is serious.
* * *
“So then, I practically asked for him to rearrange my DNA with his big dick,” I say to my friends at a table in the back of Pick Me Up. We’re at our usual spot around a corner table beneath the whimsical fox painting.
Bridget blinks.
Ripley stares.
They’re dead silent for several seconds, clutching their ceramic mugs. Bridget moves first, lifting a manicured finger—a sleek shade of silver. “You used those words?” It comes out slow, careful.
“Along those lines,” I say, then take a sip, thinking back to last night. “Wait. It was more like my tonsils are issuing an invitation to get to know your big dick.”
“That’s impressive too,” Ripley says.
“But the dick line is good. Save it. Use it again,” Bridget says encouragingly.
I sigh. “That’s my point. I shouldn’t do this again with him. Don’t you get it?”
Bridget nods like she’s reminding herself. “Right, right, that’s why we’re here. To help you make sure you don’t say something like rearrange my DNA with your dick?”
“Yes, exactly. Thank you. You understand now,” I say, then take another sip of the vanilla latte. Yep, I definitely needed to meet with my friends.
“So what exactly are you asking us for—other lines you could use on him, or how to shut your mouth so you don’t say things like that?” Ripley asks, cutting to the chase after she plucks off a corner of a scone.
“What do I do? We have to work together. But we lunged at each other like feral animals last night.”
“I guess really…don’t lunge again?” Ripley offers.
“I know, but I feel like such a jerk. I mean, I kind of kicked him out. But in my defense, it was necessary. I mean, if he stayed there any longer, he definitely would have been getting to know all my genomes.”
“I don’t remember you being this good at science back in high school,” Bridget points out.
“I paid a lot of attention in sex ed,” I say, then demurely lift my cup once more.
“Actually, I’m not so sure you did if you think genomes can be moved like furniture,” Ripley says pointedly.
“Fine, fine. But now I have to work on this show with him, and he’s kind of a hard-ass.
I just need to find a way to say I’m sorry without actually saying I’m sorry.
Because I kind of said I was sorry last night, and he acted like I didn’t need to say I was sorry and that the whole sorry was no big deal. ”
“Oh, so he acted super chill when you kicked him out while he was still half hard?” Bridget says in the driest tone possible.
I swivel to face her. “You were looking in my window last night?”
She laughs. “Yes, I was. Or I’m a good guesser. Take your pick.”
“Fine, fine. I was a big jerk. I guess we know the answer to the question. I tried to explain myself…”
“And how does that usually work out for a guy when he does the same thing?” Ripley adds, tilting her head in question.
I slump down in my chair. “I’m sure he felt the same way. I am. But…I need to get him a makeup gift, don’t I?”
“I mean, it’s not totally necessary. You’ve already said you’re sorry,” Bridget offers. “You guys aren’t dating. It’s totally reasonable. But if you’re trying to smooth things over, there’s one surefire way to do it, and you, missy, are a practitioner of treat culture.”
That’s it. That’s totally it.
I’ll turn up the sunshine to ten and serve it with a side of donuts. I thank them and say goodbye. With renewed determination to smooth over any remnants of awkward, I head to The Sweet Spot.
Donuts fix everything. Especially when you already have a breakfast competition going with someone.
Seriously, this is just brilliant. This shows I’m committed to professionalism. And yeah, Sawyer might be Mister Fuck Me to Pieces, but he is also Mister Serious Boss. Picking up donuts, especially after I teased him about it the other day, shows that I respect and honor our working relationship.
A man like Sawyer, who clearly has a huge by-the-book side—even if he loves to flirt with me more than he probably should—is definitely a stickler.
The way he dresses is evidence alone. He wants to maintain a certain image—the professional, respectful, slightly distant boss.
I hustle over to the bakery, determined to do my part to help with that image.
There’s already a line outside. I’m not surprised. Katrina’s banana bread is the best, and so are her chocolate-chip cookies. But I wait my turn, and today I order a baker’s dozen of donuts, including a coconut-cream-filled one just for Sawyer.
How will he be able to resist?
News flash: he won’t.
And when I head into Dog Tails, I’m sure this is the beginning of the next phase of our relationship. Donuts and a kick-ass business partnership. He’s already at the front counter, checking in Dandelion the Great Dane mix.
“She’s loving it here,” Salma says, then adjusts her hijab, keeping it tighter around her face, which she often does when she interacts with men.
“I’m so glad to hear that. We strive to be the place to be for the discerning dog,” he says.
“And I just love how everything is run. It’s neat, tidy, and so organized. The text message updates on the dogs throughout the day, the confirmation of their reservation—it runs so much more smoothly than before.”
Warmth spreads in my chest. I’m glad people in town are liking how he runs his business. Not simply because I share a space with him, but because I want him to succeed.
Well, I like him.
As a person.
A co-worker. A colleague.
When Salma leaves and Dandelion lopes happily into the play area, I march up to the counter with my sunshine dialed up to eleven, and I plunk the box down. “Good morning,” I say, as cheery as a chipmunk in a cartoon flick.
Sawyer looks up from the tablet, his expression unreadable. “Good morning, Chloe.”
The words are nice, but the tone is ice. A chill runs down my spine.
But no worries. I’ve got the ultimate icebreaker.
I gesture to the pretty box, giving a theatrical flourish that would make Mom proud.
“I brought donuts. Chocolate frosted, cinnamon sugar, cherry bomb, maple iced, frosting filled,” I say, then stop to lower my voice.
“Might need to save that one for me. And there’s also a coconut cream. But really, they’re delish.”
He glances down at them, then back at me. “The team will love that.”
Team. Has he always called them the team? It’s so professional. So serious. “And I thought you would too,” I add with a smile.
“I don’t like donuts,” he says with regret, like he’s letting me down easily.
He motions to the daycare behind him. “But like I said, I bet the team will. Speaking of the team, we should get everyone on board for the Webflix plans. Let them know what we’ll need, what everyone’s role will be, and so on.
I find it’s best if we’re transparent and clear about our expectations.
I can work on an agenda for the meeting, but your input would be valuable too. ”
My input would be valuable? Did he transform into Super Robotic Businessman this morning?
“Sure,” I say tentatively, even though I’m having flashbacks to my days at Fitzburger Events where I made PowerPoints and worked on presentations and loathed every day of office work. I shudder at the thought of office work. Of offices too. “I’ll email you?”
“Email sounds great. I have a call with San Francisco in five.”
He turns and walks away without taking the coconut cream donut.
I spent thirty bucks on baked goods—and he shut me out like a cold-as-ice CEO. He’s not even my boss.
But he’s acting like one.