A Not So Meet Cute(47)

And then he leaves.

I stare at the closed door, card still stuck in my cleavage.

When I turn around, mouth agape, Kelsey chuckles and says, “Oh, this is so much fun for me.”

“Why are you a bad sister?”

She laughs and sets her mug down on the counter. “I’m not a bad sister, I’m just taking joy in something new that’s happening in your life.”

I point to the door through which Huxley just retreated. “There’s nothing joyous about that man.”

“I don’t know.” She smirks. “He does seem to have some good qualities.”

I fold my arms. “Really? Good looks buy your loyalty?” I point to my chest. “I’m your sister. Your loyalty belongs to me.”

“Oh, settle down,” she says as she plucks the keycard from my cleavage and guides me to one of the chairs at her bistro table. “You know I’m on your side, but I will say, you should probably give him a chance. Not be so . . . irritable around him. He’s helping you out.”

“I’m helping him out.”

“You are both in this together. But look at what he’s doing for you. Gave you a new car to drive rather than that hunk of junk Bug that barely gets around; you have all new clothes, which helps us, because, not to be mean, but now you look put together, which bodes well for business meetings; and he gave you a place to stay so you don’t have to live here with me, or worse, with Mom and Jeff. He also paid off your student loans, so you don’t have to worry about getting a job to pay those back, and can work with me instead. He’s done a lot, Lottie. And you went to dinner with him, to help him with some deal he’s trying to score. I’m not taking sides, but he seems to be doing a lot for you.”

“Well . . . when you put it like that, sure, he looks like a saint, but he’s anything but that. Trust me. He’s a pompous asshole. He’s rude and degrading, at times. He doesn’t treat me with respect.”

“Do you offer him respect or are you always fighting him? Knowing you, it’s probably the latter.”

My sister knows me far too well.

“He started it,” I say. “He came in ripe with the attitude. What was I supposed to do? Just sit back and take it? Hell no. He makes my life difficult? I’ll do the same.”

“So glad you didn’t lose your maturity in the move,” Kelsey says with sarcasm. “And even though this topic of Huxley Cane is entertaining, we have some work to do.” She brings her computer over to the table and hands it to me.

“What do you want me to do with this?”

“We need to start getting organized with the business, and oddly enough, that’s the part of this job I suck at. We have a meeting later today with a potentially huge client, and I want to make sure we have everything under control, so if they ask questions, we can give them exact numbers.”

“Exact numbers of . . .”

“You know, like inventory and financials. Things like that.”

I eye her suspiciously. “Why would they care about that?”

She rolls her eyes. “Rich people want to know how successful you are. I need you to make me look successful on paper.”

“Okay . . . what are you going to do?”

She pulls out her iPad and smiles. “Design, of course.”

“Of course.” Sighing, I open her computer. All the files we need on her computer are at the bottom, ready to be opened. “Am I going to hate you after this?”

“Possibly. But this is what you enjoy.”

“Oddly, it is.” I crack my fingers. “Let’s get to work, sis.”





“How do you turn off the car?” I ask, looking for an off button of some sort.

“I don’t think you turn it off,” Kelsey says, slinging her bag over her shoulder.

“What do you mean, you don’t turn it off? There has to be an off button somewhere.”

She shakes her head. “I went out with a guy with the exact same car, and he just put it in park, got out, locked up and walked away. The car knows when you’re not in it anymore.” She gets out, and I grumble to myself as I put the car in park and get out myself.

Out of all the cars Huxley could have given me, he gave me one with a mind of its own. I press the keycard to the side of the window and watch as the side mirrors curl in toward the car.

“Is it locked?” I ask.

“I believe so.” Kelsey checks her watch. “Come on, we’re going to be late if we fiddle around with this thing anymore.”

Shoving the keycard in my purse—keycard for a car, strange, by the way—I catch up to Kelsey, who’s already halfway to the building.

“Who are we meeting with, by the way? You never gave me any information. All I know is that your bookkeeping is in dire need of help and I’ve been able to pull together some rough numbers.”

She doesn’t answer, instead, pushes through the large glass doors and into a modern, sleek lobby. There isn’t a person in sight other than a receptionist at the front desk.

No signs.

No personalization.

Nothing to indicate where the hell we are.

“Miss Kelsey, Miss Lottie, glad you could make it,” the receptionist says. “Please, take the third elevator to the tenth floor. They’re waiting for you.”