Trouble (Dogwood Lane #3)(28)

She sits in her chair and crosses her legs. She’s completely unrushed, like she has all the time in the world to have this conversation. “Like what? What is that?”

“Gorgeous. Funny. A little bit cocky. A smooth talker with a predisposition to use innuendo as an actual language.”

I pace in front of the fake tree in the corner. While I’m aware I probably look like a crazy person, I don’t care, nor do I stop. Moving feels good, much better than lying in bed all night, replaying every word he said yesterday and trying to find something horrible in it so I can stop thinking about him.

Ugh.

“You know how oil is great on its own? And water is an essential element of life?” I stop walking and face her. “Put them together, and they just don’t work. Like toothpaste and orange juice or black socks and brown shoes.”

“Go on . . .” She sticks her tongue in her cheek while she waits.

“Penn and I wouldn’t work out, Harper. It’s just that simple.”

She sighs. “Let me get this straight. You and Penn wouldn’t work because he’s cute, makes you laugh, and knows it?”

“Correct.”

“You do see how nuts you sound, right?”

I collapse back into my chair. She’s right. I do sound nuts, but I’m not wrong.

On paper—heck, in person—Penn looks pretty great. But I know from past experience that guys like him are great in the role they want to play, and Penn’s made it perfectly clear what role that is.

But at the end of the day, this isn’t about him. I can’t let it be about him. It has to be about me and what I want, and I’m not even sure what that is right now. I just know that if I say “To hell with it” and give in, I should’ve stayed in LA.

“Well, you do you,” she says.

“I am doing me, Harper. That’s what I’m trying to say.”

She takes a sip of her coffee and watches me over the brim. When she sets the cup back on the counter, she sighs.

“When I first started doing hair, I had this woman come in that wanted her hair dyed red. I had a terrible feeling about it. I mean, I even tried to talk her out of it.”

“Why?” I ask.

“I don’t know. Maybe because I ate a red crayon as a child and puked it up. Anyway, that was the worst color job I’ve ever done, and in retrospect, a part of me thinks I convinced myself it would be bad before it ever started. I had a phobia about red dyes for years.”

I laugh. “That’s tragic.”

“It is. But you know what’s more tragic?”

My face falls. I brace myself for whatever truth she’s readying to hurl my way. And no matter what it is, I have to listen because Harper wouldn’t waste her time with nonsensical advice.

“What’s more tragic is when we do that to people, when we decide someone is difficult or bad or a rogue without giving them a chance.”

I roll my eyes.

If I were to somehow convince myself that Penn was worth pursuing, then I’d have to broach the “we fucked” subject, and I’m not feeling that. And it’s not really about that, anyway.

“Look,” I say with a frustrated breath. “I’m not judging Penn for being the consummate flirt he is. I actually like his attention. But at no point last night did Penn want anything to do with me outside of a hookup. I’ve had that for years, Harp. Just, the men before wanted my parents’ connections or to gain credibility because of my last name. Penn just wants to get off.”

Harper forces a swallow. “I get that. That was a mildly disturbing way to put it, but okay.”

I sigh. “I just . . . I don’t want to get married. I’m not looking for something serious, even. But I do want to have some sort of relationship with a guy who doesn’t want to flirt with everyone. A guy who asks me questions because he wants to know me and not just my family or my vagina.”

“Okay, I hear you,” Harper says. “I do. And I’m going to let it go.”

“Thank you.”

“For now, anyway,” she says.

I swivel from side to side in the chair. This is entirely too heavy for this early. “How busy will we be today?”

She stands and picks up her purse. It drops into the chair with a thud. “We won’t be that busy. So I did you a favor.”

“Why does that concern me on some level?”

She digs through her giant black bag. “Because you know me well,” she mumbles. “Got it.” She extends her hand. A business card sticks out between her fingers. “Here. Take this.”

I do. It’s on light-pink cardstock and smells faintly of roses. “What’s this?”

“You said you like to paint, right?”

“Yeah. I mean, I’m no Picasso, but I enjoy it. Why?”

“I found you a side hustle.” She moves the purse out of her way and sits again. “I had a little aha moment last night and made some calls. I found you something that I think will fill your soul and pad your pockets a little.”

“What is it?” I ask.

“I’m not totally sure, to be honest. But Haley—have you met her? She runs Buds and Branches.”

“The flower shop?”

“Yes.”

“No, I haven’t been in there, but it looks so cute from the outside.”