Junk Mail(22)

“Yeah, because you were trying to get serious with every guy who you made out with in college, right?” I tease.

Libby shrugs, twirling a strand of red hair around her index finger. “No comment.”

“All I’m saying is he very well could be buttering me up to try to close this business deal. How am I supposed to tell?”

Both Sabrina and Libby tap their manicured fingernails on their wineglasses as they sip, mulling it over.

“Wait! I’ve got it!” Sabrina pounds her empty glass on the table to punctuate her epiphany. “When he bought you ice cream, did he pay with his personal card or his corporate card?”

I try and fail to suppress a snicker. Sometimes, I swear she and I share a brain. “Great thought, but I already tried that. He moved too quickly for me to get a good look.”

“Well, what if you just flat-out asked him?” Libby says. “Just ask if the whole coat-closet fiasco was a one-time deal.” She shimmies her shoulders suggestively, and I cough to keep my wine from going down the wrong pipe.

“And run the risk of totally embarrassing myself if he says it was a fluke? No thanks.”

“I say you just go for it,” Sabrina says matter-of-factly, refilling her empty glass. “If you’re worried about embarrassment, need I remind you that this dude literally sent you a dick pic out of the clear blue? There’s nothing you can do that’s half as embarrassing as that.”

I nod, taking a good, long sip, regretting that I ever told them about that photo. “Okay, you’re definitely right about that.”

“I’m right about everything.” Sabrina laughs as she waves down the bartender, gesturing for another bottle of white zinfandel.

I knew it would be a double-bottle night. As our server uncorks the bottle, the conversation shifts to wedding seating charts, an area I have absolutely zero expertise in.

My feigned interest only lasts so long before I tune out, letting my attention wander to my schedule for the upcoming week. I’m booked solid with meetings, something I’ll have to get used to if this deal goes through smoothly. If things go as planned, my boxes will be in stores in a matter of weeks. If I think I have zero free time right now, it’s about to sink into the negative.

What are the chances of me scrounging up enough free time to pursue things with Josh? Assuming he really is interested and wants more than a one-and-done hookup and isn’t some playboy . . .

“Hello? Peyton? Are you there?” Libby yanks at my sleeve, jolting me out of my daze.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here,” I lie, putting on my best I’m so interested in the details of your wedding face.

But in my mind, I’m somewhere else entirely—sitting in a cozy ice cream shop or stumbling into a hotel coat closet. It’s almost crazy how easily I can picture Josh and me juggling both a business and a personal relationship.

That is, if he’s even capable of a relationship. I’m unsure of the overlap on guys who send dirty pictures to random women and guys who are looking for anything serious, but I’m hoping and praying that it’s a Venn diagram with Josh Hanson sitting right in the middle.





Chapter Fourteen


Peyton



“Gram? Are you up?”

Apart from the low rumbles of the brewing storm, the house is uncharacteristically quiet tonight. Usually, when I return from a night out with Sabrina and Libby, I’m greeted by one of two things—Gram’s rapid-fire questions about my evening, or the sound of her snoring from the couch. But tonight? Nada.

I toss my keys onto the kitchen table, and the metallic sound echoes throughout the house. Where the hell is she?

I check the clock on the stove—it’s nine thirty. We haven’t even reached the time of night where the infomercials start playing yet, which is when Gram typically calls it a night. It’s not like her to opt for an early bedtime, especially on a weekend. Maybe she caught a ride to the senior center and just forgot to text me.

“Gram? You home?” I try a second time, bounding up the stairs two at a time. Still no response.

My stomach bottoms out momentarily, but I wave off the panic as I head for Gram’s door. She’s probably just sleeping or online shopping or—

When I swing open her bedroom door, every nightmare I’ve ever had starts playing all at once. Gram is on the floor, as still as stone.

“GRAM!”

Hearing her name, she looks up at me with pitiful eyes, and I’m equal parts heartbroken and grateful. At least she’s conscious.

“I fell,” she whispers, grasping unsuccessfully for a grip on the side of the bed, then falling back down to her side with a light thud, no louder than the sound of a suitcase tipping over. No wonder I didn’t hear her from downstairs.

I scramble to her side, taking her full weight against me as I help her to her feet. She winces and yelps when she tries to stand on her own, her small frame folding into my arms.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” she mutters through clenched teeth. “I just—ah, Jesus!” Her back cramps up and she recoils, one trembling hand gripping the small of her back as she swears under her breath. “These goddamned piece-of-shit shoes have no grip to ’em.”

I can’t help my slight smile at her potty mouth. After some awkward shifting and plenty of groans of pain from Gram, I manage to settle her onto the bed in a half-fetal position.