I’m not his type. He made it abundantly clear how he feels about psychologists, and who can blame him? Between an ex-wife seeking divorce following months of private therapy, and then couples’ counseling that didn’t go how he’d hoped, Griffin Walsh has good reasons to feel mistrustful of psychologists.
Having dinner at his house is just an opportunity to foster social interaction among members of the Juniper Ridge community. So why am I obsessing about what to wear?
Because you’re a professional.
Also, he’s hot.
I hate myself for these conflicting thoughts, but that doesn’t stop me from pulling a v-neck sweater off my shelf and eyeing it for sex appeal.
Which is silly, since he isn’t interested in me in that way. What was it he said again?
“I didn’t mean that to sound sexual.”
Exactly. He made his intent clear, and I’m the one who lunged at him like some sex-starved vixen.
With that pep talk out of the way, I kick aside my yoga pants and scan my closet for something appropriate. Skirts, jeans, dresses—nothing feels right.
I’ve just stripped off my top when the doorbell rings. Grabbing a hoodie off my dresser, I stuff my arms into the sleeves and yank the zipper to my neck. Palming my boobs to keep jostling to a minimum, I sprint from the bedroom to the living room. As I fling open the door, I’m startled to find both of my sisters on the steps.
“Hey.”
They don’t hear me. Probably because Lauren’s shouting about production schedules while Lana chirps even louder about publicity. Neither seems to notice I’m here.
I clear my throat. “Can I help you?”
Lana turns and blinks at me. “Whoa.” She flicks a glance at Lauren. “We’re opening the door topless now. Did I not get the memo?”
“Damn, girl.” Lauren waves a hand at my midsection. “I don’t know who you’re expecting, but I hope he appreciates this.”
I glance down, and sure enough, my zipper’s busted. It’s hooked at the bottom and closed tight at my throat. In between, it’s a gaping valley of pale, naked flesh. I’m not even wearing a bra, so the effect is extra-awful.
“Shut up.” Not a very thoughtful response, but the best I can do on short notice. I grip the sides of the hoodie and pull it tight over my middle as I step away from the door. “I meant to get it repaired, but I forgot, and I’m having a hard time figuring out what to wear to dinner, so I panicked.”
That’s way more info than they needed, but Lana latches on like a chipper piglet seizing the choicest nipple. “I’d like to attend a dinner where that’s the dress code.”
I sigh and turn toward my bedroom. I’m hoping they’ll follow, though I have no expectations. My older sister and baby sister are chattering away, a conversation that requires no input from me. Something about this week’s shooting schedule, and I try to think of a way to contribute. Something that won’t seem like useless interjection from the needy middle child.
“Did you get my email with the Myers-Briggs personality test results for the latest batch of new-hires?” I turn to make sure they heard me, but Lauren’s voice is like a bullhorn. Pretty sure they’d miss my commentary if I shouted through a megaphone, so I turn and continue my march to the bedroom.
At least they’re following, their shoulders pressed tight together like co-joined twins. They’ve been like this from the day Lana was born, since Lauren declared it her duty to guard and protect our new baby sister. I admire their bond, I do. Their closeness is healthy and endearing and not at all deserving of envy or resentment or—
“Ow.”
The sting in my palms makes me look down to see I’m digging deep crescents with my nails. I order my fingers to relax as I shuffle into my closet.
I’m beginning to think my sisters have forgotten I’m here when Lana’s voice rings out from the bedroom.
“We can help you dress.” There’s a squeak of bedsprings and I turn to see her bouncing down on my mattress with a smile. “If you want.”
Lauren eases onto the bed beside her. “Not that there’s anything wrong with what you’re wearing.”
I sigh and turn to face rows of neatly hung shirts and slacks. “I’m making this much harder than it needs to be.”
“Depends on who you’re meeting.” Lana snickers. “If making something hard is the goal, you’re nailing it with all that flesh.”
“Not helpful.” Also mildly mortifying. As I flip through rows of bland-colored tops, I’m grateful they haven’t asked who I’m dining with. “What brings you by, anyway?”
I turn to see Lauren leaning against my headboard with Lana flopped diagonally across the mattress, chin braced on Lauren’s outstretched shins. They glance at each other with matching flickers of confusion.
“Why are we here again?” Lana asks.
Lauren snaps her fingers. “The mixer.” She lifts her gaze to mine, silvery green eyes flashing with excitement. “We thought it might be fun to stage some kind of mixer with all the new community members. A party or something, maybe at the brewery.”
The word “brewery” sends a flush through my skin. I pray they can’t see it as I pull a gray top off a hanger, then discard it when I spot a tea stain on the sleeve.
“A mixer, huh?” Maybe I should have kept more clothing from my Shrink to the Stars days. A party dress or two, or something for a platonic-yet-flirty dinner.
“We wanted your blessing,” Lana continues, and for a moment, I think she’s talking about clothes. “For the mixer. We weren’t sure if there might be some moral-ethical-psychological-HR sorta risks involved with doing it.”
“At a brewery,” Lauren adds, finishing Lana’s thought. “With alcohol involved, we thought—”
“It should be fine.” I pull a black top off a hanger. No stains, but also not much pizazz. I’m definitely overthinking this. “I’ll contact the OLCC—the Oregon Liquor Control Commission—to make sure there aren’t any issues from their end, but it should be fine from a mental health standpoint.”
Lana frowns. “So no landmines you can think of?”
“Nope.” It’s annoying how much I love her request for input. That my sisters seek my expertise sometimes. “Griffin Walsh is a smart guy, so he’ll be a stickler for things like IDs and not overserving people.”
His name tastes like dark chocolate on my tongue, and I’m positive my sisters hear it in my voice. But they’ve gone back to chattering about production, and not for the first time, I’m relieved to be ignored. I tug the useless zipper, struggling to free myself from the damn hoodie.
“Hold up, hold up.” Lauren’s voice has me turning to see her studying me with a producer’s critical eye. “Who’s the date with?”
“It’s not a date.” Reluctant to strip off my armor, I hesitate. Then I yank the hoodie off anyway because I refuse to be self-conscious about feminine body ideals, and besides, I’m running late.
Lana cocks her head. “But it’s dinner with a guy, right?”
“Yes, but that doesn’t make it a date.” I sigh, not seeing any way around this. “Griffin. Griffin Walsh. I’m meeting with the new brewery manager to answer some questions about his daughter.”