I took that as my cue to leave, and spent the rest of the day on job sites. I’m not entirely stupid.
“I’m sorry about her kids,” I say now, meaning it. “You’re right. Watching people’s kids isn’t part of your job. I should have said something.”
She’s silent for a moment, and when she finally speaks, she sounds resigned. “No. It only would have set her off. Better to just placate her until we get her house done, then move on from this nightmare.”
“A few months from now, you can buy me drinks and we’ll laugh about it,” I tease.
“Yeah,” she grumbles. “Until we get another difficult client.”
Which admittedly is becoming far too common.
I was lucky enough to find Willow while we were just flipping houses. She only did consulting work for us in the beginning. Then, as Dad started phasing out, I gave her more and more hours until I hired her full time. I love knowing that she has my back, and now I feel like a total ass for leaving her with Wendy’s kids.
“You said you had good news?” I prod.
“Yeah. Ralph called and said they’re moving Wendy’s new slab to the front of the line. They plan to get to it first thing tomorrow morning, with delivery and installation on Friday.”
“Thank God,” I say as a woman walking down the sidewalk toward the tea shop catches my attention. I have no doubt that it’s Molly O’Shea even though she’s still too far away for me to make out her face.
But I can see those curves and her mass of loose strawberry-blond hair.
All the blood in my brain makes a mad dash south.
Dammit.
“Well, uh…thanks for the heads-up,” I say absently as I watch the woman grab the handle on the door. She does it confidently, as if she has never felt anything but certain of herself. Oh yeah, it’s definitely Molly.
“Everything okay?” Willow asks.
Molly’s wearing a red sundress, and I can’t help noticing the way it hugs her ass.
Jesus, this is not good. I should not be attracted to the woman who is intent on invading my privacy and using me for her own means.
A sudden image of her straddling my lap fills my every conscious thought. Imaginary Molly is leaning over me with a wicked look in her gorgeous hazel eyes, saying, “I have plans for you.”
The image makes me grunt as I shift on the truck seat, trying to ease the sudden tightness of my jeans.
“Cal, are you okay?” Willow asks with concern.
“Yeah, I’ve got to go.”
“Oh, you’re meeting that potential client, right?”
“Yeah,” I say, hating that I lied to her. Other than Alice and the Bad Luck Club, I’m a pretty open book, but if I’d told Willow I was meeting with a dating blogger, she would have tried to take me on a shopping trip for new clothes. She would definitely lose her mind if she knew I was meeting Molly wearing dusty jeans and a navy-blue polo with our company logo stitched onto the upper left chest: Bear and Son arched over the image of bear with a cub.
“Who is it?” she asks.
She’s not being nosy. She usually knows details about every potential client I meet. In fact, she often prepares small dossiers on their houses to help me prepare.
“A friend of a friend.” It’s sort of true. Molly and Harry met up last night.
“Married couple? Kids? Pets?”
“I don’t know, Willow,” I say in frustration, but there’s little heat behind it. “That’s the purpose of this meeting.”
“Hmm…”
I freeze. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” she says, but I know that tone. She uses it when she thinks she has the upper hand.
But how could she possibly have the upper hand? I shake my head. I’ve caught some of Harry’s paranoia. I need to get this meeting over with and move on. “I’ll let you know how it goes.”
“Are you coming back to the office? I want a hibiscus tea with lemon.”
I’ve got a mountain of paperwork to tackle, so I say, “Yeah. No problem.”
Only as I hang up do I realize I’ll likely be strapped to a chair and possibly waterboarded if I don’t answer her questions to her satisfaction.
One hurdle at a time.
Taking a deep breath, I give myself a mental pep talk. Okay. You find Molly attractive, but maybe it’s just a sign that you’re actually ready to have a relationship.
Or at least something more lasting than the biannual one-night stands I’ve used to ease the pressure.
The image of Molly fills my head again, and now she’s unbuckling my belt to get to the zipper of my jeans.
I suck in a sharp breath. This is not good, especially since a quick glance at my phone tells me I’m now two minutes late. Still, I can’t walk in with an obvious hard-on. There’s no telling how she’ll spin that in her piece.
I get out of the truck and stand next to it, forcing myself to think about my third-grade teacher, Mrs. Dinkle. She had a mole on the left side of her nose, and my best friend Ryan and I were fascinated by it because sometimes it had a hair and sometimes it didn’t. Then again, what nine-year-old knows about tweezers and plucking? Okay, nine-year-olds before the age of TikTok and Instagram. Thinking about her does the trick, and I steel my back and head toward the tea shop.
The handle of the tea shop door slips in my sweaty palm. I haven’t felt like this since I asked Rhonda Martin to the homecoming dance junior year. (She shot me down.) I tell myself I’m nervous because I’m worried I won’t be able to dissuade Molly from looking deeper into the Bad Luck Club, yet I know that’s only part of it.
The daydreams about her just prove it.
I start to plaster on my business face, the one I reserve for difficult clients, but then I decide to hell with it. I don’t want to play nice so she can turn around and mock my friends and me online. Why pretend otherwise?
She sees me the moment I walk in. Her gaze follows me as I head toward the table she’s picked midway through the shop, next to a wall. She’s facing the door, a strategic position, and I realize my procrastination has put me on the defensive.
But as I sit down, she flashes a smile that looks genuine. “Thanks for asking to meet with me. I hope this place was okay.” She glances around, her eyes brightening. “I love it.”
I nod to the china teacup in front of her. “I see you’ve ordered.”
“The waitstaff was on me the second I sat down,” she says. “I told them you were coming, so someone should be here any moment.”
As if on cue, a young woman in a ruffled apron hurries over to the table. “Hi. I’m Josie, and I’m here to take your order.” She leans closer and lowers her voice. “I can also tell your fortune, but I can’t guarantee you’ll like what you hear.”
“She’s going to read my tea leaves when I’m finished,” Molly says as she picks up her cup and takes a sip.
Shit. I forgot that aspect of this place, but I have no desire to have my fortune read now or any other time, especially not in front of Molly O’Shea. Who knows how she’ll twist it to suit her story?
I glance from Molly to Josie. “Uh…I’ll just take a peach iced tea.”
She narrows her eyes. “Ah,” she says as though judging me and finding me basic, then turns and walks away.