9

Britta

Easing back in my totally frivolous but adorable spinny chair, I kick off the office floor with my foot and twirl to my heart’s delight. “Okay, but how do we know they’re together ? Just because they were seen out and about at a restaurant doesn’t mean they’re dating.”

Vivian scoffs over the other end of the line. “Honey, were you not listening when I said he put his hand on her lower back? That’s a total tell right there. An alpha male protective move if I’ve ever seen one.”

An unbidden pang of longing echoes in my chest for a split second before I take a deep inhale. “Well. Maybe. But it’s too soon to jump to conclusions.”

Vivian sighs. “You’re not wrong. But you know I love to see my favorite celebrities find love.”

“Don’t we all,” I say, even though we both know she’s way more into following celebrities’ love lives than I am. I’m more interested in setting up my friends. Aside from my newfound disgust with dating, I still root for those whom I care about…I could practically take credit for getting Felicity and A.J. together, if I so chose.

“Okay, well as much as I’d love to sit here and gossip about people I’ll never meet, I’ve got to go teach a class.”

“Same. I mean, I’ve got to get back to work, too.”

“K, love you, talk soon.”

“Ditto, love you, byeee.” I hang up the phone, then spin toward my desk, stopping once my knee bumps one of the legs. I’ve avoided checking my email by doing anything and everything else, but it’s time. I sigh as I click into my mess of an inbox—the one area in my life I hate to organize.

Something that doesn’t immediately strike me as spam catches my eye. It’s from a Renae Rickardson of some dance academy I’ve never heard of. I straighten and click into the email.

Dear Miss Gracen,

It is with great excitement that I am reaching out to see if you’d be interested in teaching at our dance academy next spring. We are currently looking for qualified teachers to influence the next generation of dancers. Our academy specializes in classical, hip hop, and ballroom styles of dancing, all of which I’m told you are familiar with.

I recently ran into your ex-agent, Shane, at a competition while he was scouting for new talent. When I expressed our sudden need for teachers, your name came up. He informed me that you were no longer dancing professionally but that you may be interested in a more influential role. If so, please feel free to contact me so we can go over specifics like salary and schedule. Of course, all relocation expenses will be covered by the academy, if you did decide to join our staff.

Thank you for your time!

Renae.

Leaning back in my chair, I stare dumbly at the glowing computer screen. Teach dance? Me?

I start biting my thumbnail nervously as I consider where this came from. I haven’t heard from Shane in over a year. I know he felt bad for some of the things he said to me right before we parted ways since he emailed me later to apologize, but I never would’ve guessed he’s been tossing my name out to different places.

I appreciate the gesture, but I’ve built a career for myself. One I’m mostly happy with…If only I could gain more clients, which would mean more bookings, more notoriety, and more revenue. But still, it’s better than feeling unfairly judged by my appearance, and losing gigs because of it.

My condition not only makes it hard for me to keep weight off but it also drains me of energy fairly quickly. And as much as I love dancing every day, I’m not sure my body could still handle the physical strain. Teaching, though…that wouldn’t require the same level of physicality.

But I’ve never thought of myself as a teacher. Don’t you have to be mature and level-headed to do a job like that well? I’m basically a teenager trapped in a woman’s body. My life and future are as unpredictable as my cat baby’s moods.

My phone pings with a message, jolting me from my thoughts.

Wolf: Can someone please tell me why Mom feels the need to publicly embarrass us…still?

A smile stretches across my face when I see my youngest brother’s text in our sibling text thread. I’m about to respond when another one comes through.

Bodin: Uh oh. That youngest child syndrome is rearing its ugly horned head again.

Wolf: Shut up. I’m being serious. The woman doesn’t know when to quit.

A laugh bubbles out of me. He’s not wrong. Mom used to take any and every excuse to embarrass us in front of our friends in high school, which probably sounds a touch traumatic, but to be fair, we gave the woman so much grief in our younger days, it’s a miracle she still claims us at all.

Hunt: What did she do this time?

Wolf: I unexpectedly ran into her at the grocery store. As soon as she spotted the two jars of mayonnaise in my cart, she blurted, “Oh no, honey, did you get lice from those school kids again?!”

Wolf: As if getting lice as an adult once wasn’t bad enough…

I’m wheezing from laughing so hard at my ridiculous brothers as I type out a reply.

Britta: Honestly, that doesn’t sound so bad in comparison to other things she’s done.

Hunt: What I want to know is why there were TWO jars of mayonnaise in your cart?

Wolf: Because one is for my homemade chicken salad, the other is for sandwiches. DUH. And did I mention that I was conversing with the recently divorced, newly single GINA DELANCEY while it happened?!

“Oooh, ouch,” I say out loud to no one but myself. Wolf’s had a crush on Gina since middle school. She married one of Wolf’s friends right after high school, but word has it their marriage hit the rocks a few years ago. I don’t know all the details, nor do I really care to, but Wolf keeps me informed since he still lives in the small Oregon town we grew up in.

Bodin: Classic Mom, sounds like.

Hunt: Sorry, man. But hey, at least you still get chicken salad.

Wolf: The worst part was when Gina backed away from me like one of my nonexistent lice babies was going to jump onto her head.

Hunt sends a gif of a guy laughing hysterically as I type in a reply.

Britta: At least if she does believe you have lice, she knows you’re proactive at taking care of the problem. Was the mayo organic? Because women like to know a potential partner cares about reducing their exposure to pesticides.

Hunt: I can vouch for this.

Wolf: I just love it when you rub your active dating life in mine and Britta’s faces.

Bodin: Don’t let Hunt kid you. Mom says he hasn’t been on a date in months.

Hunt: That was supposed to be private information…

Wolf: And we’re back to trying to figure out why Mom hates us…

I shake my head at my siblings and their ridiculousness. It’s probably telling that none of us but Bodin are in a committed relationship, and it’s not for lack of trying on our parts. Maybe the three of us are too weird to find lasting love.

Britta: I’m going back to work. Wolf, I love you. Better luck next time with Gina. Tell Mom I said hi.

I close out our text thread and am once again faced with the still open email on my computer. I can’t deny that the timing is interesting, considering my schedule is practically wide open. Bookings haven’t been rolling in like I’d hoped going into my second year of business.

I suppose it couldn’t hurt to check out the academy. I type their name in the search bar, along with Renae’s. What appears to be a legit, distinguished performing arts academy fills the screen. But my stomach sinks when I see the address. Oregon . Closer to where I grew up, where my parents and brothers are, but further from where I’ve built a life, a home.

Like a knife, anxiety creeps past my ribcage with a harsh slice and steals my breath. I quickly click out of the screen and sign out of my email.

“Just focus, Britt,” I tell myself before clicking into my desktop planner. The only two events that pop up are the bakery reno and Elyse’s birthday party.

Not a great start for fall.

I bite my lip and tap my nails against the acrylic desktop. If I don’t pick up some more projects this month, there’s a chance I won’t be able to keep renting this office space. And it’s in the perfect location, right in the historic district, only a couple of blocks from the café where Liss, Vivian, and I like to eat lunch sometimes.

But I guess things like this can happen when you decide to become an entrepreneur.

The unexpected email flashes in my mind. If I were to take a job somewhere else, there would be no more need for an office space, but also no more lunch dates with Viv and Liss. No being there for my sweet little godson and Lyric…

I press my hands against my forehead. I need to talk to someone to sort this out.

But it can’t be my brothers because I know what they’d say . Move home, Britt. Maybe Mom will quit bugging us as much if she’s got you to focus on.

Nope. I need someone who’s a little more unbiased to work through this with.

Deciding to take an early lunch down at the café, I shoot a text to Liss and see if she wants to meet me there since Viv is busy. As my feet hit the pavement on the short walk to the restaurant, my mind drifts back to my professional dancer days. It was pretty much feast or famine then too, but I thought a career in interior design would prove a little more steady.

Guess I was wrong.

It’s been almost a year of this. One month, I get requests for so many projects there’s no way I’ll be able to take them all on; then another month, there’s only one or two on the calendar. At least this month I’ve got a task that will feel less like work and more like fun. I’m genuinely excited to throw Jules’s daughter a bomb birthday party.

A tiny spark of an idea forms, and I wonder if maybe expanding my business into party planning would be a way to secure bookings. I do love that type of work… but it wouldn’t pay as well as the bigger jobs unless I moved into weddings.

That idea holds zero appeal at this loveless point in my life.

My phone buzzes in my back pocket, and I pull it out, thinking it’s going to be Liss with a response.

Unknown: Hey, got your number from Felicity. Had a question for you.

Me: May I ask who this is?

Hopefully a potential client.

Unknown: Sorry, it’s Cash.

My feet and heart stop at the same time. I raise my head and blink into the distance, staring at the busy street ahead of me but seeing nothing. Why is he texting me?

I quickly go to type in his contact info but stop myself. What name should I assign to his number? I smirk, thinking of all the immature nicknames I’ve secretly given him in my head.

Mr. Too Many Tattoos

Mr. Thinks He’s Hot but He’s Not

Mr. Kissed Me then Never Called

Okay, so not super original, but I never said I was witty.

I decide against any of those names and label him as MMMOP. Short for Mystery Midnight Make Out Partner . Because I’m really just a thirteen-year-old girl trapped in a thirty-two-year-old woman’s body.

MMMOP: You blocked me, didn’t you?

Before I can reply, another text pops up.

MMMOP: Nvm. Didn’t mean to give you any ideas.

A reluctant smile tugs at my lips . Did he seriously think I would block him? When we have mutual friends? Mutual best friends?

Me: Decided against it. What can I help you with, Cash?

I can’t describe why it suddenly feels weird to use his name, but it does. I bite my lip and tuck my phone into my pocket as I start back toward the café. I’m tempted to mentally run through every possibility of why he might be contacting me, but it won’t do me any good to make assumptions.

At another buzz, I pull out my phone.

MMMOP: I’m in need of an interior designer and wondered if you could help me?

Uh huh. Sure, he is

I shake my head and grab the door handle to the café. It’s not the first time someone has tried to use my skills for free. I doubt it’ll be the last.

Once the hostess seats me at a small table next to a large window, I text him back.

Me: I’m not sure you could afford me.

There. That’ll keep him from expecting something for free just because we have mutual friends. Or…just because we exchanged a few passionate kisses.

I blink the thought away and pick up my menu, hoping the new specials will distract me.

The BLT salad looks especially appetizing.

My phone pings.

MMMOP: Unless the payment requires a vial of my blood or a lock of my hair, I think I’ll be good. Just not into donating my DNA.

My blood heats at his insinuation. As if I’d ever ask for his DNA…

MMMOP: Sorry. That was a dumb joke.

Me: Oh no, it was clever. I get it. I’m a witch. Hardy har har. Question, though. If I’m so awful, why do you want me to work for you?

I should probably just ignore his texts, but I’ve never been good at letting things go.

MMMOP: I’m sorry, I said it was a dumb joke. Can we call a truce?

Me: You never answered my question.

MMMOP: I want to hire you because you’re talented and I think it’s in everyone’s best interest if we call a truce. Even if we can’t be friends.

“Hi, there.” A bubbly blonde waitress sidles up next to my table. “What can I get ya?”

“Hi. I’ll have the BLT salad without the cheese. Italian dressing and sourdough bread on the side.”

She nods as she scribbles my order down onto her pad. “And to drink?”

“An unsweetened raspberry iced tea, please.”

“All right.” She tucks the little notebook in her apron. “I’ll be back in a bit with your order.”

I send her an appreciate smile as she saunters away, then peek down at my phone and see I have multiple text messages.

Liss: Hey, I’d LOVE to do lunch, but A.J. already made us green smoothies. He’s convinced I’m not getting enough veggies in. Sigh. Maybe tomorrow?

Her text makes me grin even if she can’t meet with me. I guess my big news will have to wait. I tell her we’ll absolutely do tomorrow, then read the next texts.

MMMOP: Look, texting isn’t my thing. Could we maybe meet over coffee? I could fill you in on this project.

MMMOP: I can even meet you now if you’re free for lunch. I promise not to make it weird. Or…at least, I’ll TRY not to make it weird.

A tiny spark of…something…ignites at how hard he’s trying. Maybe once we’re totally alone he’ll feel comfortable enough to talk about what happened between us at the concert that night. If he even remembers. I don’t want to get my hopes up, but I can’t help but crave some closure on that whole thing.

Me: Fine. I’m out to lunch at the café near my office. La Vieux Yum? I’ll be here for a while if you want to meet.

There. Ball is in his court. If he doesn’t show, good riddance. If he does, well…I guess I’ll just have to tell my body to behave and pretend that he’s not the most attractive man I’ve ever met.