Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 81281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
“That’s not how a deal works,” I snap. “You can’t offer something without knowing what you want in return.”
“Sure I can.” He moves toward the door, completely at ease and completely infuriating. “I’m offering. You’re considering.” He reaches the door and looks back at me over his shoulder. “Think about it.”
He walks out.
I stand behind my desk in the silence and stare at the door.
Then I sit down, put my elbows on the desk, and put my face in my hands.
I am in so much trouble.
Chapter 15
Livia
Juno texted at noon. Crosby’s out. Birdie’s making pad Thai. Bring Molly, wine and yourself. Seven o’clock.
That was the entire invitation and it was enough. After the day I’ve had—which included Locke’s searing kiss in my office—I’m ready to drink wine and forget about the ludicrousness of that hockey player.
Molly and I share an Uber and on the way over we chitchat about our respective lives from the past week, since we haven’t had time to get together, especially with the holiday.
“Tell me all I need to know about Juno and Birdie,” Molly says, so I do. By the time our driver turns into Crosby’s neighborhood, she has a working understanding of Juno’s documentary background, Birdie’s saturation diving career, and the general shape of how I know them both.
“I love them already,” she announces.
“You haven’t met them.”
“Doesn’t matter. Anyone who dives to two hundred feet for a living and anyone who dates a man who plays professional hockey both qualify as my kind of people.” She looks out the window as the house comes into view and goes quiet. “Livia.”
“I know.”
“This is insane.”
“I know.”
Molly pays the driver through the app and we get out, both of us taking in Crosby’s house—the way it sits back from the road behind established landscaping, the gas lanterns lining the front walk, the warm glow of uplighting washing over stucco and tile. It looks like it’s out of a magazine and somehow also like somewhere people actually live.
“Okay,” Molly says. “I need a house like this.”
“You date an orthopedic surgeon,” I point out.
“Who’s still paying for medical school,” she laments, falling into step beside me up the front walk. I’ve got a bottle of Arvendale Pinot and she’s carrying a bottle of champagne.
We reach the front porch and she pauses, tipping her head back to look at the exterior lanterns. “These are gorgeous. Okay. I’m ready. Let’s go meet your new friends.”
I ring the bell.
The door opens almost immediately and Birdie is there in leggings and an oversized pullover with her dark hair piled on top of her head, a glass of wine already in hand. Her eyes move between the two of us with immediate warmth.
“You brought reinforcements,” she says approvingly.
“Birdie, this is my best friend Molly. Molly, Birdie Hale.”
Molly extends her hand and Birdie takes it, but what she actually does is look at the champagne bottle in Molly’s other hand. “I already like you. Come in.”
“That’s all it takes?” Molly asks, stepping through.
“Bubbly on a girls’ night? Absolutely.”
Inside, the house opens immediately with a wide entry, artwork on the walls, and the smell of lemongrass, garlic and chili spice assaulting my nose in the best way possible. Tall windows overlook the backyard veranda and the trees beyond, the pool’s blue light rippling softly through the glass.
“Juno’s in the kitchen massacring a lime,” Birdie announces, already heading that way.
“I heard that,” Juno calls out.
We follow Birdie into the kitchen and find Juno at the granite island with a cutting board, a knife, and four limes that have been cut with more enthusiasm than precision. She’s in a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up and looks completely at home in Crosby’s kitchen.
“She’s not wrong,” I tell her, setting the wine on the counter. “Those limes have been traumatized.”
“They’re juiced, aren’t they?” Juno says. “That’s the goal.” She looks past me to Molly with an open, easy smile. “Hi, I’m Juno.”
“Molly Baldwin.” Molly sets the champagne down and takes in the kitchen, appreciating a good space. “This house is insane, by the way. Not in a crazy, serial killer way though.”
“Right?” Juno says. “I keep waiting to get used to it.”
Birdie opens the bottle of wine I brought, pouring two glasses before passing them over.
Molly accepts it and takes a sip, humming with appreciation. Her eyes go to the label. “Is that Arvendale?”
“Yeah… I picked up a few bottles.”
Molly looks at me. “When did you go there, you snake? And you didn’t invite me?”
I flush because that’s sort of me and Molly’s thing, and she has no clue I was there with Locke. She doesn’t know anything about Locke for that matter, and I still have to figure out how to handle that, as in what I can and can’t tell her—and there are definitely things to tell her.