Headphones on.
Laptop out.
Fingers furious against the keys.
I wasn’t a particularly attractive woman. But in Los Angeles, you had to wear armor or you were devoured, and your armor was either that of the huntress or that of the hunted (me). Nice women in between got eaten.
The recently divorced (and deceased) Taylor Fortwood was a huntress, one with six boyfriends (according to her sister) and a two-story living room that could hold my entire house. I had perched on her fabulous red leather couch, sipped a pineapple chai latte served by her butler (yes, abutler), and flipped through a photo album that showed the successful calendar buyer on dream vacations and at celebrity encounters, and lounging with snow leopards alongside two sheiks and a Bentley. Taylor hadn’t been much prettier than me, but she had brimmed with confidence and life, the energy radiating out of every photo and each perfectly chosen piece in her home.
Even her death—a simple blown tire that had led to a fishtail that had careened into oncoming traffic and resulted in a fourteen-car pileup—had been dramatic and impactful. When I died, it’d probably be from an infected toenail, and my obituary writer would struggle to fill the requisite three paragraphs.
As Matchbox Twenty crooned through my headphones—Taylor had toured with them in Germany her sophomore year of college—I reviewed my rough draft of her write-up, which was already pushing six paragraphs, and that was highlighting only the most exciting moments of her life.
Thirty-seven years old. Two years younger than me, yet a million times more interesting. I saved the draft and closed the laptop with a sigh. Slipping the headphones off my head, I took a long sip of my room-temperature coffee.
It was a moment of vulnerability, heightened by a glance around the shop to see what I had missed. And there, sitting just one table over, was David.
If he had been beautiful, I probably wouldn’t have fallen. I would have snapped my gaze back to my table, forced my face into cool disinterest, and worked my headphones over my ears. But David wasn’t beautiful, at least not in the manner that graced magazine covers and cologne ads. He was thin and scruffy, his chin and jaw covered by a wild beard that curled over his lips and matched the tufts of hair that peeked out from the sides of his baseball hat. He wore tortoiseshell glasses and a white T-shirt with board shorts. I stared at the shorts and wondered what grown man wore a bathing suit on a Thursday.
“They come in women’s sizes, if you’re interested.”
I lifted my gaze to his face and blushed. “I’m not interested, thanks.”
“Oh, the bitter sting of rejection.” He cupped his hand to his chest, wounded.
“I have a feeling your shorts will recover.” Why was I still talking? I should have been standing up to gather my trash and put away my laptop. I made a conscious move to lift the green coffee cup with my left hand, clearly exposing the diamond wedding band. Would he notice? Did he even care? Maybe this was just friendly conversation between two adults. I was too out of practice to know.
“I haven’t seen you here before.” He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. He was a few years younger than me. Maybe thirty-five. Maybe as young as thirty-two. His voice held an accent, and my ears played detective with the sounds of it.
I cleared my throat. “Well, you wouldn’t have. I’m not normally in the area. I’m traveling through on business.”
On business. I warmed to the unexpected lie. But what business? Maybe he wouldn’t ask. And anyway, wasn’t I leaving? I should have been leaving.Stand up, Lillian. Stand up right now.
“Ah, business.” He gestured to the computer. “Let me guess. Insurance sales.”
“That’s a very specific guess, but no.” Shit. I needed a business, and my mind grasped wildly at straws.
“Divorce attorney?”
My good mood sank, and I fought to keep the smile on my face. “Not even close.” I grabbed my crumpled napkin and stirrer and he groaned.
“No, don’t do the clean-up-your-table thing. Please. If I don’t get it right on the next guess, then I promise that you can leave.” French, definitely a French accent.
I laughed despite myself. “You’re not going to get it.” And how could he? I didn’t even know it.
“Is it bigger than a bread box?”
“What?” I laughed again, and I was being too loud. Two tables over, a teenager shot me an annoyed expression and rattled her bracelets.
“Twenty questions. It’s a game. I ask you twenty questions about an item, and if I don’t figure out the answer, then I lose. The bread-box question is fairly standard,” he explained, “though the game is normally not about a job.”
“I’m a calendar buyer.” I don’t know why, of all the possible lies, that one came out—except that Taylor Fortwood was still heavy on my mind, and I was still amazed at the idea that selecting calendars for stores to stock was a real job.
He paused, then gave me a rueful look that admitted defeat. “Well. I would have needed more than twenty questions for that.”
“I know. I hate to set someone up for failure.”Okay, Lillian. Stand up. You have your trash, your cup in hand. Stand, slide your laptop into your bag, and go. You’ve been friendly; now it’s time to leave.
“I’m David.” He extended his hand.