by Holly Hall
I pushed my notepad aside and folded my hands. I was no therapist, but I recognized something in her that brought out my inner big sister.
“Have you considered that changing your appearance might only be a short-term solution? You’ll attract Gregory, sure, but there’s a reason it hasn’t worked out with those women in the past. Perhaps he’s found something different in you, something that drew him to you in the first place that makes him hope for an outcome he hasn’t seen yet.”
Rebecca blinked at me. Maybe she expected me to be gung-ho about her plans to hook this Gregory character, and now that I was poking holes in her scheme, she was taken aback.
“I thought you were supposed to tell me how to get the guy. Gemma told me you were a Relationship Consultant.”
“Right. Relationship Consultant.” I emphasized the word. “And as your RC, I want lasting results for you. Anyone can tell you you’ll attract a wide variety of men off the street with gorgeous hair, ‘perfect’ skin, and a wardrobe that fits like a condom. Not that there’s anything wrong with all that. Live your best life, girlfriend! But if you’re going to spend time and money on our services, I want to make sure you’re getting the maximum return for your investment. You could find someone to keep you warm this winter, but I suspect that’s not all you want. Am I correct in thinking that?”
Realization came over her features, and she straightened her spine. “Yes, I guess you are.”
“Like I said earlier, there’s something in you that made Gregory take a second look. So tell me more about him, will you? Then we’ll figure out what that is and what we can do to keep serving it up.”
I walked a smiling Rebecca, now equipped with her next set of relationship objectives, out of the coffee shop and began the trek back to LoveLeigh headquarters. Just as I was approaching the brick building that housed our office space, the purposeful click-clacking of heels on the sidewalk made me look up from my planner. It was a woman dressed impeccably in wide-leg pants, a top that made her waist look nonexistent, and shoes with a heel that could pierce flesh (and were probably purchased for that very reason).
Janelle Harrigan.
My steps lagged. The office wasn’t meant to be client-facing, for many reasons. Leigh had over a million followers online, and her target audience was . . . passionate, for lack of a better word. She was regularly recognized around the city and stopped for photo-ops and impromptu advice. On the other hand, there was a cohort of skeptics who only wanted to tear her down.
Add in the fact that Leigh wasn’t aware of my working with her clients beyond the standard consults, something I wanted to keep well below her radar, and I was struck speechless by Janelle’s arrival.
“I know we’re scheduled to meet tomorrow, but I was in the neighborhood and simply couldn’t wait to hear an update on our subject,” she said smoothly. Subject meaning Pierce.
I stepped out of the flow of foot-traffic, closer to the building and farther from view of the glass doors. “I don’t think he’ll be jumping back into the dating market anytime soon.”
Janelle ran a manicured finger over her smirking red lips. “I so wish I’d been there to see it. You have to tell me everything.”
“Your info-dump had the desired effect. He was pissed.”
“Did he look frazzled by the news that I knew what he was up to on his ‘work trips’?”
“Frazzled, shocked, bewildered. I thought he was going to punch out a window.”
“Arrogant bastard. Who knew turning the tables on him would be so satisfying?” Her tone was like silk, but I sensed the poison beneath her words. It was terrifying. Women like her, with unlimited resources and a penchant for scheming, scared me a little. If I’d done my job correctly, Pierce would feel the same.
“I hope you won’t be mentioning anything about our . . . project . . . during future consultations. If you still plan on using us, that is,” I finished hurriedly.
“Of course I do. Pierce might’ve been a dud, but I’m not giving up on you finding the perfect match for me.”
“You find the match, I set the hook,” I reminded her. After all, I wasn’t a matchmaker. If I were, maybe I’d feel a little nobler about my position.
“And you do it so well. Which is why”—she dug through her cavernous Goyard tote before producing an envelope, which she extended to me—“you’ll be treating yourself to whatever services you desire at the finest med-spa in Chicago.”
I shook my head like I’d been ambushed by a cloud of gnats. “Oh no, I can’t accept that. I wouldn’t dream of taking payment for this sort of . . . work.” Work was a laughable word for it.
“Then consider it an early Christmas gift. I insist.”
“It’s April.”
She waved the envelope between long fingers. “Whatever makes you feel better about it. Please. It’s the least I can do.”
I finally accepted the envelope, anything to make her disappear from the front steps of my office, and shoved it into my bag. “That was so not necessary, but thank you,” I said, but Janelle was already slipping on a chic pair of sunglasses.
“I’ll be contacting you soon for our next consult.”
“Do you already have someone in mind?”
A row of flawless veneers flashed as she grinned. “I’m sure I will soon. Good bye, Ava.”
I was still feeling the aftershocks of her unannounced appearance, but those were tempered when I noticed one of my coworkers beneath the front awning, smoking a cigarette. Leigh’s snide assistant. She looked away like she hadn’t been watching.
“Lora,” I greeted as I approached, scanning her blasé expression. “I didn’t know you smoked.”
“I didn’t know you met clients at the office.”
“Oh, that?” I waved a hand in the direction Janelle had gone, scrambling for an explanation and wishing I could embody the same attitude she’d had. “She happened to be in the neighborhood. We just ran into each other.”
“Interesting.”
“Anyway, enjoy . . . that.” I gestured vaguely toward her cigarette before ducking inside, my footsteps tapping a frantic beat down the concrete hallway to our office. I mentally combed through the conversation that’d just transpired, trying to think of anything I’d said that could provide damning evidence against me. Leigh’s overall image was positivity, and I couldn’t imagine her reacting well to my helping clients deconstruct the same relationships I’d helped build.
I pushed through the next door and slammed right smack into someone’s B-cups, yelping. Leigh Everstone stared unflinchingly down at me. She narrowed her eyes, probably would’ve full-on frowned if she hadn’t recently touched up her Botox, and brushed imaginary lint off the front of her blouse.
“You’re jumpy today,” she said as one of LoveLeigh’s photographers snapped to her side like a magnet, struggling under the weight of countless garment bags.
“I just had coffee. Too much, by the looks of it,” I said with a nervous laugh. I stepped out of her way and willed myself to disappear behind the faux topiary flanking the door.
She checked her watch. “I wish you’d been back in the office quicker. I would’ve loved to review your notes for the day, but we have to shoot these looks for the Winter Wardrobe post.”
“I can email them to you?”
“That’ll have to suffice, but just for today. Make sure your next consults don’t run over the time we’ve allotted in your schedule.” Leigh brushed past me and through the door, calling over her shoulder as she walked away, “Remember our word of 2019? Efficiency. Be efficient.” Then she disappeared around the corner, the photographer trailing behind her, and I was effectively dismissed.
I made the walk of shame through the open-plan office and to my chair, feeling like the temperature had raised twenty degrees. The community tables in the center of the room fostered Leigh’s vision of collaboration and togetherness, and also ensured any passive-aggressive chastising took place in front of the entire staff. I suspected she us
ed the absence of barriers to spy on us and exert her control. Leigh ran her office with an iron, albeit flawlessly manicured, fist.
Eduardo “Eddie” Quintanilla, the graphic designer who worked across the table, shielded a wide-eyed look of annoyance from the rest of the office. “Is she PMSing, or is it just another Tuesday in the Everstone dictatorship?”
I wiped my forehead in response. I did my best to toe the line, engage in as little gossip as possible and work like an animal during office hours, but I’d learned three years ago, when my time at LLL had begun, that meeting Leigh’s expectations was near impossible.
But I needed to achieve that here: the impossible. If I ever expected to move on and get a positive recommendation from Leigh, it would come down to the work I put in now. In the trenches.
So I spent the rest of the day keeping my head down, finishing up my summarization of the day’s tasks, and tried not to count down the minutes until happy hour.
Chapter 4
Ava, three months later
You know those nights when you lie in bed and run through every embarrassing moment in your life? Yeah, that was my routine most days, as if my anxiety needed the extra material. And the time my gorgeous neighbor had to literally pick my ass up off the floor was a recurring one.
Needless to say, for the past few months I’d made sure not to loiter in the communal areas of our building so I wouldn’t run into him and remind him, and me, of that moment.
It wasn’t that he wasn’t easy on the eyes. That jawline that could’ve been hand-carved by Italian sculptors, messy hair that begged to be raked through, crafted biceps that hinted at a gym obsession—it all inspired visions in my head that would make the most libidinous of people blush. But I couldn’t handle another encounter like that one.
Now it was a Sunday night, and I was primed for relaxation. Until, on the way to my pint of low-cal, pitiful excuse for ice cream, I was reminded by the two stuffed bags in the entryway that I’d once again put off doing laundry and didn’t have anything but a wacky Christmas sweater to wear to work this week. I never learned.
After begrudgingly tossing bottles of detergent and stain-spray into one laundry bag, I slung both over my shoulders and made the trek to the community laundry room. There was probably an article floating around Facebook warning against going to these sorts of areas late at night, but I couldn’t think of anyone who’d want to go up against my bottle of Shout.
I tossed the first load in, then started the machine and hoisted myself on top of it—no easy feat, considering my stature. There was suspiciously bad phone service in here, so I’d loaded my e-reader with romance novels and tried not to think of my overflowing work inbox. I could go upstairs and work between loads, but the promise of reading about the action that was noticeably absent from my own personal life was too enticing.
Then I heard commotion from the hallway. There was no way to see, from where I was sitting, but it sounded like a struggle. A potential murderer on the prowl? I’d just armed myself with my Shout when a basket came around the corner.
A basket carried by none other than Hot Neighbor.
Seriously? The look on his face when we made eye-contact told me I’d said it aloud, and I replaced my look of dismay with a quick smile.
“Sorry to interrupt,” he said. “Laundry day.”
“Mine too. I mean, not really. I don’t get around to it very often, but when I do—” My mouth snapped shut. I was rambling again and he was smirking at me again. His smile made me stupid. Or maybe it was just his face, or his presence in general, that did that.
“No more sumo suit?” he asked, feigning disappointment.
I winced. There it was: the reminder of my mortification. “Nope. Just regular ol’ me.”
“Regular you, huh?” He managed to dump a load into one of the washers while he appraised my chosen attire of sweats and a baggy t-shirt. Pouring detergent claimed his attention next, so I was no longer the subject of his knee-weakening scrutiny. “So, why the late-night laundry session?” he continued.
“I don’t have any clean clothes.”
“Why so late at night?”
I shook my head. I was really making a fool of myself. “I’ve been busy, so I put it off as long as possible, but I ran out of underwear.”
Bringing up my underwear. Smooth.
“I feel you. Not the safest choice, though, for a girl such as yourself.”
A girl such as myself? I wanted to ask. But instead, I held up my bottle of Shout. “I have this.”
“The stains don’t stand a chance.” He chuckled. Clearly amused, he propped a hip against the machine. “What do you do for work?”
I cringed. People got all weird when I told them about my job, so I usually avoided it. Might as well give him the short, inadequate, not-at-all-descriptive version.
“It has to do with dating.”
Instead of giving me that pursed-lip, judgy face, he appeared genuinely interested. “So you’re an expert on the subject?”
“What gave you that impression, the sumo suit?” Yep, that again, the thing-I-swore-I’d-never-talk-about. I laughed nervously. “In my field, I guess you could say I’m pretty good at what I do.”
“And outside of it?”
“Outside of what?”
“Your field.”
I barely stopped myself from spilling my entire dating history. His relaxed body language and piqued interest challenged everything I thought I knew about him. Which wasn’t much, but I’d concluded he was a certain type of man who didn’t give a rat’s ass about my dating life.
Reading people, being able to discern what a prospect wanted from my clients after simply analyzing their attributes, was one thing that helped me excel in a position I’d never prepared for. I could emphasize my client’s complementary qualities and turn them into their significant other’s better half. I had a hard time, however, applying those same skills to myself. So it was in my best interest not to say too much too soon and instead do the due-diligence. Observe, analyze, deliver.
“The jury’s still out on that,” I said simply, looking down at my e-reader. I couldn’t compute what I was reading through the clouds of cotton-candy lust fogging my brain, but I was giving off the air of indifference. And when I stole a peek at him, he was smirking to himself.
“So is that what you were up to the last time I saw you? When you were at your work thing?”
Heat climbed my ears. He’d remembered. “You could say that.”
“How’d it go? The costume was well-received, I assume.”
“It went well.” But not for Pierce. I bit back a smile. “But you’d caught me at the end of my day. I was exhausted and cursing my choice of attire.”
He gave a thoughtful nod. “And I didn’t have the decency to introduce myself. We’ve been neighbors for at least a few months, and I haven’t learned your name.”
“Ava,” I said. At least that answer was easy.
“Ava. . .”
“Wynn.”
“Nice to meet you, Ava Wynn. I’m Theo.”
“Theo. . .” I mimicked.
“Hartley.”
“Nice to meet you, Theo Hartley.”
He nodded politely and dumped a load of towels into a second washer. A few of them went tumbling to the floor, and as he scooped them up in a wad, a pair of black lace panties flopped out one side. I didn’t think he noticed. He just threw them in and shut the lid. But that one pair of panties was enough to drag my thoughts out of the fuzz and fluff he’d filled my brain with and redirect them to my next conclusion.
No way could Theo Hartley not have a girlfriend. Or a wife. Damn. I didn’t even check for a ring.
I pretended I was busy on my e-reader, and Theo went upstairs to go do something after making me promise to yell for him if someone tried stealing his things. Although, why they’d want a shitload of towels and a pair of used panties, I had no idea.
My clothes eventually finished and I loaded up my bags. If I
hurried, I could make it upstairs before they wrinkled.
I grabbed my bottle of detergent and was just hoisting the bags over my shoulder when Theo rounded the corner.
“You need any help?”
Yes. No. Remember the panties.
“No,” I said. “Thanks. Enjoy your, uh, evening.” Just as I was headed out the door, a slight riiiiiiiiip made me halt in my tracks.
No. No way was this happening.
I tried to bring the splitting bag around my shoulder so I could use both arms to carry it, thus keeping all my garments contained, but it was too late. I felt the fabric give way, and my clean clothes spilled onto the floor along with what remained of my pride.
“The laundry gods want you to know chivalry isn’t dead,” Theo cracked, and before I could do or say anything, he’d knelt on the floor and started piling my things into his basket.
Which reminded me he’d soon be getting up close and personal with my lacy underthings.
I did my best to grab them all before he could, balling them up along with my ruined bag, and he had the good sense not to say anything about it. We rode the elevator in silence, and after unlocking my door and throwing all my weight against it to get it unstuck, he propped the basket against the adjacent wall.
“That door still giving you trouble?”
“I look at it as an added safety feature.” I breezed through and tossed my undies into my room so we could get this over with.
“Or a hindrance, if you need to get inside in a hurry.”
Was that . . . concern in his eyes? I felt my heart soften into a pile of mush. Stupid, ignorant heart. I forced a casual shrug. “Tomato, tomahto.”
“Where do you want these?” he asked, nodding to the basket.
“Just dump them on the couch. And thank you. If it weren’t for you, I would’ve had to carry them up in my dish rack or something.”
He lifted the basket. “In that case, can I take these back down so you can try? I would’ve loved to see that.” My laugh came out as a strangled grunt. After dumping my clothes on the couch, he paused on his way out. “We should get a drink sometime. You know, in the spirit of getting to know your neighbor and all.”