Page 21 of Single Mom's Guide to Love

It would make sense. I’ve kept the move quiet because it’s not yet announced publicly that I’m moving from California to Nashville. I was starting to feel stifled out west, and Kat thought it would be a good idea to move part of the operations to the southern part of the country, to hedge bets against environmental catastrophes and bad weather. But we didn’t want to make a big scene out of it. Building permits were filed under Kat’s name. My board of directors hasn’t leaked it. And no one who has worked on the house has violated their NDAs.

I didn’t know how Kat was communicating with contractors that needed to come in for jobs, but I’m guessing she was going with the premise that the least amount of information the better. And no, it’s not Kat’s job as my publicist—or as my temporary assistant until I can find one in Tennessee—to be my liaison in home building, but as my best friend, she’s taken it as her mission to make sure that I’m living in a space that reflects my status in the business and tech world.

Actually, I believe her exact words were “you’re not a gamer nerd in the dorms anymore. You need to fucking act like it.”

But since I couldn’t give two shits how my new home was decorated, I relented and told Kat to find someone to handle it, but that I didn’t want to be a part of it. She insisted that I needed to make some decisions personally. I then told her to please handle it herself if she was so insistent on it. She again said it was my house and I needed to pick out the flooring.

So she scheduled the appointment.

I made her cancel it.

She scheduled it again.

Rinse and repeat.

All of this happening, I’m guessing, under her legal and professional name, Katherine Smith.

A very generic sounding name.

Selfishly, I didn’t think about how this would affect the designer. Or, if my guess is right, the woman sitting next to me who I experimented in exhibitionism with.

“Fascinating,” I say as I swallow the lump in my throat. “And you said they keep canceling?”

This is the only line of questioning I can think of to make sure I’m not jumping to conclusions.

She nods. “Six times. Today’s email is the sixth cancellation.”

Fuck, it’s up to six? I’ve canceled on this woman six times? I’d throw a lot more than a phone if I were on the other side of my actions.

Also, I could have met her months ago. Damnit. But you know what? That’s my punishment. I canceled, therefore I was denied meeting the woman I’m becoming more and more transfixed with by the second.

“Did they say why?”

She shakes her head. “Never. Just some bullshit about a scheduling conflict.”

“I’m sure they feel bad about it.”

Since I’ve known Maeve, which is now a total of twenty-four hours, I’ve seen her in varying degrees of anger. There’s been annoyed anger, mock anger, and frustrated anger. But now? I don’t know if it was the words I just said or the actions she didn’t know I’ve done, this is downright pissed off.

“I don’t want to fucking hear it,” she snaps. “My time is just as valuable as this phantom person’s. And you know what? I’ve been nice and not charging them missed appointment fees, but I’m about to. Do you know how many clients I might have missed out on because they can’t be bothered to keep a fucking meeting?”

She stops like I’m supposed to answer the question, so I do, guilt prickling my skin. “A lot?”

Her eyes crinkle at my attempt at a genuine, albeit hypothetical, answer. “Yes, a lot. I have about half a mind to email this Katherine Smith back and tell her that her client can pay me a stupid amount of money for the cancellations and that I’m done.”

Yup. There it is. Katherine Smith.

No need for an internet forum to tell me what I already know…I am, indeed, the asshole.

And an even bigger one because I’m not going to tell her.

Not yet, at least.

“Done? You’re really going to put your foot down?”

“Yup,” she says confidently. “They can find someone else to decorate this unknown home.”

Well, that’s not going to happen.

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