Page 28 of Off the Wall

The redhead’s still there, sipping a pink frothy drink. The other one’s hugging her goodbye.

But Nori’s nowhere to be found.

What’s your backstory, Eleanor?

Chapter Nine

Nori

It’s been morethan a week, and I can’t stop thinking about Dr. McBoxer Briefs with Sandra Fulsome. Which is ridiculous. I’ve got way more pressing issues to concern me—like trying to buy the shop. And yet, my brain keeps circling back to how chummy the two of them seemed. How pretty she looked in her sundress.

How many times she touched his arm.

It’s a real problem.

So why am I doing this to myself? Probably because IthoughtCash was in a relationship with the woman from Vincenzo’s. Dr. Margaret Hanson. Maggie. So why would he meet Sandra at Serendipi-Tea? For all I know, he’s dating them both. I mean, the manisallowed to see more than one person at a time, as long as neither of them thinks they’re exclusive.

Either way, his status is none of my business. Still, if my neighbor’s a player, I?—

Nope. Still not your business, Nori.

Except I actually know Sandra. Shouldn’t I warn her?

She was head cheerleader, homecoming queen, and also onthe prom court when I was a freshman. The student body elected her president for two straight years. She got a full-ride scholarship to UMass. Now she’s a physician’s assistant at Springs Memorial.

On second thought, I don’t need to worry about Sandra.

The woman’s clearly thriving.

Meanwhile, I’m sitting in a squeaky chair at Springs Central Bank waiting on a loan officer to render a verdict on my future. Fluorescent lights flicker overhead. The air is thick with the smell of toner. Across from me, Herb Donnelly hunches over his computer. He reminds me of Harry Potter’s uncle, except with bushier eyebrows.

“All right, Ms. Sinclair.” He stops tapping at his keyboard. “I was able to push your application through quickly as a favor to Ms. Baker.” He pauses for a wheeze, and I will myself not to sweat.

“Thank you so much.”

“Yes, of course.” He squints at me through wire-rimmed spectacles. “We’ve reviewed your personal financial information, and we are, in fact, able to approve you for a business loan.”

I almost leap from my chair, but I force my hands to stay folded in my lap. “Well. That’s … that’s wonderful news,” I say, keeping my tone extra-professional.

He peers at the computer again. “You and Ms. Baker agreed to a sales price of two hundred thousand dollars, is that right?”

I nod. “Yes, that’s correct.”

“I concur with that current valuation of the business,” he says. “However …”

My stomach plummets to the cold linoleum floor.

I hate a poorly placed “however.”

“However what?” I gulp.

“Based on your personal tax returns, your bankstatements, and your most recent credit report, we’re capping your loan at $190,000.” He sniffs. “Which means you’ve got a gap.”

“Oh.” My stomach starts digging through the linoleum straight into the earth’s crust.

“Under these circumstances,” he continues, “our borrowers typically make up the difference themselves.”

“I do have some savings,” I admit, but I sound like I’m being strangled. “I was counting on that to be a cushion, though.” You know, for silly things like rent. And food.

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