Page 3 of Show Off

“Nope!” I paste on my perkiest smile and aim for nonchalance. “Just offering to talk to Dal Yang about the community gardens piece. I’m meeting someone for dinner at Serenade tonight, so I can stop by early and?—”

“That’s great, thanks.” My sister scrolls to that field and types in my name. “You’ll have the best luck anyway. He bit my head off last week when I asked him to set up a therapy session.”

That sounds like Dal. “I can mention the therapy thing when I talk to him.” I’ll do no such thing because I want him to like me. “I’ll keep you posted.”

“Put it in the spreadsheet,” she calls as I sashay toward the door. “Nice mug, by the way.”

I glance at the insulated cup in my hand and smile at the cheerful inscription.

Don’t tell me what to do unless you’re naked.

I chug some coffee and mentally scroll through my day. I’ve got a press conference at four and dinner at seven with my favorite reporter from theTodayshow. But for the next few hours, there’s time to kill.

My phone pings in my bag and I fish it out, wincing when I see the screen.

MOM: Call me, baby girl.

Another text popsup while I’m reading that one.

MOM: It’s urgent.

And another.

MOM: Sweetie? I need to hear from you.

I gulp backsome guilt and shove the phone in my bag. Mom can hold her horses.

Or not, since the phone’s ringing now,a buzzy reminder that Shirleen Judson can’t be kept waiting.

With guilt gripping my throat, I send it to voicemail and type out a quick text.

ME: In a meeting. Will call later.

That buys me some time.And no, I’m not worried she’s hurt or hospitalized or has crucial news. Her last “urgent” communication was to let me know Prada released their new summer line.

Summer’s here, with no new Prada in my closet. I smile at my toes in their basic pink flip-flops from Target. My cutoff shorts aren’t the artfully slashed sort that cost a thousand bucks from Balmain, but an old pair of jeans I hacked with my own damn scissors.

Small-town living is my jam.

Never would have guessed it five years ago, back when I poured myself into the hottest couture hoping my dress didn’t invite ass grabs from sleazy directors.

As I stuff the phone in my bag, I realize I’ve marched right past the turnoff to my cabin. That’s what I get for texting and walking.

But hey, here I am, right by the community gardens, and would you look at that—there’s Dal Yang’s bike propped on the fence! It’s a sign. A sign to tackle the next task on my to-do list. Efficiency, baby. Not a lust-starved attempt to stalk the brooding chef, whose Korean-American good looks fill way too many of my fantasies.

I’m just doing my job.

Shifting my mug to the other hand, I survey the sprawling gardens. The plants are too big to see much through the leafy lace of tomato vines and Concord grapes. No sign of Dal’s sleek black hair, his broad shoulders, or those tattooed arms to die for.

It’s an impressive garden. Rows of tall corn march like leaf-covered soldiers toward the open field to the east. There’s squash and beans, all tangled together in lush clusters. Off to the right stands a scarecrow Cooper built to look like Dean. He even dressed it in our brother’s old shirt, which I’m sure Dean’s wife sneaked from their closet.

I pause at the fence to pull a compact from my bag. My makeup looks good, not much to it. Just a little pink gloss and some mascara. Beachy blond waves frame my shoulders and I smile to check if there’s gloss on my teeth. Nope! Perfectly presentable.

A moan cuts the silence and I freeze. That was a moan, right?

Holding my breath, I listen again.

Mmmmhmaamm.

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