Page 112 of The Sebastian Guarantee
“I think Madelyn knows about everything.” He handed her the hot dog and tossed the bag into a nearby trash can. “I figured you’d be hungry or freaking out when you got here. Either way, I knew if I had a hot dog on hand—or four food trucks’ worth—we’d be good.” He peeled the foil and handed her the half-wrapped dog.
She stared at it. “Ketchup, mustard, and lettuce.”
“Your love-match hot dog. Hank says it’s his bestseller.”
This was too much, and barely anything the man was saying made sense. Why had he gone to all this trouble? She hadn’t secured funding for Go Girl. She checked her watch. She had less than ten minutes before LETIS Live started.
“Sebastian, I’ve got to go. I’m pitching Go Girl. There’s no more Munch Match. Well, that’s not completely true. Munch Match will continue to exist, but the algorithm isn’t just mine anymore. I made it open-source.”
He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “I know. I had about thirty-seven tech-savvy girls explaining what that meant. They were giddy with excitement.”
Phoebe cocked her head to the side, unsure how to unpack that statement. “Shouldn’t you be preparing for LETIS Live, too? Your dad told me you’re pitching an idea. I figured it was . . .”
“The Sebastian Guarantee?”
She nodded.
“In a way, it is.”
She couldn’t handle any more cagey, bizarro-world answers. “Listen, I don’t know why you’re dressed as a hot dog. I don’t understand why these kids are wearing shirts with my concept on them. I haven’t even pitched the idea.”
“Yes, you have,” came a woman’s voice. “And it was one heck of a pitch.”
Phoebe recognized it and spun around. “Mae?” But it wasn’t only Mae Edwards from Glenn Pines heading her way. The whole quilting crew was with her. “Enid, Theodora, Shirley—what are you doing here?”
“We’re LETIS sponsors,” Theodora answered.
Phoebe chewed her lip. “Your quilting group is a LETIS sponsor?”
“Quilting is our hobby,” Enid explained. “We picked it up when we lived about a hundred miles east of Denver.”
Phoebe’s pulse raced. “The town of Stratlin is about one hundred miles east of Denver.”
“That’s right,” Shirley replied.
“Oh my gosh,” Phoebe breathed. Her heart was ready to beat itself out of her chest. She studied the women as the image from the glass case at Stratlin High popped into her head. Two women were standing on her mother’s right and two on her left. Phoebe took a step back. It was as if she was looking at the future version of that photo. “Shirley, Theodora, Enid, and Mae. S,T,E,M.” Phoebe gasped. “You’re the STEM teachers in the picture with my mother, and I have a sneaking suspicion you’re also the minds behind STEM Development.”
Mae patted Sebastian’s arm. “She put that together a heck of a lot quicker than you did.”
Phoebe slid her gaze to the giant hot dog.
“That doesn’t surprise me. Phoebe Gale is the smartest woman I know,” he answered.
“And this must be Phoebe!Trés jolie! Very lovely!” came another voice—with a French accent—and a woman dressed to the nines joined them. “And look, Claudette, she is wearing a beret.Trés chic.”
“It is like it was meant to be,n’est-ce pas?” a carbon copy of the first woman crooned. “Nice work, Sebastian.”
Where the heck did two stylish French women fit into the mix?
Phoebe glanced between the identical twins, then jammed the hot dog into her mouth. Sebastian was right. She sure as hell needed a freak-out frank. She swallowed the colossal bite. “Do I know you?”
“We have not met. I am Bernadette Marieuse, and this is my sister, Claudette Marieuse.”
Phoebe looked between the women. “Marieuse?”
“Oui,” the women replied in unison.
“I may be a little rusty—I took French in high school—but doesn’t your last name translate tomatchmakerin English?”
