Page 13 of So Not My Thing
“I’m so sorry,” the voice said as I gasped.
Miles. It was Miles. I’d plowed right into him, and somehow, he was holding two dripping coffee cups and a huge brown stain was spreading across my pristine white shirt.
“Oh, man, seriously, I’m so sorry,” he repeated. “Did it burn you? Are you okay?”
The coffee was seeping through to my skin, and I plucked the fabric away from my body. “It wasn’t hot enough to burn me.”
His phone dinged and he checked his Apple watch. “Uh, that’s from you, canceling on me.”
I refused to feel awkward about it. “Didn’t think you were going to make it.”
“And now I bet you wish I hadn’t. Let’s go get you dried off,” he said.
“It’s fine. I’ve got napkins in my car and a shirt I can change into. Why don’t you look around the space while I clean myself up?”
I didn’t wait for an answer as I continued down the block to my car. I grabbed some napkins and dug into my gym bag where I’d thrown in a black tank top this morning. It was a made of Lycra with white racing stripes down the side, but at least it wasn’t soaked in bean juice.
I walked into the corner Starbucks and caught the barista’s eye, holding up my black tank and pointing to my shirt.
“Four seven one six,” he called, giving me the bathroom code.
I ducked in and stripped my shirt off. There were no paper towels, only an air dryer at the worst possible height for drying my boobs. Next, I dabbed at my damp skin with toilet paper. It disintegrated in my hands and left balled up white tissue lint behind.
“I hate everything.”
Saying it didn’t dry my skin any faster.
Great. Looked like I was getting an early quad workout. I positioned myself in the most awkward possible squat beneath the hand dryer, then kept waving my hands to keep the air going until my chest was mostly dry and the toilet paper lint was gone.
I straightened, my thighs protesting, yanked on my gym top, and tried hard not to storm out, leaving a tip for the barista before I deposited my ruined shirt in my car and headed back to Miles and the property.
“Calm, cool, collected,” I chanted on the trip back up the street. “Calm, cool, collected.” I said it at least fifty times before I reached the door, and even though I didn’t feel remotely collected, I had at least talked myself into faking some calm. I took a deep breath, skirted the coffee puddle on the sidewalk, and walked in.
Miles turned as soon as the door opened. “Elle, hey. Sorry about that. I’ll get your shirt cleaned, no problem.” Today he wore jeans and a short sleeve black shirt that looked tailored to perfection. Without the jacket he’d worn in the office, it was obvious that he put in his gym time.
“I don’t think the coffee will come out.” I turned to scan the space, the epitome of professionalism. “It’s fine. I’ve got other shirts.”
“Then I’ll replace it. Let me make it up to you. Can you text me your size?”
There was a time when having Miles Crowe’s personal number would have meanteverythingto me. Fourteen-year-old Gabi could both imagine Miles asking her to marry him in a huge romantic ceremony where he sang a song he’d written for her and also could never have imagined a moment in which he’d be offering to buy her a new shirt.
Elle did not care about either of these things.Calm, cool, collected. Get this guy to drop you.
“That’s not necessary,” I told him. “Let’s talk about the property.”
He studied me for a second, hesitating. His shirt made his eyes bluer. I refused to look away, but I wanted to. He cleared his throat. “I think you might still be mad, and I get it. I was late, and I ruined your shirt. I feel so bad. Like, terrible.”
He sounded...sincere? Well, he should. Not that it mattered. He wouldn’t be my headache much longer. I needed to redirect this meeting and get it over with so I could go home and change.
You are grace personified, I reminded myself as self-consciousness over my gym top crept in.I did the swan thing with my neck, reclaiming my composure.
“Oh no, did it burn your neck?” he asked.
I quit stretching my neck and fought a blush. “No, it’s fine. Look, if we’re going to work together, you’re going to have to be on time. I have other clients and responsibilities.” There. That should tick him right off.
“Understood. I’m so sorry about this morning. I stopped to get us the coffee at this place around the corner, and I had no idea it would take so long. I didn’t even bring Aaron today because he runs late constantly, and I still didn’t make it on time. I feel terrible,” he repeated. “For Tuesday too. Couldn’t get Aaron out of the door.”
“Then fire him,” I said because I found myself almost believing his apology. “If he can’t keep an appointment, you should find a manager who can.”
