“It would have dragged things out, though,” Counselor chimes in, her voice sympathetic. “Sometimes it’s worth the cost to be done with someone—for your peace of mind.”

“Exactly.” There’s a defeated note in Claire’s voice that makes me dislike Keith even more than I already do. “He knows what the right thing to do is, and if he were the person I married, he would do it. But I spent the last year begging him to give a shit about me. I’m never asking him for anything ever again.” She laughs, but it’s bitter and cold, out of place in the warmth and light of the coffee shop. “So unless he pops up and offers me thirty grand out of the goodness of his heart, I’ll be working summers. I’m okay with that.”

Counselor lets out a low whistle. “Thirty?”

“Almost. Twenty-seven and change,” Claire responds. “If the 5K fundraiser works for the school, I’ll hold one for me. Make T-shirts that say Help, I’m Poor, and My Ex Is an Ass.”

The other women laugh, and the conversation moves back to fundraising. This new information is all I can think about. Before too long, the others are standing up and hugging goodbye. I expect Claire to go with them, but she doesn’t. She stays at the table, scrolling through her phone, for another ten minutes or so. When she finally rises to leave, I debate whether I should say hello or not. After sitting here this whole time, it feels a bit odd to greet her now.

Claire’s key ring, which is clipped to the zipper of her bag, snags the back of the chair. The zipper opens partway, an assortment of items avalanching to the ground.

“Shit,” she mutters.

I’m already up and moving, rounding the fig tree barrier. Kneeling to gather her things, I offer an “I’ll help” as I do just that.

Claire does a double take. “Shane?” Then she returns her focus to the pennies she’s picking up off the floor. “I thought I saw you in line earlier, but I wasn’t sure.” Sitting back on her heels, she gives me a sheepish grin as she takes pens, assorted hair ties, and a mini bottle of hand sanitizer from me. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in casual clothes. It’s a good look.”

The compliment throws me off, eliminating any chance of saying something witty. My brain is too busy trying to remember what I’m wearing and catalog it for the future—just in case.

Black jeans, flannel, jean jacket, boots.

Say something.

“Thanks.” Offer some sort of reciprocal compliment. “I like your bag.”

I wasn’t joking, but Claire laughs like I was. Removing her keys from the zipper, she zips her bag shut again.

“Thanks for this.” She gestures at the now-bare floor between us. “Hunting down runaway pens is less embarrassing with company.” Rising, she brushes her hands off on her leggings.

I follow suit, rubbing my hands on my jeans. “Happy to hunt with you anytime.”

Fuck.

Poor choice of words. Her gaze is curious, as if she’s trying to figure me out, but then she smiles, cheeks turning pink. “I’ll do my best not to fling anything else on the ground.”

Nodding at her quip, I try not to get lost in the crinkles at the corners of her eyes. I like them, and the way her smile doesn’t only move her mouth, but her whole face. “So, how have you been?”

She just got divorced, that’s how she’s been.

Get it together.

“I’ve been good, but I won’t be if I don’t hurry. I’m supposed to help my roommate decorate for her niece’s birthday party. She’s turning thirteen, so we’re going all out. Streamers, fairy lights, oh gosh, we’re building this photo corner so she can take pictures with her friends—” Cutting herself off mid-ramble, she flushes deeper. “Sorry, got a little carried away there.”

Her bashfulness eases my tension, makes me want to smile at her. “Don’t apologize. Thirteenth birthdays are serious business.”

“They really are.” She starts to say something else but stops when her phone chimes.

“Being summoned for decorating duty?”

Claire pulls her phone from her jacket pocket, checks the screen, and snorts. “You tell me.” She holds the phone so I can see a photo of an enormous pile of what looks like junk. There’s fabric, PVC pipe, the previously mentioned fairy lights, and a dozen other items. Below the picture is a single text reading, SOS.

I chuckle. “Looks like you better go, then. It was nice to see you.”

Major understatement.

“You too. Thank you again.” Another criminally endearing smile, and she’s off. Across the coffee shop and out the door, leaving me trying—and failing—not to stare at her ass as she walks away. Forcing myself out of my Claire’s-ass-in-leggings-induced trance, I start back to my table to gather my things. There’s a glint of silver beside one of the planters. It’s a lipstick, Claire’s, missed when we picked up her items. Pocketing the cosmetic, I return to my table and shove my laptop into its case. Maybe I can catch her before she leaves.

The cold air stings my face as I hurry from the coffee shop. Claire’s truck is gone, her parking spot already occupied by a BMW.

Fuck.

Back in my SUV, I contemplate my conversation with Claire—and what I overheard before it. Keith fucked her over financially, and she has debt. The idea is so obvious I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. I hired professionals to explore this “kink awakening,” and while that was a lackluster experience, it would be different with Claire. I know it. I could offer her enough money to pay off her student loans.

Or just ask her out.

The traditional route is tempting, but only for a second. There are too many variables involved with dating. Every romantic relationship I’ve been in has been brief, and I’m aware that shortcomings in my interpersonal skills contributed largely to their demise. A business arrangement, however…Creating a contract with no room for confusion, all the rules stated in black and white is the perfect solution. It won’t matter if I stay at the office till all hours, can’t think of something funny to say, or miss some subtle emotional cue, because it’s business. Zero emotions.

My phone vibrates in my jacket pocket, rattling against the lipstick. Claire’s face flashes in my mind. Her smile. The rambling. The way she made scooping change off the floor of a coffee shop enjoyable. I pull my phone and the lipstick from my pocket. The text is from my brother and can wait till I get home. Dropping my phone into the cupholder, I examine the lipstick. It’s well used, the outside of the tube battered, but the circle sticker with the shade name is still legible.

It’s called Wanderlust.

TWELVE Claire

The night on the couch after Shane deticked me is the start of a pattern. For the last week, whether he hunts me that day or not, he invites me to watch an episode of Real Estate Wreck every evening, and I accept. He wasn’t kidding about liking the show; it’s the only thing on his DVR. Sometimes the episodes are great, and we’re immersed in whatever fresh hell the homeowners are dealing with, but when they’re bland, we talk.

It’s day eleven out of thirty, and tonight’s house isn’t much of a wreck. If I’m being honest, it’s miles nicer than Sydney’s and my apartment. I think the “wreck” part is supposed to be the fact that each bedroom is a different shade of green. It’s hard to summon up much empathy for a couple crying over walls the color of split pea soup, which means tonight is a talking night. Gretchen’s off, Margot left earlier, and I feel far more relaxed on the couch than I probably should with a man who is essentially my employer.