Page 13 of Sinner’s Game

“I can reschedule if you need to talk.”

I reach out and squeeze his hand. “I have the greatest friends in the world. Thanks. But I’m fine. Really.”

He eyes me like he knows better.

“Really,” I repeat.

Another moment passes, then he nods slowly. “Okay, but if you need to talk—you need anything—you call me.”

“You got it. And if your lunch date doesn’t turn into after-lunch fun,” I add, grinning as I mimic his earlier words, “you should pop by. Ronan’s coming at four to fix my sink.” I try to sound casual. “If you come by then, we can all have a drink. Maybe I’ll make cookies.”

He hooks an arm around my shoulder and gives me a sideways hug. “Hard to turn down homemade cookies. I’ll try and make it.”

“Cool. No big deal if you can’t.”

“You’re really okay?”

“Fine,” I say, even though it’s not entirely true. But I should be fine, so the answer is close enough to the truth.

He gives me another squeeze, then heads off. I watch him go, hoping he’s really going to come by.

Before, the thought of being with Ronan made me nervous in the good kind of way.

Now I’m afraid I’ll be a stuttering mess. Either that or break out into a lecture on the stupidity of sleeping with sex workers. Which would be bad since it’s none of my business. Not even slightly.

Which begs the question of why he is so completely filling my head. And freakin’ Jacey Kane, too.

A call girl? Seriously?

I draw a deep breath, then take in the area around me, trying to force him from my thoughts by filling my head with something completely different.

This street runs parallel to Pacific Avenue on the south side and is lined with equally charming stores, tasty cafés, and fabulous galleries.

It wasn’t like that when I was a kid growing up here. Back then, Pacific Avenue was the entire universe as far as the Laguna Cortez Arts District was concerned. When I was little, my parents would bring me to the seasonal festivals, and we’d wander through the booths that were set up in the cordoned-off street, then go grab ice cream or a meal at one of the many local restaurants. After, we’d head back to the car, always parked one or two streets over.

In those days, I felt so cherished being out with my parents. My childhood was full of love and laughter, and it wasn’t until I was a teenager that all that changed and being with my parents became a chore. It still is.

Back then, I’d hold both their hands as we strolled Pacific Avenue, but disappointment would wash over me when we had to leave that vibrant street. Daddy would lead us north or south to whichever parallel streets had yielded a parking place. It was like leaving Oz, and I always felt let down when I climbed into the minivan.

Now the Arts District has expanded, and the parallel streets to the north and south of Pacific Avenue are chock full of darling local establishments. There’s more traffic, too, but I’m okay with that because it means that business is booming. And as I pause in front of Vavoom, a new gift shop that commissioned an exclusive tote bag, I can’t help but celebrate consumerism. After all, I’m in two—count ‘em, two—shop windows in the busiest shopping area in town.

I pause, smiling as I take in the bag and my prominently displayed logo—two Bs back to back so that they form a typographic butterfly. Just seeing it makes bubbles of joy flutter inside me.

I’m ridiculously giddy, so much that I want to hold out my arms and twirl down the sidewalk. I rein in the urge. Not only because I’d get strange looks, but also because I’d undoubtedly end up tangling poor Jake in the leash. That and the fact that the boutique is across the street from Pacific Properties, and I really don’t want them reporting back to Mr. Big that his tenant is a ditz.

Even so, I’m totally twirling inside. Because I. Am. A. Successful. Business. Owner.

Seriously. How cool is that?

I take out my phone, then snap a quick picture of the bag with me in the window’s reflection for later posting to social media. As soon as the shutter clicks, though, I realize I’m not alone. I turn, ready for another shopper to rave about my awesome tote, but the man isn’t looking at the bags. Instead, he’s staring straight at me.

“Ms. Bradshaw? Brandy Bradshaw?”

“I—yes?”

“I’m so pleased to have found you.”

I wrack my brain, but I have no idea who this man is. He’s clean-shaven, in his late thirties, and he’s neither attractive nor unattractive. Honestly, if he hadn’t spoken to me, I doubt I would have noticed him at all.