Page 67 of How To Plot a Payback

One corner of his mouth lifts. “Oh look, there’s a hot-dog stand. Oh, I’d better go add more sunscreen.”

I laugh a little. “You do not.”

He puts a hand on his heart. “I once raced my eight-year-old niece for the ladder and elbowed her out of the way. I played it off like it was a game—ha-ha, the good uncle playing with the kiddos—but I was dead serious.”

I give a hearty laugh then, and for a moment I can just see Finn Masters duking it out with some innocent girl barely treading water, while the parents’ barbecue sizzles.

I feel his hand pat my shoulder as he stands.

“I’ll take care of it. And you ought to get out of here before Bernie eats all your shoes.”

“I really will make sure to take the fall for this,” I say, following Finn as he goes to the door. “I can call Goodwin now, in fact, and—”

He pauses me with a lift of his finger.

“About that. Could you do me a favor?” Finn says, hand on the door.

“Sure. Anything.”

“Don’t talk to Goodwin. No matter what. Just please. Let’s leave this between you and me.”

I close my mouth.

“Sure,” I say slowly, feeling the hairs on the back of my neck rise as I look into his eyes. “Between you and me it is.”

Chapter 14

Finn

“And then she says to me, ‘I’m sorry. I don’t date people who don’t care about their bodies.’”

My friend (and former colleague on Higher Stakes), Chris, is talking. I yawn as Miles races around the edge of the dog park with some golden retriever, then reach for my tea beneath the bench. This is my Saturday. The way my Saturday mornings have gone the past several years, in fact. Only, usually I run Miles from my flat to the dog park. Today it was a slow walk accompanied by the nostalgic, bitter taste of my PG Tips. Because for the fifth day in a row, we’ve gone to midnight.

It’s my own fault, so I’m not complaining.

I had no idea the woman was petrified of poultry. When I first scoured the Internet, I was hunting for something that would parallel to a degree the pain she’d caused me. Not full-blown revenge. Just a little payback to help mend my past wounds. Something for a rainy day to think back on fondly. Has she ruined every possible facet of my life? Yes, but remember her being uncomfortable in a tub of chickens.

But then she went white as a sheet and conked out for half an hour.

And really, how could I possibly be surprised?

She’s so good at ruining my life that of course I should’ve suspected she could ruin my payback. Take all the fun out of it and leave me to another week of working to the bone, trying to fix the problems this has caused.

Brilliant. Just positively smashing.

As I take another gulp, it comes to my awareness that Chris is still here, awaiting my reply. I pop the lid shut. Set the tea back down.

“It was an all-you-can-eat soup and salad bar,” Chris retorts. “Someone eating five bowls of tortellini is literally part of their commercials. Not to mention, I’m here after all. At a park on Saturday. Outside. Caring about my health.”

I nod, but my eyes flicker to the fried-chicken waffle sandwich in his hand. He picked it off the food truck on our way in. “How very . . . unfair,” I say flatly.

He takes a bite and speaks through a mouthful. “I was on a date once with a woman who was impressed I could eat that much. We made it a competition.”

“Sounds like you should circle back to her then,” I say.

“Anyway.” He sits back, giving a distracted pat on the back to Tarte, the French Bulldog he inherited from a broken relationship.

“Your dog is named Tarte. She’s literally named after food,” I reply.