Page 71 of How To Plot a Payback

And then to my absolute horror, she plants herself directly in front of me, so close that if I but lean in, we could be kissing.

Then she takes my wrist and lifts it, along with the stainless-steel tumbler in my hands, as she tries to look at herself in its reflection.

“I’ve got it,” I say hastily, reaching up and pulling it out of her teeth before she decides to climb inside my coat with me too.

“Thanks,” she says. Chris is behind her, a codfish expression on his face. “Oh, and would you look at that,” she says brightly, turning her attention toward a tree.

She smiles like a proud parent as she bumps my side, watching Miles and that out-of-control puppy rolling together like they’re having the time of their lives. “You were right about this place, Finn. It’s wonderful.”

I haven’t told her about this place. All I said during that awful day of dog coparenting was that her dog would benefit from some socialization, and then I mentioned dog parks are a place to find such a thing. For the sake of her dog’s happiness. Because were it to be left alone with her the rest of its life, it would undoubtedly leap from the top of a third-story building.

There are 181 parks in LA. The odds of running into her here, now, are equal to those of being struck by lightning on a sunny day.

Unless, of course, she is your fate and you’re doomed to spend your life with her.

Bernie jumps up from the ground and barks playfully at Miles, and together they race off toward a tunnel.

Lavender sticks out her bottom lip like she’s just witnessed the most beautiful thing in her life. Somehow in this moment she has slipped her hand behind my back. And now her hand is actually beginning to do circles on my shoulder blade. “This is so precious. We should do puppy playdates.”

I nearly choke on my saliva as I step pointedly out of her grip. “They’re dogs, Lavender. This is what dogs do. Not to mention Miles is eight,” I reply. “My veterinarian—”

“Your old one?” Lavender says.

“—says that’s the equivalent of a seventy-year-old man. Far too old for the two of them to be playing.”

Miles races past us, Bernie tailing close behind.

“I have a dog,” Chris jumps in. He steps between us to put out his hand, shakes hers. “Chris Aggins. Co-exec, Higher Stakes.”

I know what he’s doing.

That obvious-looking bodyguard pretending to be very, very interested in that sign by the gate that says Not Allowed: Dogs in Heat knows what Chris is doing.

Anyone within a ten-mile radius can see what he’s doing.

Well, let me not stand in the way.

I step back, letting him fully take my place.

I feel like I should warn him, but it’s not like he would listen to me anyway.

“Hi.” She shakes his hand, then says, “So you worked with Finn then?”

And then I realize her question’s aimed at him, but her eyes are working around him, to be on me.

Actually, they’re getting closer to me too.

She’s walking around him.

Back to my side.

I’m feeling claustrophobic. She’s doing it again. She’s planes-trains-and-automobiling me. If I don’t get out now, I’ll end up with her Saran-wrapped to me while we watch Casa Laguna burn down as she apologizes over that little mishap with the matches and laughs about how I don’t need the place after all, because isn’t it just a little too far from work anyway?

“Yes,” I say, then holler, “Miles! Come on.”

“Why aren’t the contracts in?” Sonya cuts in, her head snapping up from the phone, apparently done reading through the email. There’s a significant pause, then she squints and adds, “You’re the new guy.”

“Finn Masters,” I say. I make the mistake of automatically putting out my hand—a poor habit. There’s something atrocious about being old-fashioned in a modern town. She looks down at it as if she has never seen nor has any interest in hands. I pull it back and hold the leash.