Page 26 of The Boyfriend Goal

I absorb the blow, deflecting it. “I did. I wanted to thank you. For letting me into your event the other night.”

Her right eye twitches. Like she doesn’t want to say it wasn’t her choice. “I do so hope you were able to locate your phone. Maybe consider a lanyard or a crossbody bag to attach it to next time. That’s what parents do for young children,” she offers with so much false kindness it’s as impressive as the white pantsuit with the plunging neckline that she wears.

“Great tip. I appreciate it,” I say, trying my best to appear upbeat and undeterred. “I’m here to offer a little thank you gift.”

“You’re going to buy a piece of art? How lovely. Come on now, darling. I’ll show you around.”

“Actually, I can’t.”

“Oh, why not?” It’s asked with so much concern.

Because each piece of this horrid art is over five thousand dollars, you snob. “I don’t have the budget,” I say honestly, then brace myself for the toughest ask of all. It feels like scaling a ten-story wall. In Louboutins. “I was hoping you could give me Wesley’s last name.”

She blinks, peering at me first with utter confusion then villainous delight. “Your date? Your plus-one? The one who likes to surprise you with his fantastic date ideas, so he told you to meet him here?”

She parrots my words back to me so precisely that my stomach twists. I knew this wouldn’t be easy. I didn’t know it would be this hard. Make me feel this small. But she has the moral high ground and the information, so I can’t argue with her. “Yes,” I say, swallowing roughly. “Do you think you could give me his last name?”

I hold out the plant in a peace offering.

“Do you not have it, darling?” Her tone is dripping with concern.

Sadly, I shake my head. “I don’t.”

“Let me see if I can remember it. Hmm.” She sighs, taps her chin, stares at the ceiling. “It’s coming back to me.” She lowers her face, smiles serenely, and says, “His name is…”

I hold my breath. She’s not an evil ice queen after all. She can melt.

“Wesley,” she continues, then mimes typing on a keyboard. “The guy I met at a gallery who doesn’t want to see me again. There. Just put it into Google. Just like that.”

I feel two feet tall. Talk about a slap in the face. I’m reeling as she crosses the distance in her spiky heels, sticking out a bony hand, reaching for the plant. “The bunny ears, please.”

Briefly, I fantasize about flicking my hair, channeling the scarf power even though I’m not wearing it, and saying ever so coolly, “You can find it online. Just search for unkillable plants that even I could kill with my bitchiness.”

But I don’t. Instead, I yank the plant closer to my chest, spin on my heels, and get the hell out of there, race-walking away from her gallery, powered by my own frustration.

It was stupid of me to think that could work. Just foolish to believe I could pull off that kind of request. What’s the point anyway? Frieda’s smack back is probably a sign the one-night stand is supposed to stay a one-night stand.

As I unleash an annoyed sigh, my phone rings. I’m reaching for it when I realize too that my chest feels a little strange—a bit scratchy and uncomfortable. But before I can figure out why, I check the screen. It’s a 415 number from Johnson Properties—that’s the place I’m moving into tomorrow. The landlord probably wants to give me the passcode or something.

“This is Josie,” I answer.

The rough, gravelly voice on the other end says, “Hey, hey, hey, Ms. Winters. This is Barry Johnson. I have some good news and bad news. Which do you want first?”

Probably a broken pipe. Possibly a toilet installed upside-down. I can handle either. “Bad news, of course,” I say.

“Cool. I’ll start with the good news,” he says.

Why did he even ask? “Okay.”

Barry wastes no time. “So it’s more like world’s greatest news since I just signed a sweet deal to sell this building. Ten percent above asking price.”

This is worse than I’d imagined. I feel like I was just dropped out of a plane without a parachute. My stomach bottoms out as I say weakly, “The bad news is I don’t have a place to stay?”

“You are sharp, girlie,” he says with a whistle, like he’s genuinely impressed with me adding up two plus two. “But the other good news is I have a buddy, Donny, who’s got a deal for a short-term rental, just for my referrals. He can lease a one-bedroom to you at a bargain.”

There’s hope on the horizon! “Where? When can I move in? How much?”

“Russian Hill. Sunday, and a helluva deal at $3999 a month.”

---