Page 49 of Misfortune and Mr. Right

“Gotcha. I can just pop by the office to get everything on my way home.”

“Don’t bother,” she says. Her tone isn’t angry, but it’s curt. “They’re about to lock up our floor. I’m leaving now. I can bring everything to you on my way to Lynette’s. I’m staying with my niece, Cassidy, tonight. Do your parents still live in the same place? It’s on my way.”

“Yes. They do,” I say. “But you’ll need the gate code.”

Did I hear that correctly? Olivia is coming here?

“Send me the code. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me. Just look at this as a debt you now owe me.”

I can’t help myself. I chuckle. She’s so resilient. And feisty. I admire Olivia more than I’ve ever been able to say to her. If I told her, she’d laugh me out of the state. I’ll just have to show her over time—if I can manage not to put my foot in it every single opportunity I get. Unfortunately, I don’t know if I’m capable of common sense when it comes to her, let alone the kinds of responses it will take to convince her I think the world of her.

The scales are uneven after I bailed her out this morning. We both know it. As much as I love winning, I detest situations where she’s at a loss.

“Got it. I’m in your debt,” I say.

The phone line goes dead.

I glance around the foyer.

An idea forms. Something I can do for Olivia. I just have to figure out a way to make this happen. Gil will have to help me.

Chapter Thirteen

Olivia

"Will you walk into my parlour?"

said a spider to a fly;

"'Tis the prettiest little parlour

that ever you did spy.”

~ Mary Howitt

Fifteen minutesafter hanging up with Logan, I’m punching in the gate code at the base of the driveway. The ornate wrought iron gate slides open. I drive through and follow the curve around past the front door to the guest parking spaces. Yes. They have three spaces just past the four-car garage, their own mini parking lot.

Glancing up at the stately three-story home, I remember the last time I was here. Our senior year in high school, Logan’s parents hosted a graduation party. It was catered—tray-passed appetizers, rolled towels stacked by the pool out back, a non-alcoholic bar where students could order mocktails.Soover the top. Amazing, but also a poignant reminder that Logan and I come from two different worlds even though we started out as neighbors.

This is the last place I want to be after the humiliation of my botched presentation this morning. I grab everything Logan left at the office and stride to the door, determined to make this as quick as possible. Drop off the box. Get in my car. Drive away. Simple.

I walk up the steps and prop the box on my hip. I’m about to knock when I’m stopped by a heated exchange just on the other side of the door. I hover near the threshold, unsure if I should knock or wait. Maybe I should just leave the box on the porch and go.

“You can’t just keep mooching off Mom and Dad forever!” Logan’s voice cuts through the air, sharp and obviously at the end of his rope. He’s not yelling. It’s like he’s trying to control his volume, but he’d yell if he could.

“Oh, lighten up, Mr. Perfect. Not all of us can be the golden child,” another voice says, full of smugness and dripping with sarcasm.Jacob.

I’m frozen, my feet riveted to the porch.

Golden child?

I should leave. Definitely. I’m leaving. Now. I’ll just go.

But my feet have other ideas. And, apparently, so does my hand. Something about the tone of Logan’s voice—the weariness, anger, and exasperation—tugs at me unexpectedly.

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