Page 166 of New York Love Stories: Vol. 1

When she holds up the list again, I let her change the subject, knowing she needs to. She says, “I could help you with this list. Well, everything but the last one, of course. That one you have to figure out on your own.”

Why does accomplishing these tasks sound more intriguing when she offers? “I’m not doing any of them. It’s not a priority of mine.”

“It is of your mom’s, it sounds like.”

“Well, yeah, but she’s fixating on something that doesn’t need fixing. I’m focusing on a billion-dollar company.”

“You’re right. They’re both equally important.”

“Wait, that’s not what I meant.”

“We should jump on number two tomorrow. Meet me at nine in the lobby.”

“N-No. That’s not what I have planned.”

“What do you have planned on a Saturday at nine AM? Work?”

“Yes. I was planning on coming into the office to get a few things wrapped for this week and make headway on my research for the meeting on Monday.”

“As thrilling as that sounds, this,” she says, waving the piece of paper in front of me, “is important. You know what this list really is?”

“Punishment for the time I told Mrs. Whipple that my mom didn’t like her prized fruit salad?”

“Prized?”

“She won the Women’s League Cold Salad Division two years in a row with that fruit salad. She pinned her blue ribbons to her Louis Vuitton, so everybody knew she’d won.”Only in Beverly Hills . . .

Setting the list down, she finally picks up the sandwich and says, “I’m going to need more details. Go on.” She takes a big bite, keeping her eyes on me—wide and intrigued.

Why’d I open this can of worms?“After Mrs. Whipple found out about my mom’s dislike of her salad?—”

“Because of you.”

“I was nine,” I say, begrudgingly, “but yes, because of me. Seeking revenge?—”

“The plot thickens.”

Lowering my voice and telling the rest of the story like there’s a campfire between us instead of a solid mahogany desk, I say, “Mrs. Whipple told the entire country club that my mom had paid for me to win the science fair that year.”

Juni gasps. “She didn’t?”

“She did. Well, Mrs. Whipple did. It was a low blow. I remember how mad my mom was, but how it felt like a reflection on me. I had done the work on my own, but with one cruel attempt at revenge, that was put into question.”

Reaching over, her hand covers mine, making me wonder if the hurt feelings remain evident on my face. “I’m sorry, Drew.”

“In my mom’s defense, not only did she not pay for my project to win, but Mrs. Whipple refused to get her eyes checked and often confused the salt canister for the sugar one. We learned the hard way when she tried to teach my brother and me how to make sugar cookies.”

“Yuck.”

“You’re telling me. To this day, I can’t look at a sugar cookie without feeling dehydrated.” I clear my throat. “Would you like a bottle of water?”

Lifting in her seat, she eyes behind me. “You hiding goodies back there?”

“I sure am.” Waggling my eyebrows, I swivel around and open one of the console cabinet doors to reveal bottles of water and an entire tray of snacks and candies. “I never know if I’m going to need a sugar high or host a client who wants something stronger.” Handing a bottle of water to her, I also take one for myself. Remembering the taste of those cookies like it was two minutes ago, I down half a bottle before taking a breath.

“Thanks for the bottle and the stories, but you’re not going to distract me with cute childhood memories.”

I furrow my brow. She might be the weirdest woman I’ve ever met. “What exactly is cute about salt cookies?”

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