Page 14 of Perfectly Grumpy

“That’s why I don’t woo anyone,” he replies. “I can’t stand people.”

“Well, I don’t believe you,” I say, sliding into my chair.

“Why not?” He settles across from me.

“Because people who actually hate people don’t buy socks from kids raising money for rescue puppies,” I explain, pointing my fork at him. “You don’t dislike people. You just prefer them in limited quantities and with minimal drama.”

Tate’s mouth quirks up on one corner. “So your professional analysis is that I’m not antisocial, just selectively social?”

“Exactly. Despite your best efforts, Tate Foster, you’re extremely likable. I just need to make the rest of the world see that. Which is why I made a list for today’s meeting.” I flip open my laptop and set aside my fork.

Tate sighs. “You’re really diminishing my enjoyment of this cinnamon roll. Can’t we talk about anything else first?”

That’s when I realize I’m pushing too hard, too fast, which is classic me. I’ve always been the type to jump in the deep end first, usually well before anyone else is ready.

“Okay, fine. Let me see thesocks, Sheriff.”

Tate doesn’t say a word. Just pulls up his pants to reveal gray socks with pancakes on them.

I give a smile of approval. “Breakfast socks?”

“Appropriate, don’t you think?” he says, the hint of a smirk on his lips.

“How many breakfast socks do you own?”

“Hmm,” he says, thinking about it. “Telling you would be far less amusing than seeing your reaction.”

“Then I guess I’ll have to invite you to breakfast again,” I say, lifting my coffee. “Strictly for research purposes.”

“You mean for the sock data.”

“Exactly,” I reply, nodding solemnly. “My PR plan depends on understanding your entire breakfast-themed wardrobe. It’s very scientific.”

He lets out a low chuckle and takes another bite of his cinnamon roll.

My phone buzzes, and my stomach sinks. It’s probably my sister since I’ve been dodging her texts all week.

Olivia

You still haven’t RSVP’d to the family reunion, so I’m taking your silence as a yes.

I turn my phone face-down on the table and let out a short sigh.

Tate studies me over his coffee. “What’s that about?”

“Nothing,” I say, avoiding his obvious stare.

“For a PR person, you’re terrible at lying.”

I glance up from my computer. “It was just a text from my sister.”

“A text that clearly bothers you,” he concludes. “You’re easy to read.”

“Easy? Well, at least I don’t hide my emotions.” I’m dodging his question now, but it’s better than explaining the situation I’m in with my family.

“I’m not emotionless,” he counters. “I’m just steady, like a boat on smooth waters.”

I let out a laugh. “Is that what you call it?”

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