Page 6 of (My Accidental) Killer Summer
“Do we know another Noah who makes my ovaries regret all their life choices?”
Amy makes a strangled noise that’s part gasp, part groan. “Where? What did he say? What did you say? Did you look hot?”
“Bakery section. He rescued a toddler from pickle jar doom. And no, I did not look hot unless your definition includesdirty hair, leggings, and his old Nirvana T-shirt. Which, yes, he noticed.”
Amy’s laugh bursts through the speaker. “Oh my God, this is the best thing that’s happened to me all week.”
“Amy! I have twenty minutes to get home, unload groceries—including the world’s most conspicuous box of condoms—scrub my kitchen, and set up for the stupid small business coffee meeting. Meanwhile, my brain is stuck replaying him saying my name like a dirty secret.”
“I bet you’re going to combust.”
“Probably. The SLSBA members will have to drink their coffee around my smoldering corpse.”
“Relax. I’m grabbing an extra tray of pastries and heading over now. We’ll caffeinate you through the crisis and make sure you don’t accidentally moan ‘Noah’ during opening remarks.”
“God, I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.” She hangs up, leaving me alone with my racing pulse, a bag of brie, and the distinct sense my mother’s psychic smugness just doubled in strength.
By the time I pull into my driveway, my heart’s still doing drum solos.
Seventeen minutes until the SLSBA descends with their reusable mugs, passive-aggressive networking, and zoning questions I’ll never understand.
I juggle grocery bags like a sad suburbanCirque du Soleilact—keys in my teeth, brie in my armpit, and a wine bottle threatening mutiny.
Inside, the kitchen looks like a crime scene where the victim was “a clean counter” from the twins’ breakfast earlier. I dump the bags and start triaging: sweep crumbs into the sink, wipe down counters, hide condoms like they’re contraband.
Hosting these meetings is psychological warfare. Since I was, once again, volun-told to host, I’m elbow-deep in fruit skewers muttering curses when the doorbell rings.
Six minutes early. I hate people who think early equals punctual. On time is punctual. Five minutes late is punctual. Six minutes early is just rude.
I spear a square of pineapple, whisper, “You’re my only friend here,” and pop it in my mouth before heading for the door.
The living room smells like lemon cleaner and false cheer. But at least already had everything staged like a Pinterest board—pillows, candles, and now a few fruit plates.
I peek through the curtain. Linda from the yoga studio, holding a covered loaf pan and the expression of a woman ready to “casually” drop her bespoke expansion plans on the group like a bomb.
I paste on my smile and launch into hostess autopilot. “Linda! You’re early!”
She beams like it’s a compliment. “Oh, Elle, it’s so lovely to see you.” Her gaze sweeps me head to toe. “Oh, dear, don’t you look tired! You know, under-eye circles are the first sign of adrenal fatigue.”
“Really?” I feign interest but make a mental note to buy better concealer.
She circles the living room like a gossip shark, sniffing for weakness. Her nose twitches. “You’ve been baking?”
“Uh… sure,” I lie, nudging a grocery bag under the counter with my foot.
Before I can escape, Tom the landscaper and Carly from the coffee shop arrive, both armed with more carbs than ten people could finish. Soon the kitchen hums with small talk and clinking mugs while my deodorant waves the white flag.
And through it all, Noah’s voice—low, warm, far too familiar—threads through my head.
Amy still isn’t here.
Which means if I don’t get a grip soon, I’ll be explaining to a room of small business owners why their hostess is flushed, sweaty, and distracted like she just rolled off a stranger’s mattress.
Linda drops her suspiciously healthy looking loaf on the counter. “Kale and chia. Gluten-free, dairy-free?—”
“And joy-free?” I mutter, already planning its burial in the trash.
