Page 7 of Boots, Bucket Lists & Bad Ideas
And I may or may not have passed along the meeting details to him in the vaguest way possible. In other words, he has no idea the recap is tonight.
Oops. My bad.
And not a single part of me regrets it. Not even a little. Without him showing up, I can get through this meeting without grinding my teeth into dust. This whole sponsorship has been like herding cows—if the cows were arrogant, uncooperative, and thought they invented rodeos.
So yeah, I’ll take quiet, calm, and completely one-sided any day of the week.
“So, you knew he wasn’t coming?” Josie dusts salt off her chin with the back of her hand.
I shrug, not about to confess that I conveniently left out the meeting from our conversation this morning, which was less talk and more a power struggle. It’s always our routine.
I’m surprised we even managed to finish the sponsorship planning.
“New boots?” Josie glances down at my brand-new boots—already sporting scuffs from my quick ride with Onyx. “Fancy.” She lets the final word linger, heavy with her slow, southern twang.
I don’t like her implication.
“Let’s get one thing straight. I don’t break in new leather for men.”
“I didn’t say you did.” She doesn’t even try to play innocent.
“Good.”
“Good.” Her smile lingers.
I turn my attention back to the meeting, pretending to be invested in the lively debate sparked by the possibility of Mrs. Graves’ new security cameras. Specifically, whether they would be protecting her property or spying on everyone else’s backyard. The town prefers good ol’ gossip over digital evidence with time stamps.
“I like the way you did your makeup today.” I don’t need to see the sly smile tugging at the corner of my sister’s mouth to know it’s there. “Tryin’ something new?”
I bite the inside of my cheek before I answer. “It’s called mascara.”
“The cameras can be aimed directly into Mrs. Graves’ backyard without recording the neighbors. Moving on!” My sister shouts and then whispers to me, “I like it. And I see you’ve officially upgraded from lazy ponytail to pony perfection.”
Her buttery, salty fingertips weave playfully through the curls of my low ponytail. I would slap her hand away if I thought it would make her stop.
She taps the side of my head. “Who would’ve known wrapping hair around the base, and leaving those curls wild instead of smoothing them, could create a whole vibe?”
Balancing the popcorn bucket on her lap, she reaches her second hand to pull sections of the hair wrapped around my ponytail, giving it more volume.
Like it needs more volume.
But wait for it.
“Me, I would’ve thought it. I’ve told you a million times.” She fluffs my ponytail one final time, as if my natural, frizzy curls aren’t enough and then beams as if she’s the miracle worker.
How she makes everything about her is incredible.
“You’re definitely ready to hit Kiwi’s Bar after this.”
“We’ll see about that. You’re already losing the fight to keep this meeting on schedule. And we haven’t even reached the second item on the agenda.”
Josie rolls her eyes and snaps open the paper agenda in her hand with theatrical flair. Her perfectly manicured nails skim the list, tiny rhinestones winking from the tips of claws disguised as nail art.
She smiles at me before turning her head to face the front. “Has the town council or the historical committee contacted the owner of the Underwood Schoolhouse to discuss plans for the property and gauge their willingness to cooperate with preservation efforts?”
How does she even know what half of that means?
She continues to name off the current owner, who inherited the property from her parents, and how to get in touch with her.
