Junk Mail

by Kendall Ryan

  “Okay, so I don’t want to completely overwhelm you with financial stuff, so stop me if you’ve heard enough about profit margins. Sound good?”

  I nod, appreciating the image of a man holding an ice cream cone telling me about profit margins. It’s immediately clear that we’re not going to discuss what happened in the hotel coat closet, which is a bit of a relief. I’m not sure I have a good explanation for what happened, and if we don’t put in some hours on this Wish Upon a Gift deal, it’s never going to turn out.

  Josh launches into his spiel on his company’s reimbursement model, and unlike his tour of the hotel, I’m able to pay attention to what he’s saying this time. I pull my planner from my bag and flip to the notes section, writing down percentages as he throws them at me. I’m impressed by the cut of sales that the company offers its business partners.

  When he pauses, I look up from my notes to find Josh licking the ice cream dripping down the side of the cone. Suddenly, my professionalism has flown out the window.

  God, I want him to lick me like that. Cover me in chocolate and lick away.

  “Sorry.” Josh laughs when he catches me staring. “I don’t want to waste any. Like I said, everybody has their vices, right?”

  I nod, echoing the statement back to him in an almost breathy tone. “Everybody has their vices.” I’m just worried he might be mine.

  “Anyway, back to the reimbursement model.”

  We both snap out of our daze and back into business mode, finishing off both our discussions and our dipped cones. The notes section of my planner is overflowing with information, but we’re definitely a step closer to getting my boxes on store shelves.

  Josh pulls a napkin from the dispenser in the middle of the table. “Now that the boring stuff is out of the way, I have to ask.”

  My throat clamps up. Shit. We’re gonna talk about that hot make-out sesh in the coat closet after all, aren’t we?

  “Have to ask what?” I ask meekly as Josh swipes the napkin across his lips, then balls it up in his fist.

  “Was I right?”

  Confused, I blink at Josh. “Right about what?”

  He smiles coyly, leaning into the table. “Was that the best chocolate-dipped cone you’ve ever had, or what?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Peyton

  There are many words I would use to describe my grandmother. She’s nurturing, funny, and smart. She’s a long-standing bingo champion and the life of the party at the senior center. She’s my best friend. But if there’s one thing that Gram definitely is not, it’s subtle.

  Since the moment Josh shook Gram’s hand at the hotel event, she’s been a woman obsessed. We can’t get through a meal or a commercial break without her bringing him up, every conversation revolving around him as though he were my own personal Prince Charming.

  Tonight’s dinner conversation is no exception. Leave it to Gram to be talking about today’s episode of Wheel of Fortune and somehow manage to remind me how handsome Josh looks in a tux. As if I could forget.

  “Speaking of Josh, you never told me about that meeting you and he had the other day.” Her voice is light and airy, but her innocent tone isn’t fooling me for a second.

  “I’ve already told you about it twice, Gram.” I lift my bowl to my lips and drink the last of the broth. Soup again. Tonight, it’s alphabet. Nothing but gourmet cooking from Chef Peyton.

  “Silly me, the old memory must be fading.” Gram knocks on her head with her knuckles and clucks her tongue, making a hollow sound. “Won’t you tell me one more time?”

  I give Gram the most dramatic eye roll I can manage. “I’m not telling this story again,” I say, feigning an annoyed pout.

  Truthfully, I don’t mind that she wants to talk about him so much. He’s kind of my favorite subject to think about right now too. I’m just worried I’ll slip up and mention a detail that I’d prefer my grandmother not know. Example A: the sexy selfie that started this mess in the first place. Or Exhibit B: the hottest make-out session of my life at the hotel.

  But the woman has been starved for any sort of romantic gossip from me for years, so who could blame her for hanging on to the little bit she’s finally getting? If she knew what happened in the coat closet, I’d never hear the end of it. Gasoline, meet fire.

  “All done with that?” I ask, pivoting the conversation with a nod toward Gram’s nearly empty soup bowl. She smiles and gently pushes it across the table to me, a shit-eating grin on her face as she glances down at the almost-empty bowl.

  There are four tiny noodle letters left: J-O-S-H.

  You’ve got to be kidding me. I give her a pointed stare, and she merely grins wider. The little rat.

  After rinsing out the bowls and loading them into the dishwasher, I reach for my phone and fire off a text to the group chat with the girls.

  Peyton: Can you guys meet at Speakeasy in 15?

  Their response is almost immediate—two thumbs-up emojis from each of them. Thank God. I need advice from someone who doesn’t qualify for a senior discount.

  It’s been a while since I’ve been the one calling for an emergency happy hour. Ever since Libby and Sabrina got engaged, last-minute Speakeasy trips have been nearly a weekly occurrence. There’s no better way to discuss the minutiae of wedding planning than over a round of martinis. Although I’m perpetually single, my bridesmaid résumé is impressive enough that I’ve become somewhat of a guru of rational, levelheaded wedding advice.

  But tonight, I’m the one who needs guidance. And lots of it. So when I take my usual seat at our table across from Sabrina and Libby, I’m ready to spill. All I have to do is mention Josh’s name, and they’re all ears.

  “I don’t know what to do, guys.” I sigh, propping my chin in my hands. “He’s so sweet. Beyond sweet. And funny. And smart. But maybe he’s just that way with all of his potential business partners, you know?”

  Sabrina gives me a doubtful look. “Do you think he’s making out with all of his potential business partners? Not likely, girl. I think you should go for it. You’re single. He’s hot. Why not ask him out on an actual date?”

  I let out a frustrated groan. “You sound like Gram. I swear, if she had things her way, Josh and I would be halfway down the aisle by now.”

  “Yay! Then we could all plan our weddings together!” Libby squeals and claps her hands, which Sabrina puts a stop to before I even have a chance to roll my eyes.

  “Slow your roll, Libby. They’re not even dating. They’re just working together, remember?”

  “Pretty tough to get much work done from inside a coat closet,” Libby mutters under her breath before she takes a sip of wine. Tonight, we’ve opted to split a bottle, but by the end of the evening, I won’t be surprised if we finish off a second one.

  “Once,” I remind Libby. “We’ve only kissed once.”

  Although I’m not sure it’s fair to even call that a kiss. If it is, every other man on the planet is doing it wrong. It was hot and passionate, and oh my God, sexy. The little growly sound he made in his throat when I sucked on his tongue? The funny way he teased me when I begged him to stop being such a good kisser? And don’t even get me started on that orgasm. It’s just so easy to be with him. He’s fun and sexy.

  “You’ve only kissed once so far,” she says, wagging a finger at me. “And from what I remember of your text synopsis, it was more than a kiss. It sounded like it was pretty damn earth-shattering, Peyton. Maybe he’s actually serious about you.”

  “Yeah, because you were trying to get serious with every guy who you made out with in college, right?” I tease.

  Libby shrugs, twirling a strand of red hair around her index finger. “No comment.”

  “All I’m saying is he very well could be buttering me up to try to close this business deal. How am I supposed to tell?”

  Both Sabrina and Libby tap their manicured fingernails on their wineglasses as they sip, mulling it over.

  “Wait! I’ve got it!” Sab
rina pounds her empty glass on the table to punctuate her epiphany. “When he bought you ice cream, did he pay with his personal card or his corporate card?”

  I try and fail to suppress a snicker. Sometimes, I swear she and I share a brain. “Great thought, but I already tried that. He moved too quickly for me to get a good look.”

  “Well, what if you just flat-out asked him?” Libby says. “Just ask if the whole coat-closet fiasco was a one-time deal.” She shimmies her shoulders suggestively, and I cough to keep my wine from going down the wrong pipe.

  “And run the risk of totally embarrassing myself if he says it was a fluke? No thanks.”

  “I say you just go for it,” Sabrina says matter-of-factly, refilling her empty glass. “If you’re worried about embarrassment, need I remind you that this dude literally sent you a dick pic out of the clear blue? There’s nothing you can do that’s half as embarrassing as that.”

  I nod, taking a good, long sip, regretting that I ever told them about that photo. “Okay, you’re definitely right about that.”

  “I’m right about everything.” Sabrina laughs as she waves down the bartender, gesturing for another bottle of white zinfandel.

  I knew it would be a double-bottle night. As our server uncorks the bottle, the conversation shifts to wedding seating charts, an area I have absolutely zero expertise in.

  My feigned interest only lasts so long before I tune out, letting my attention wander to my schedule for the upcoming week. I’m booked solid with meetings, something I’ll have to get used to if this deal goes through smoothly. If things go as planned, my boxes will be in stores in a matter of weeks. If I think I have zero free time right now, it’s about to sink into the negative.

  What are the chances of me scrounging up enough free time to pursue things with Josh? Assuming he really is interested and wants more than a one-and-done hookup and isn’t some playboy . . .

  “Hello? Peyton? Are you there?” Libby yanks at my sleeve, jolting me out of my daze.

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m here,” I lie, putting on my best I’m so interested in the details of your wedding face.

  But in my mind, I’m somewhere else entirely—sitting in a cozy ice cream shop or stumbling into a hotel coat closet. It’s almost crazy how easily I can picture Josh and me juggling both a business and a personal relationship.

  That is, if he’s even capable of a relationship. I’m unsure of the overlap on guys who send dirty pictures to random women and guys who are looking for anything serious, but I’m hoping and praying that it’s a Venn diagram with Josh Hanson sitting right in the middle.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Peyton

  “Gram? Are you up?”

  Apart from the low rumbles of the brewing storm, the house is uncharacteristically quiet tonight. Usually, when I return from a night out with Sabrina and Libby, I’m greeted by one of two things—Gram’s rapid-fire questions about my evening, or the sound of her snoring from the couch. But tonight? Nada.

  I toss my keys onto the kitchen table, and the metallic sound echoes throughout the house. Where the hell is she?

  I check the clock on the stove—it’s nine thirty. We haven’t even reached the time of night where the infomercials start playing yet, which is when Gram typically calls it a night. It’s not like her to opt for an early bedtime, especially on a weekend. Maybe she caught a ride to the senior center and just forgot to text me.

  “Gram? You home?” I try a second time, bounding up the stairs two at a time. Still no response.

  My stomach bottoms out momentarily, but I wave off the panic as I head for Gram’s door. She’s probably just sleeping or online shopping or—

  When I swing open her bedroom door, every nightmare I’ve ever had starts playing all at once. Gram is on the floor, as still as stone.

  “GRAM!”

  Hearing her name, she looks up at me with pitiful eyes, and I’m equal parts heartbroken and grateful. At least she’s conscious.

  “I fell,” she whispers, grasping unsuccessfully for a grip on the side of the bed, then falling back down to her side with a light thud, no louder than the sound of a suitcase tipping over. No wonder I didn’t hear her from downstairs.

  I scramble to her side, taking her full weight against me as I help her to her feet. She winces and yelps when she tries to stand on her own, her small frame folding into my arms.

  “I’m fine, I’m fine,” she mutters through clenched teeth. “I just—ah, Jesus!” Her back cramps up and she recoils, one trembling hand gripping the small of her back as she swears under her breath. “These goddamned piece-of-shit shoes have no grip to ’em.”

  I can’t help my slight smile at her potty mouth. After some awkward shifting and plenty of groans of pain from Gram, I manage to settle her onto the bed in a half-fetal position.

  “I’m calling an ambulance.” I reach for my back pocket to grab my phone, but even in her fragile state, Gram musters a bark of resistance.

  “No way, José. Do you know how much a ride in one of those things costs? I’ll be fine.”

  “You’re not fine, Gram. And I can’t take care of you all on my own. You need to see a doctor.”

  “But we can’t afford it!” she whines. “Just get me an ice pack.”

  Only Gram would give me lip when she can’t even stand upright.

  “The only thing I’m getting you is medical attention,” I tell her sternly. “And that’s the last I want to hear on the subject.”

  I thumb in my phone password, considering my options. I could just call 911, despite Gram’s wishes. Or Libby or Sabrina. They went straight home after Speakeasy, and I know either of them would be here in an instant to help out however they could. But for reasons beyond my understanding, my fingers fly across my phone, frantically searching for Josh’s contact and pressing CALL.

  “Hello, this is Josh.” He sounds wide awake and alert, and I’m immediately certain that I made the right call.

  “I need your help. It’s Gram. She fell.” I speak in short, panicky sentences.

  “Text me your address. I’m leaving now.” There’s a muffled rustling sound, probably him putting on his coat, then a few seconds later, the squeak of a door swinging open into the rain, which is falling steadily now. I guess he’s really coming. “Does she need an ambulance?”

  I gnaw on my lower lip, giving Gram a sideways glance. She looks so defeated, trembling on the bed. “She doesn’t want me to call one. She says it’s too expensive.”

  Josh doesn’t miss a beat. “Tell her my company insurance will cover it. I’ll call it for you. I’m gonna hang up so you can send me your address, okay?”

  “Okay,” I squeak back. “Hanging up now. See you soon.” I end the call and share my location with Josh. That’ll be faster than having him type the address into his GPS.

  “You’re not calling a damn ambulance, are you?” Gram mumbles through a groan of pain.

  “No, I am not. Josh is. He said the company insurance will cover it.”

  I may only have a view of half of Gram’s face, but I can tell the smile stretching across her face must be ear to ear. Only she would get excited about Josh stuff at a time like this. I could feign annoyance about it, but I don’t have the energy to. Instead, I approach the bed, taking Gram’s soft hand and running my thumb across the bluish veins on the back of it. I’m so thankful for her. So thankful she’s alive.

  “That Josh is a good guy,” she whispers, giving my hand the tiniest, gentlest squeeze. “A really, really good guy.”

  I don’t even have a response to that, because in my heart, I think I already know how good he really is.

  When the sirens approach, I run downstairs to welcome two ambulances’ worth of EMTs, soaking wet with rain. I gesture toward the staircase, and without further instruction, they rush past me with swift precision, their black boots leaving wet prints on the carpet runner.

  No niceties, no nothing. For them, this is routine, but for me, my own house suddenly seems f
oreign, like the set of a medical drama. Everything is blurry and unrecognizable.

  I try to follow them up the stairs, but a paramedic keeps me downstairs, offering me a forced smile as she reminds me they’ll need to keep the path clear to carry Gram down on the gurney. I want to shriek, to tell her that Gram would want me to be up there, but instead, I swallow my panic and nod. She’s in good hands, I remind myself, but that doesn’t stop my heart rate from climbing faster than those EMTs took the stairs.

  Moments later, Josh arrives, both his leather jacket and the fitted gray tee underneath it soaked through with rain. Although he’s never been in my house before, something about having him here is comforting, familiar, like slipping into an old, worn-in sweater.

  He looks at me, saying nothing, because his eyes tell me everything I need to know. When he opens his arms, I give in, falling into his embrace as the tension in my shoulders releases for the first time since I came home. A sob escapes me, and the tears I’ve been holding back spill onto his shoulder.

  “Shh, you’re okay,” he whispers, smoothing my hair with his hand as I bury my face in his chest.

  The thought occurs to me that this isn’t the type of thing someone does for a potential business partner, but I dismiss it, focusing instead on the smell of the storm on his skin. It’s cool and relaxing, and I’m able to breathe a bit more steadily when the EMTs reappear on the stairs, carrying Gram down on the stretcher.

  “This is ridiculous,” she yells over the chaos. “Do I hear you crying, Peyton? Knock that shit off. I’m gonna be fine.”

  One of the medics looks at Gram like she’s out of her mind, but I laugh, using the side of my hand to wipe away the evidence of my tears. Leave it to Gram to give me sass as she’s carried out the door by the paramedics.

  The flashing red lights are blurred by the rain, but the sirens are just as loud as ever. Off she goes. As I watch the lights disappear into the storm, I feel a hand on my shoulder—it’s the same paramedic with the forced smile from earlier.