by Rosie Danan
Clara bent to retrieve the fallen items. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Actually”—Jill cocked her head—“what do you think about sitting in on the rest of this meeting with me and taking some notes? You’d be doing me a huge favor, and it shouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes. Once it’s over, we can sit down properly and talk.”
“Oh, well. I’m not really . . .” Clara stopped herself. She could hardly argue that she couldn’t take notes. She owed Jill whatever favors she required after interrupting her work twice in as many days. “You know what, sure. I can do that. Do you have a notepad?”
And that was how Clara found herself sitting across a conference room table from the district attorney of Los Angeles County.
Clara had never seen anyone wear a suit half as well as Toni Granger. She didn’t know if the woman had them custom made to fit her tall frame, or if she commanded the material through sheer force of will. The oatmeal Clara had had for breakfast began swimming laps in her stomach.
“Please accept my apologies for keeping you waiting. This is Clara. She’ll be sitting in to capture some takeaways from our conversation.” Despite the calamity in her office a few moments ago, Jill’s voice now radiated calm professionalism.
The DA gave Clara a nod.
Pushing her nerves aside, Clara happily sank into a familiar position for the first time in almost a week.
Josh might excel in orgasms, but with the number of hours she’d logged in classrooms over the course of her lifetime, Clara knew her way around lined paper like nobody’s business.
Toni sat back in her chair. “As you know, I’ve had a contentious relationship with my constituency over the last few years. When I decided to run for DA, I knew there would be people in this town who wouldn’t like the idea of a Black woman in such a prominent office, but lately, it seems like the press is going out of their way to tear me down.”
Jill folded her hands together on top of the table. “Yes, I’ve noticed that as your term comes to a close, your critics have grown more persistent.”
“That’s one word for it.” Toni shook her head. “I’ve always been so stringent about keeping my nose clean. A sniff of scandal and my opposition would make sure I never work in this town again. But playing it safe has left me polling fifteen points behind my challenger.”
With a judge for a father, Clara had grown up around more than her fair share of political and legal officials. With polling numbers that bad, Jill certainly had her work cut out for her.
“You’ll need a big marquee case, something that will stir up public attention and bring in free airtime for the campaign.” Clara scribbled a few notes. Headlines. Big-name endorsements.
Toni looked at Clara for the first time since Jill had introduced her. “Excuse me?”
She hadn’t meant to say that out loud. “Oh. I’m sorry. I’m sure Jill would know better. I watch a lot of political dramas on TV.”
Toni’s face evened out. “Well, it sounds like Hollywood got it right for once. No one in this town gives a damn about run-of-the-mill cases. I need something big.” She turned back to Jill. “That’s where your firm comes in. I need to galvanize people.”
Twenty minutes later, Clara and Jill waved at Toni’s car as the DA pulled away.
“I like her,” Clara said. “She’s got that magnetism that makes people fall in line. Do you think she stands a chance?”
Jill cocked her hip to the side and gave Clara a once-over. “Do you wanna come work for me?”
Clara laughed until she realized her aunt wasn’t joking.
“Me? No, I can’t. I bought a plane ticket.” Clara had a plan to save her reputation. It mandated that she get out of this city and away from Josh Darling’s pheromones ASAP.
“Right, but what if you didn’t leave? What if I hired you as a junior associate?”
Clara wrung her hands. “I don’t have any experience.”
“Please. You’ve got a PhD from Columbia.”
“In art history.” A made-up degree for rich people. “Sure, if you need someone to discuss the privatization of culture in fifteenth-century Florence, I’m your gal, but I don’t know the first thing about public relations.”
“You’ve got good instincts and, since you’re a Wheaton, years of practical education in crisis management and reputation rehabilitation. The associates mainly do grunt work. Collecting research, drafting press releases. Nothing you couldn’t handle.”
“I prefer to stay under the radar.” Thanks to her infamous family, she knew how the limelight could burn.
Jill leveled her gaze. “You need a reason to stay in Los Angeles. No matter what happened with your roommate, I know you don’t want to go back after four days and face your mother. Do me a favor for a couple of weeks until I can fill the position. The pay isn’t great, but I do supplement it with needlessly fancy green tea.”
Clara shook her head. She wanted to help. She liked Jill, obviously, and Toni Granger inspired a surprisingly strong sense of civic engagement, but working across town from Everett’s place wasn’t a long-term option. The logistics alone made her brain bleed.
“I can’t. Thank you, but I’m not cut out for this whole take-’em-as-they-come, fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants lifestyle. I did one stupid, huge, impulsive thing.” Two. “But from here on out I think I’d like to return to my comfort zone and set up camp.”
“No. See, I don’t buy that. You claim to have come out here for a guy, but what if Everett Bloom was an excuse to abandon a life built around pleasing other people?”
Why did people keep saying things like that to her? Sometimes a cross-country move didn’t represent a quest for adventure so much as a failed booty call. Everyone had the entirely wrong idea about the capacity of Clara’s courage.
“I’m not asking you to do anything crazy. Go home after you’ve had a few weeks to relax and recover. Let everyone back home wonder how you spent your time on the other side of the country. They’ll never guess that I had you behind a desk from nine to five.”
Clara chewed on her thumbnail. “It’s not that I’m scared.” Not only that.
“Well, then, what is it?”
Why did L.A. insist on ripping off all of her emotional Band-Aids at once? “I can’t drive.” The expense of taking a car forty miles each way, Monday through Friday, was doable, but certainly extravagant.
“Since when? Didn’t your dad buy you a Beemer in high school?”
Clara couldn’t help but crack a faint smile. “He did. Technically I have a license, but I prefer not to get behind the wheel. In New York, it wasn’t an issue. I took public transit or walked most places. But here . . . I think I could catch a bus, but I have to imagine it’d take a while?”
Jill raised her eyebrows. “You’re omitting an obvious third option.”
“That’s by design.” Clara grimaced. It smarted to show another weak spot to this family member she barely knew. To arrive with so many broken parts and missing pieces and still expect acceptance.
Her aunt leaned in and hugged her. Somehow, the squeeze released all the shame and fear of the last few days.
“I get it. I do,” Jill said. “But maybe it’s worth giving driving another shot? Like it or not, you moved to L.A., kiddo. You’re smart and capable. I know because I hired you.”
Clara shook her head but couldn’t stop the surge of pride that warmed her chest.
When Jill spoke next, her words took on gravity. “Some fears kill us. They drain us our whole lives, and we die filled with regret. But this isn’t one of those fears. Make a plan. It doesn’t have to be now, but you know the only way to get better at driving.”
Clara tried to dust off whatever sense of conviction she’d tapped into a few weeks ago when, drunk on a combination of red wine and nostalgia, she’d decided to move to L.A., changing the course of her future.<
br />
Her answer resounded like a dumbbell tossed into her gut. “Drive.”
Jill tapped her chin with a single finger. “I don’t suppose your new roommate has a car?”
chapter eleven
CLARA’S PLAN HINGED on her ability to make pancakes.
Batch four had the right color, golden brown, versus anemic batch two. But batch three had a better texture, less cakey and airier. She tightened her ponytail. After spending the entire ride back from Malibu plotting, she had to get this right.
The smell of roasted meat filled the small kitchen. At least popping bacon in the oven was foolproof.
She attempted to see down the hallway to Josh’s door while keeping an eye on the half-cooked pancake in front of her. Having passed his car on the way in, she knew he was home. As Clara considered banging a few pots and pans in summons, Josh emerged from his bedroom, rumpled as usual.
Her heart hammered in her chest as her gaze dropped immediately to his hands. Hands that he’d had all over her last night. The plane that should have carried her far, far from their last, mortifying interaction had taken off over an hour ago. She lowered her shoulders away from her ears and gathered her resolve.
As she hastily hid the evidence of her failed batches under the sink, Josh sank onto a well-worn bar stool at the island. Clara attempted to hum casually.
He swiveled to survey the scene of her culinary implosion. “What happened in here?”
Clara gestured to her army of pans and filled her voice with false cheer. “I thought I’d make dinner. Last night was rather awkward, as I’m sure you know.” She winced. “I figured we could start over. Wipe the slate clean, as it were.”
“You decided to wipe the slate clean by making the kitchen incredibly messy?”
She might have called the playful quirk of his lips shy if she didn’t know better.
“I don’t actually have a ton of gastronomic experience. I thought breakfast for dinner would be easy.” She dabbed at the raw egg dribbling down the front of her apron with a wet paper towel. “I may have miscalculated.”
“That’s funny. I . . . ah . . . actually bought you some apology pastries this morning.” He reached up to rub the back of his neck. “But then you weren’t here when I got back. Anyway, they’re in the fridge.” He coughed into his fist. “Most of them are still in the fridge.”
“You have nothing to apologize for.” Clara tapped her batter-smeared fingers on the countertop. “You’re an extremely talented performer and I appreciate what you did for me. I’m the one who . . . well, let’s just say I got a bit skittish.” Raising her eyes, she took in his guarded expression. “I’m better now, at any rate.”
“Oh. Well, good.” Josh tapered his gaze. “Are you wearing overalls?”
She turned over her shoulder, spatula in hand. “I am.” Overalls represented no-nonsense hard work. “The food will be ready in a minute.”
“I can’t believe you cooked for me.” Josh squinted at her. Hopefully he didn’t find her motives suspect.
“I think technically this counts as baking.” Clara piled a plate high with the best of the batch of pancakes, bacon, and fresh fruit, and placed it in front of Josh. She’d arranged the berries in concentric circles.
Dipping her chin, she nudged the plate closer to him encouragingly. “I guess we both came to the conclusion that we should break bread together.”
“You know you’ve got flour . . .” He pointed to his nose, then his cheek, then his neck, until eventually he waved his hand around his entire face.
Clara tried wiping herself down with a dishcloth.
“You’re making it worse.” Josh dismounted from his stool and came to stand in front of her. Taking the soft material from her sweaty hand, he bent his knees and gently scrubbed her face. His warm fingers held her chin delicately, guiding the direction of her neck so he could address the worst of the culinary carnage. Clara’s heart rate climbed as he brushed off her nose. The strange intimacy of the act hung in the air between them, until she had difficulty catching her breath. Proximity packed a powerful punch.
He stepped back and Clara turned away, tamping down the confusing appetite he’d unleashed that had nothing to do with food. She grabbed a second plate for herself. Somehow his tender assistance shook her almost as much as his choreographed pleasure-wringing last night.
When Josh returned to his stool on the other side of the island, Clara sat next to him, skootching to ensure their elbows wouldn’t accidentally brush as they ate. “Oh shoot. I forgot the syrup!”
“I’ll get it,” Josh said, keeping one eye trained on her as Clara munched on a piece of bacon.
He placed the maple syrup in front of her. “Is this a trap?”
Clara cut her pancake into tiny squares and concentrated on keeping her voice even. “Is what a trap?”
Josh pointed at his brimming plate. “This is a lot of effort for someone you just met.”
“You think I have an ominous agenda for making pancakes?” Clara tried not to blink.
“You’re literally buttering me up.” He thrust his chin at the pat of butter she had carved off on her knife and moved to drop on his plate.
Clara imbued her voice with false innocence. “I’m sorry. Did you not want butter?”
“I definitely want butter.” Josh took the knife from her, brushing her index finger with his thumb. “But I’ve lived in this town long enough to know there’s no such thing as a free meal. You sure you’re not up to something?”
“You said yourself that you bought me pastries. If there’s no such thing as a free meal, consider this dinner payment in kind.”
Josh poured a healthy dose of syrup onto his stack and then scooped up a big bite, complete with berries. As he swallowed, his eyes closed, and a groan rumbled deep in his throat. He brought his palm down on the counter with a resounding smack.
“This. Is. A. Trap.” He punctuated each word with a slap of his hand.
Her chair groaned as she tipped it back on two legs, caught in a fit of nervous giggles. “Do you really like them? Are you sure they’re not too chewy?”
“Jesus.” Josh stared at her like she’d hit him over the head with one of the frying pans. “You look like trouble when you laugh.”
“I’m not. I swear.” Clara’s voice stalled on a squeak.
Her eyes fell to where his faded T-shirt hugged impressive biceps. She dug her fingernails into her palm.
Stick to the plan. “It is, however, possible I have a favor to ask.”
“I knew it,” Josh said around a massive bite. He flew back from the stool and shook his head. “You look innocent but really, you’re a wily minx.”
No one had ever accused Clara of nefarious motives before. She discreetly dabbed her forehead with a napkin. “Will you at least listen to my proposal?”
“All right, but I’m commandeering payment in kind.” He reached over and claimed her last slice of bacon.
“Okay,” she said, bracing herself for the big speech. “Try to keep an open mind here. What are the chances you’d let me borrow your car?”
“Slim to none,” he said vehemently. “That car is the only thing I own that means anything at all to me. I’ve had her since high school. Do you know how much work it takes to keep a ’Vette that old running?”
“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important,” Clara said, lacing her tone with practiced calm. “I got a job and I need to work my way up to commuting.” Her mother had taught her that any negotiation could be solved with reason and controlled voices.
“Wow. You work fast.” Josh brightened. “It’s great that you got a job, and listen, I know you’re not from around here, but asking to borrow someone’s car in L.A. is a massive deal.”
“It would only be for a few hours,” she assured him. “I’ll work around your schedule, and of course I’ll pay fo
r gas. I could even get it washed. Maybe get the tires rotated?” She elbowed him like an old-timey salesman. “What do you think?”
“You don’t understand how much I love that car. Can’t you think of another favor I could do for you? Are you sure you don’t want to fuck?”
Clara’s fork clattered to the ground and they bumped heads when they both reached for it.
“Sorry,” he said weakly. “That was a bad joke. I forgot you were . . . you.” He moved and fetched her new silverware. “Why don’t you have your own car? I know you moved from New York.” He waved away her interjection. “But why wasn’t ‘get a car’ on your little laminated checklist?”
She fiddled with one of the hooks on her overalls. “I knew I would need to drive eventually. L.A. traffic is famous, but Everett said I could borrow his Jeep and I thought I’d have more time to practice.” The confession cost Clara her appetite.
“Well, hey, you could get a lease. I’ll even drive you to the dealership.” He gave her a brief once-over. “We’ll get you set up in a nice VW Bug with one of those stickers for the window that says Student Driver or Baby on Board or something.”
“I don’t think I can get a lease yet. I’ve got that . . . emotional impediment to driving, remember? That’s why I wanted to borrow your car, to see if I could handle getting behind the wheel at all. I would take it around the neighborhood. Nothing crazy. I’d hire an instructor, but I’m worried I might—”
“Crash?” He nodded sympathetically.
“—lose my nerve,” Clara finished. “It’s embarrassing enough admitting my weakness to you. I don’t need to throw another stranger into the mix if the point is moot.” She chased a blueberry around the plate with her fork. “I figured that since you’ve already seen me in flagrante delicto, the embarrassment veil is lifted.”
Josh frowned. “Is that a fancy way of saying I gave you an orgasm? Because like I told you, that was no big deal.”
Clara ignored his piercing comment. She didn’t need a reminder of how little last night meant to him. “I got a job helping some people I really care about. I know it’s a lot to ask, but I’m desperate. It’ll probably take all of five minutes. I’ll sit in the car, freak out, and then we can throw driving on top of the list of failures I am rapidly accumulating.”
