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“All I’m saying is that you like her. What’s wrong with that?”

I sigh. “Nothing is wrong with liking Brooklyn.”

“Carter.” Ali’s tone is cautious. “You spent a marathon dinner with her last week. I can’t believe all you talked about was your disorganization. I know that’s a lot of ground to cover but—”

“You’re hilarious. We talked about lots of things.” We did. Brooklyn began by reiterating what she’d said over coffee; that she understood having a stranger in my personal space might feel invasive. She thought getting to know her clients was helpful. In my case, I think her plan might have backfired. I care what she thinks of me more now than I did when we sat down to have coffee.

I promised Brooklyn I wouldn’t tidy anything before her arrival. I’ve resisted that temptation. I’m not tempted to explain to Ali how I feel. I like Brooklyn. Yes. I do. I’d like to get to know Brooklyn better. I also live in reality unless I am typing at the keyboard. Everyone gets crushes, no matter how long they live. The first crush I remember happened when I was four. My toddler infatuation with Melissa Gilbert didn’t send up any lesbian red flags for my parents or for me. By the time I was eleven, I knew my obsession with Alyssa Milano was a bit more than admiration. I’ve crushed on teachers, classmates, athletes, and a couple of co-workers. Even my mom still has crushes, and she’s eighty. We’re all attracted to people without fully understanding why. I like Brooklyn. I definitely have a toddler-sized crush on her. Okay. Maybe it’s a tiny bit bigger than that. Unlike Ali, who drowns herself in sappy romances, I understand the difference between a crush and a potential relationship. Brooklyn is working for me. I think she might become a friend. That’s it. And I’d prefer Brooklyn didn’t suspect I have thought about her—amorously. Ali’s teasing makes me uneasy.

“I’m just giving you a hard time,” Ali says. “Are you regretting your decision to hire her?”

“No.” I rarely fib to my best friend. I don’t know if I regret my decision. The jury is still out. Time to redirect this conversation, or better yet, end it altogether. “How about a movie?”

“As long as it doesn’t have mermaids.”

I laugh. Check.The Little Mermaidit is.

CHAPTER THREE

NOVEMBER 11th

One mystery is solved. Brooklyn is punctual.

She looks at me from her perch behind my desk. “Don’t look so—”

“How do I look?”

“Like the boogeyman is about to jump out from underneath your desk,” Brooklyn says.

“He might.”

“Relax, Carter. I’m not here to discover your dirty laundry.”

“That’s good because I don’t have any. Not the kind you throw into a basket.”

Brooklyn is surprised. Fair. I suppose it makes sense to assume anyone who can’t keep their work in order would also avoid laundry. That isn’t one of my shortcomings. “I swear,” I tell her. “There are two things you’ll rarely, if ever, find in my house.”

“And those are?”

“Piles of laundry or dishes in the sink. It drives me nuts.”

Brooklyn nods.

“Hard to believe when you look at this, huh?” I ask.

“Not really.”

“Really?”

“Really. This is your corner of chaos. Everyone has one,” she says.

“Everyone?”

“Everyone. You can’t always see a person’s chaos. Everyone has some, somewhere in their life.”

Insightful. “What do you need from me?” I inquire.

“I think I have my marching orders. I won’t discard anything—yet. I’ll start with piles. We’ll review them to see what you want to keep and file or tear and toss. I’ll focus on your paper parade this week. Once that’s in order, I’ll review the software and professional subscriptions you’ve been using. It’s your decision,” Brooklyn reminds me. “What goes and what stays.”