Page 25 of Baxter's Right-Hand Man

“I like you just fine,” I protested.

“Meh, you’re not sold, but I’m growing on you.” He pushed his phone at me. “Number me, Lorenzo.”

“Lo.”

“Lo-o,” he repeated, making a meal out of that vowel. “You said your friends call you Lo, right?”

I tapped my info into his cell and handed it over. “Yes. Or Enzo or Zo, but rarely Lorenzo.”

“Cool. I guess that makes us friends.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” I snarked.

“Geez, and I was just thinking this was one of those ‘once in a blue moon’ bonding moments. If we were at a concert or something, we’d totally be making out now.”

I opened and closed my mouth. Twice. “We are not making out.”

“We could,” he teased.

“No, we can’t. Good-bye, Pierce.”

Pierce barked a laugh and held out his hand for a fist bump. I stared for a moment, then gently tapped his knuckles. He found my reticence hysterical. When he finally sobered, he hit me with Baxter’s signature smile—the one I’d seen on billboards all over LA. A roguish, lopsided grin that spelled trouble in every language known to man.

I was not immune. My pulse zinged and skittered, and my heart skipped a few beats.

Damn it.That was not okay.

I cleared my throat and made sure the side entrance was locked before heading for the foyer.

We regarded each other thoughtfully as I opened the front door. Pierce fussed with the zipper of his jacket and pulled his sunglasses from his pocket.

“Later, Lo.”

“Later.” I waved lamely and watched him walk away.

Okay, so maybe Pierce wasn’t the completely awful, self-serving human I’d pegged him for last week. I still didn’t trust him. Not that it mattered. Today most likely marked the end of our acquaintanceship.

Mr. Gowan was going to be fine, Pierce would forget about us by the weekend, and everything would go back to normal.

Just wait.

* * *

“Helloooooo!”

I sailed into BGoods in a pair of skinny silver trousers, a white oxford shirt, and red shiny loafers with rhinestone buckles, lowering my cat-eye sunglasses as I reached the register.

“Good morning,” Bran called out, popping the top on a handy tube of ChapStick and covering his lips. “My dashing husband is picking me up in ten minutes for the baby’s doctor appointment. The pediatrician is doling out shots today, and I’m worried Andrew will be extra fussy. You’re okay with me leaving Benson here, right?”

“Of course.” I stooped to pet Bran’s yellow Lab, who was busily sniffing my shoes.

Benson was five now and had mellowed out considerably over the past couple of years, which was a good thing for the new dads with a five-month-old baby. Bran and his husband, Jake, thrived under pressure—a baby, a dog, a house, a growing business. Those two had their hands full, and I had a hard time remembering to water my succulents.

“Thanks. Lizzy’s off today, but Allison will be in to help soon too.”

“We’ll be fine. Won’t we, cutie pie?” I scratched the pup’s ears the way I knew he loved.

I straightened and cocked my head at Bran, who was staring at me expectantly.