Page 58 of Baxter's Right-Hand Man

I’d tagged along on another hospital visit and let him talk me into going to a sea lion sanctuary in Laguna Beach. He met with conservationists to discuss wildlife preservation and brainstorm ways to bring awareness about pollution devastating natural habitats while I took notes…like a real assistant.

Or, as Pierce joked, his right-hand man.

For blowjobs and hand jobs, yes. But I wasnothis assistant.

I was his friend who wanted to spend time with him on a random day off from the store. But we couldn’t hang out just to hang out. That would have opened a whole new can of worms. My friends would have wanted to know what was going on, and I honestly didn’t know. Or Pierce would have to explain me to the public, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to be explained.

But Mr. G was different. An afternoon with him could be called a “family matter,” and I had a feeling that it would be good for them to talk.

So they weren’t related, and Mr. G hadn’t been forthright with that information. His reasons were sound and even kind of sweet. Between the two of them, they’d obviously churned up a lot of emotional baggage, and that simply wasn’t healthy. Mr. G wasn’t well enough to make any grand overtures, so it was up to Pierce. And though I knew this was none of my business, it seemed important somehow.

Pierce obviously didn’t agree. My cell had gone silent.

“Are you expecting a call?” Connor teased, throwing me a pillowcase.

I caught it before it landed on the showroom floor. “No. Why?”

“Your cell has been glued to your palm all morning. Who is he?”

“Don’t be silly,” I chided. “I just…have more emails than usual today. I’ll be in the storage room if you need me.”

“Mmhmm.”

My phone vibrated ten minutes later.

Sorry. I’m still in makeup. And I lied about Scrabble. I suck at it and I don’t want to talk about my family. See you tonight?

One game won’t hurt you and we can agree not to talk about them at all.When another ten minutes went by without a reply, I added,You don’t owe him anything, but it might be healing.

Eye-roll emoji.For who?

Him. You.

Ten eye-roll emojis.I don’t buy it, but fine. Last visit. I’ll pick you up. Text me when you’re ready.

I did my best to control a monster grin from taking over my face before Connor noticed. No such luck.

“Busted! That’s yoursomethin’ somethin’smile,” Connor snapped as he sashayed into the storage room.

I nearly jumped out of my Prada loafers. “What does that even mean?”

Connor checked his wavy blond locks in a gilt-framed, partially bubble-wrapped mirror propped against the wall next to a row of shelves packed with color-coded pillows. He turned with his hands on his slim hips and winked. “Oh, I think you know.”

“Hmph. What are you looking for?”

“Tammy Baylor loves the chandelier over the bed. She wants to know if we have another in storage and if not, she wants the floor model.”

I dusted my khakis and straightened. “Bran won’t want to give her the floor model.”

He placed his hand on his heart theatrically. “Oh, thank God. I was afraid you were going to make me climb a ladder. You know I get the dizzies easily.”

I bumped his hip. “Tell her I’ll order one for her. I can have it shipped within a week.”

“Sure you don’t want to tell her yourself?” he asked, fluttering his long lashes.

“You can handle it.”

Connor sighed. “I know, but she’s out there with Daphne McAdams, the podcast cheerleader who just landed a part in that new comedy on Netflix—the one I auditioned for and never got a callback.Ugh.”