Penelope in Retrograde: A Novel(37)

“I hope you know I didn’t plan for any of this to happen,” he says.

“My grandmother secretly growing weed?” I chuckle. “Yeah, I didn’t see that one coming either.”

“Well, yes, that. But also this.” He motions to me. “I’m having a good time with you. I’m actually having a good time with your whole family.”

“Did my mother not send you the script?” I plop down on my bed and pull a chenille throw blanket over my legs. “I can let you borrow mine, if you like.”

“Do you always use humor to defuse situations that make you uncomfortable?” He smirks.

“It’s my version of knot tying.” I point to the rope that he’s tangled into what looks like a pretzel. “What’s got you nervous?”

“The fact that I’m in my boss’s daughter’s bedroom, for one.” He untangles the knot in one easy move of his hand. “Oh, and I made out with my boss’s daughter. That’s got me pretty nervous too.”

My stomach flutters.

“I mean, he’ll probably fire you once I tell him about that biting thing you did,” I tease. Martin’s cheeks flush with heat. “Unless you’d rather I keep that bit to myself.”

“I’d consider it a big favor.”

“All kidding aside”—I pat the bed—“you really don’t need to be nervous. I think my parents would be thrilled if they knew I kissed a man they hand selected. You must come from excellent breeding stock.”

“That’s the thing.” He starts to pace. “I don’t. I’m from middle-of-nowhere Kentucky. I went to school on a track scholarship. My parents live in the same starter house that I grew up in, and the only thing remotely fancy about them is the Fancy Feast my mom insists on feeding her cats.”

“I’ve seen those cat food commercials. They’re very high class.”

“I hate golf. I think the idea of spending thousands of dollars on a membership to a club is a ridiculous waste of money. I buy most of my work clothes from outlet stores, and if I’m being really honest, I lied about my address when your dad hired me.” He pauses next to the wine bottle and palms the glass. “You were supposed to be different.”

“I was?” I take the glass from him and hold it while he pours. “What exactly were you expecting?”

“Someone like Phoebe.”

“A lesbian?”

“No.” He pours himself a glass. “Phoebe is . . . well . . . look, I’m new and I don’t work with her that much. She’s in accounting, and I’m not. But the few interactions I have had with her have always been a little . . .”

“Mean? Cold? Aloof?”

“Exactly. I mean, she ratted out your grandmother, for crying out loud.”

“Phoebe’s a rule follower,” I say. “She always has been.”

“Can I ask you a serious question? Why didn’t you want your ex-husband to know that you’re single?”

The truth is, I wasn’t really thinking when I said it. I was reacting impulsively, just like I was when I kissed Martin. Knowing that Smith had my old ring to propose to someone new made me question why I wasn’t remarried. I mean, I know why I’m not married. You have to date someone seriously in order to get married, and all of my serious relationships post-Smith have been with the male characters I’ve created in my books. And all of that seemed OK. My life in San Francisco with Jackie and Chelsey and our future bookstore felt like more than enough because when I’m there, I’m not in competition with my family. I’m free to just be me.

“It’s complicated,” I say.

“I’m a smart guy.”

“Some other time.” I yawn. “It’s past my bedtime.”

Martin nods. “I’ll let you get some sleep. Goodnight, Banks.”

“Goodnight.”





Chapter 13


When I wake up, I’m greeted by the not-so-subtle reminder that while I may be sleeping in my teenage bed, my body is definitely over thirty. My head throbs with what I can already tell will be a baby hangover, my mouth tastes like the bottom of a trash can, and my back feels like someone tried to twist it into a pretzel. I check the time, expecting it to be much later than the bright and early 7:00 a.m. that’s glaring at me on my phone screen.

I scroll through my phone, debating whether I should go back to sleep. Maybe the key to waking up refreshed like a teenager is to sleep past noon like a teenager.

There’s a new text from an hour ago in my group chat with Phoebe and Falon.

Phoebe: We’re doing a turkey trot 5K this morning. You’re welcome to join!

Falon: You get a free t-shirt!

Ew. Why do people think that giving a run a cute name automatically makes the run fun? If gynos called it a turkey Pap and offered a free pair of underwear, would people be more willing to sign up? Just when I was starting to think that being in a group text with my sister and her future wife was cute, Phoebe had to ruin it with physical activity.

Penny: I don’t turkey trot.

Penny: And I brought my own t-shirts.

I’m about to close my phone and go back to sleep when a text from an unknown number pops onto my screen.

Unknown: Hey, it’s me. I got your number from your sister.