“Admit it, Livvie. You have the worst poker face.” She’d always been a terrible liar, and clearly nothing had changed. “You’re the 402 Mom, aren’t you?”
She gnawed on the corner of her bottom lip, obviously trying to decide whether or not to come clean.
“Spill it, Marshall.”
“Fine.” Her face went from nervous indecision to that wide smile of excitement. “It’s me! But you cannot tell a soul.”
She plopped down on the patio chair next to me and made a little squealing noise while wringing her hands. “My boss assumed since I used to write content for a parent-ish gossip site that I had kids. I didn’t correct her in the interview, but then my sample column was apparently good enough and I got the job.”
Sounded like a recipe for disaster to me. “No shit?”
“No shit.” She beamed and said, “I’m serious, though—mum is the big old word. Like, no one can know.”
“I get it.” I cleared my throat. “But are you sure you want to go this route? People always find out the truth. I’m sure if you confess now—”
“I can’t do that—are you kidding me?” She looked at me like I was out of my mind. “It’s too late. They will one hundred percent can my ass if anyone finds out.”
“You really think in a town like Omaha it’s not going to come out eventually?”
She crossed her arms over her chest, and the corners of her mouth turned down, making her look worried. “We both know my luck, so sure—it’ll probably blow up in my face at some point. But until that happens, I might as well ride out this dream job, don’t you think?”
I didn’t like seeing her look insecure. Brash, unadulterated boldness was usually her game. I said, “You are a phenomenal writer, Liv. I’m sure if you told the truth, they’d find a way to keep you on.”
She tucked her hair behind her ears and gave me a tiny smile. “How on earth would you know that? The only thing you’ve read of mine was the note I left on the counter the other day about my run-in with your grouchy next-door neighbor.”
“Your mom used to send links to all your ‘Who wore the baby bump better?’ stories to Jack and me.” It wasn’t my thing, reading celebrity gossip, but I’d always been impressed by the way she’d been able to be tongue-in-cheek funny about famous people.
She looked shocked, but then she laughed and said, “Oh, my God—my mother has your email address?”
“When Nancy asks, you answer.”
“Don’t I know it.” She rolled her eyes. “And we shall see about the writing.”
I pointed to my MacBook. “I have no idea how you do it. I’ve been out here for an hour trying to write a letter decent enough to land a huge client but everything I write is trash.”
Her eyebrows furrowed and the wind blew long wisps of hair across her cheek. “I thought you were a numbers guy.”
“That’s the problem.” I wasn’t sure why I was telling her but I said, “I am.”
“Lemme see.” She pulled my computer onto her lap, and I was torn between being offended by her total lack of respect for my privacy and charmed by how fucking comfortable she was. “I’m sure it’s not trash.”
I watched her read it, wondering what universe it was that Jack’s little sister was helping me with my homework. Her dark lashes dipped down as her eyes scanned the screen, and after another minute she said, “Email this to me.”
“What?”
She pushed my laptop at me and said, “Can you email that to me? It’s a great start but you don’t have any voice in there—no you. It sounds like a robot wrote it instead of someone who really wants their business. I’ll change it to what I would write—with track changes turned on—and then you can either accept them or decline them.”
“What’s happening here?”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m being helpful . . . ?”
“But why?” Livvie was never nice to me. “We don’t do that.”
Her pink lips were curled up into a tiny smile as she dusted off the fabric of her skirt and said, “You caught me on a good day.”
“By the way,” I said, needing to get back to familiar territory, “is that dress just a bunch of bandannas tied together?”
“No, it’s not, jackass.” Her eyes narrowed but I could tell she wasn’t mad. She stood and said, “Maybe you should stop thinking about my dress and focus on whatever cabana wear you’re sporting today. Does your grandpa know you raided his storage unit?”