“Do you have a favorite team?”
I shake my head. “Not really, actually, which seems odd. I like a few of the California teams here, I enjoy going to the different ballparks and seeing how they differ from others, and I follow my good friend from college. He’s retiring this year, on his farewell tour.”
“Ooo, question 2b, who’s your friend?”
I chuckle. “Penn Cutler. He pitches for the Chicago Bobbies, but we went to college together. He’s had a bumpy road in the majors, but he’s looking solid this last season.”
“I’m going to have to look him up. But . . . baseball, that’s it? That’s the only fun thing you like to do?”
“Nah, I like hanging with my brothers. Pool days. Simple games like ring toss, cornhole, going to the beach. I’m not a surfer, but the boys and I play football on the beach pretty often.” I shrug. “Just chilling when we get a chance.”
She blinks a few times and then chuckles as she shakes her head. “I never would’ve picked you as someone who’d play football on the beach. I figured you’re a man who likes to hang out in old smoke rooms, wearing a logoed smoking jacket, cigar in hand, talking about the stock market and how the Dow is fucking you over. You’re the kind of guy who goes to the opera and likes it. The kind of man who takes piano lessons in his spare time because he needs to be good at everything.”
“I learned to play when I was young.”
“Of course you did. But football on the beach, that’s a normal person’s activity. Next you’re going to tell me you enjoy going to concerts.”
“I do,” I say. “Has to be the right music, though. I’m not about to go to a Bruno Mars concert, but if let’s say Foreigner is in town, I’ll be sure to grab tickets.”
“Nope, no way, I don’t see that for you. I don’t see you at concerts. And if you do go to concerts, you’re probably the stiff guy, beer in hand, who doesn’t move, doesn’t sing, doesn’t crack a smile.”
“You’d be surprised.” She’s loosened me up with these questions, and I’m not really comfortable with that. I’m . . . cautious by nature, ruthless when necessary. But having two brothers as best friends, I’ve become reticent with others. And here’s Lottie, determined to know me more than I’m willing to give.
“Very interesting.” She has a smile on her face, an expression so genuine that I’m surprised this is all she needed. A conversation, something so simple. “Okay, your turn, ask your final question.”
Giving it some thought, I finally ask, “Dream concert to attend?”
“Dead or alive?”
“Both,” I answer.
“If I could resurrect Freddie Mercury, I’d pretty much give my soul to do so. To see him live, to watch him perform . . . God, it would be the ultimate dream. But to watch alive . . . hmm, right now . . . probably Fleetwood Mac.”
Surprised, I say, “I was not expecting that answer. From everything you’ve said, I would’ve thought you were going to say Foreigner.”
“I mean, they are on top of the list, but I’m obsessed with Stevie Nicks, and the new collabs she did with Miley Cyrus . . . ooo, so good. And they’re just chill music, you know? You can listen to them on a rainy day or when you’re at the beach. And ‘Dreams’ . . .” A smile crosses her face. “I think it would be the perfect make-out song. The tempo, the feel of it. It’s so good. Are you a fan of Fleetwood Mac?”
I nod. “I am. I’ll play them while working sometimes.”
She holds up her hand in surprise. “You listen to music while you’re working?”
“Every day.”
“Wow.” She pushes my shoulder. “See? This is what I needed. To see you act like a human.” She lets out a deep breath. “I feel better.” She picks up her spoon and digs back into her soup.
“You feel better? Just like that?”
“Yup. You should know, Huxley, I’m pretty easy.”
“Yeah . . . found that out last night.”
“And would you look at that—he jokes too. Amazing.”
Chapter Fourteen
LOTTIE
I check my watch to see what time it is. A little past one. We ate lunch early today because Kelsey had a meeting with a potential client at one thirty. I’ve been working on the website for the past hour and a half and I need to take a breather.
Leaning back in the uncomfortable dining chair—we’re going to need an office space at some point, rather than Kelsey’s small studio apartment—I pick up my phone and open my text thread with Huxley.