“Or, as most call it,” she says, “San Francisco.”
“San Francisco,” I tell her, “and nurse me back to health.”
“No deal.”
“Wow. Some friend you are.”
“Oh, I’m the best kind of friend,” she tells me. “Because if I stayed put, yourlocalbest friend, whose house you’re walking to now, would nurse you back to health instead.”
“Lauren!” I come to a dead stop on the sidewalk. “No location tracking!”
“I’m not tracking your location,” she says. “Just working off a hunch, which you’ve now confirmed.”
I shut my eyes and sigh. “Dammit.”
“Answer my FaceTime request, would you?”
I jab at my phone and hit the accept button. Her flawless, infuriating face pops up—bright green eyes, that sleek ink-black bob, a shit-eating grin.
“You,” I tell her, “are going to talk about work. Right now. Or I’m hanging up.”
She’s sprawled across a chaise on a sunny balcony, the blurry background of a bougie hotel behind her shifting as she sips her margarita. “Sure thing,” she says. “Just one request, before I start. Please make sure we’re still FaceTiming when you get to his place. I haven’t seen Hot Chef’s hot face in way too long.”
My walk from the bookstore to Alex’s house isn’t far, the weather so dreamily perfect, that even if it was a hike, I wouldn’t notice. By the time I’m coming up on the alley behind his house, I’ve told Lauren about the professional side of my stay-or-go dilemma as well as my get-the-dog-for-good plan, she’s filled me in on her client from hell misery, and Lauren’s wrapping up her second room-service taco. My stomach growls loudly.
“That looks so good,” I tell her.
“It is,” she says around her mouthful. “Have Hot Chef make you some.”
I roll my eyes as I turn into the alley. “He’s not my personal chef, Lo. And he’s busy right now, working on his next cookbook. If he’s testing recipes and whipped up something, I’ll eat it. If he hasn’t, I brought my leftover SpaghettiOs.”
“Thea. SpaghettiOs are barely edible to begin with.LeftoverSpaghettiOs?” She gags.
“Back off my ’Os,” I tell her. “You and Alex are such haters.”
“What can I say? Hot Chef and I know good food.”
I open Alex’s backyard gate on a rusty squeak, then drag it shut behind me. “You’re fancy-food snobs, is what you are.”
“Uh-huh.” She pops the last bite of taco in her mouth and leans in, eyes narrowed. “Well,” she says, “I can see you’ve made it safely to your destination. And that Hot Chef keeps as messy a backyard as ever.”
I smile at her FaceTime view of the scene behind me. Lumpy grass and weed-ridden flower beds, chewed-up tennis balls, a kid-size soccer net that’s seen better days.
“It’s not messy,” I tell her. “It’s lived in.”
Lauren says, “It’s messy.”
“He’s got a high-energy six-year-old! And Argos is here all the time, tearing up his yard.”
“Ishe.” She grins. “Meaningyou’re there all the time, too.”
I lift my chin, defiant. Yes, I hang out with Alex most nights of the week. What’s the big deal? “So?” I ask.
“That’s an awful lot of time to spend with your local best friend whose bones you say youdon’twant to jump—”
“I’m hanging up.”
“No, you’re not! I get to see Hot Chef’s hot face first, that was the deal.”