Page 26 of All's Fair in Love and Blackmail
Me
Did I mention I hate you?
“Why are you calling me?”
It’s the first thing India says the next day when she answers the phone.
I swivel in my chair, absently stirring the rice in my Tupperware. The first bite I took burned my tongue; the second bite was cold.
Workplace microwaves, man.
“I’m calling because I’m on my lunch break and I want to nail down our plans for this weekend.” I pause. “Do you not have lunch break?”
“I do,” she says, “but not right now. Right now you’re on speaker as I sanitize the dog kennels.”
“I see,” I say slowly. “And you work…?”
“At the Pampered Pup,” she says. “It’s a pet groomer and boarding place here in Lucky.”
Huh. “Did you study something with animals in college?” I say. Now that I think about it, I have no idea what she went to school for.
“Ha,” she says, but the sound is forced. A faint clatter sounds, and then her voice returns. “No.”
“What, then?”
“Communications,” she says, and I blink in surprise.
“Really?” I say. “That’s what I studied.”
“Did you?” she says, and I’m definitely not imagining things—she sounds downright uncomfortable. “Small world. Well, I don’t use it at all, obviously.”
Interesting. “But you like your job?”
“I love it,” she says, the words easier now. “I like being up and moving, and I really love animals.”
“Sounds like a good fit, then.”
“It is.” A faint clank of metal somewhere on her end, and then an out-of-breath question: “So wait, why didn’t we nail down weekend plans yesterday?”
“Because I had to double-check my work schedule for Friday, which I now have done.”
“Ah.”
She seems distracted, distant, so I speak quickly. “Does Friday evening work for checking out the lookout spot you mentioned? Crow Point? Or maybe the bookstore?” I’m skeptical of a bookstore’s capacity to be romantic, personally, but who am I to argue with a local book lover like India?
“Ooh, the bookstore! That should be fun,” she says, still sounding like she’s only half paying attention. “On Saturday, though. I have something planned for Friday already.”
“Sure,” I say. “Saturday is fine.” I pause, debating, and then go on. “Do you need any help for your list? Is that what you’re doing Friday?”
“Yes, but I don’t know that I’ll need you. In fact—” She breaks off, and I can picture the little furrow in her brow when she speaks again. “I sort of regret asking for help. I don’t really need any.”
“Sure you do,” I say quickly. “You’re scratching my back, so I’ll scratch yours. Not to mention, I desperately want to know what’s on India Marigold’s bucket list. I’m serious,” I add when she snorts with clear skepticism. “Call me intrigued.”
“I’m sure,” she says, all sarcasm.
I shake my head. “You can’t uninvite me now, Sunshine. I’ll let you off the hook for Friday, but after that, I’m your back-scratcher-slash-chauffeur extraordinaire. Got it?”
“Meh.”
