“Transparent means people can see right through me,” I say. “That’s not what I need walking into my first board meeting. Now I need this cookie more than you do.” I skirt around the table to the sofa side so I can pluck it from beneath the banana partially hiding it.
“What? No, I need it. Because of old Sam.”
“Nope. Mine.”
“Is it the only one?” he asks, staring at the platter.
“It is. Ooh, it’s chewy not crumbly.” I raise it to take a bite, but Jay snags the arm of my blazer.
“No way, that’s my medicine.” He tugs on my sleeve, but I’ve been well-trained by my thieving brother over the years.
I switch the cookie to my other hand, moving it farther out of Jay’s reach. “Gonna need every gram of sugar now that I know people can see right through me.”
Jay growls and does a half lunge up to grab it, but he doesn’t have enough momentum, and he plops backward on the sofa again. He does have enough momentum to unbalance me, though, and I tip toward him, doing a futile windmill to save myself before I land on him, but I sprawl across his lap, my knees on the cushion beside his thighs, my arms across the sofa arm.
“Ha!” I say. Because at the end of my extended arm,stillout of his reach, is the cookie.
“I need it.” He shoots his hand beneath my chest and through my arms toward the cookie, barely avoiding landing us in HR-reporting territory. He clasps my wrist, twisting to bring his other arm around my far side to snatch the cookie from me that way.
His chest presses into my side as he reaches for the cookie, and I forget any survival moves I learned in sibling wrestling. Instead, I fight the urge to flip over and settle right into Jay’s lap.
“What is going on here?” a woman’s voice asks from the doorway.
I yank my wrist free and clamber to my feet. Clamber is such a good word for it too, like a clumsily puppeteered marionette straightening with clacking of limbs.
Who would be the absolute worst person to walk in on that specific three seconds?
Yeah.
“Good to see you, Catherine.”
Chapter Nineteen
Phoebe
I’m a pants-on-fire liar,of course. It’s not at all good to see Catherine Crawford. Especially not in this exact moment. But I try to recover anyway.
“You’re early,” I say.Sound professional, Phoebe.“Traffic must have been kind to you.”
“On time is late.” Catherine’s voice is cool as Jay climbs to his feet beside me. “Am I interrupting?”
“No, my apologies. That must have looked odd. Jay stole my cookie.” I fight a wince as soon as the words are out. I meant to explain she witnessed something innocent, not make myself sound like a junior high tattletale. “What I mean is I fell?—”
“Catherine Crawford,” Jay says, walking toward her with his hand extended. “Jameson Martin, but please call me Jay. Good to meet you in person after so many emails.”
So many emails? What are they emailing about? The museum? Or … me?
She accepts his handshake, and I walk over to join them.
“We still have several minutes for the other boardmembers to arrive, but please help yourself to refreshments from Serendipi-Tea. You’re out of luck for cookies, sadly.”
No one smiles at my weak joke.
Catherine glides toward the table, looking as if she’s never experienced an awkward moment in her life. She’s about Foster’s age and allowing it to show, no facelift pulling her soft lines taut. Her hair shows as much silver as dark brown, yet it’s also obvious that she’s taken care of herself with expensive lotions and an expert salon cut. She looks and smells like quiet wealth.
She’s wearing a paisley silk blouse beneath a beautifully tailored jacket, and the hem of her matching skirt falls exactly to the middle of her knee. A strand of pearls hangs around her neck, as they have every time I’ve seen her, and a Chanel double-flap handbag hangs on the crook of her arm.
I shoot Jay a panicked look, and he answers with ayikesface.
