The Honey - Don't List

The upside, I guess, is that I don’t have to spend much of the next morning worrying about it, because I wake to a flurry of texts and notifications. The Variety announcement—that the first season of the Tripps’ new show, Home Sweet Home, can soon be streamed in its entirety on Netflix—hits all of our socials just after eight a.m. Melissa has texted me to let me know that a stylist is coming to get Rusty ready, and I’m to accompany Carey over to Boulevard restaurant at the Embarcadero to help set up for the party this afternoon. Based on our itinerary, there will be about fifty guests, and Melissa wanted something iconic for the sit-down lunch. By the time guests arrive at noon, we should (according to Ted) have a pretty good idea what the show buzz is, and we’ll know in a few days whether it gives the Tripps the expected boost they’re looking for in book sales.

I have barely enough time to get myself presentable—let alone spend any of it worrying about how things will be today. By nine thirty, I’m waiting at the curb, ordering a Lyft for us, when there’s a tap to my shoulder.

Carey stands there, hair blowing across her cheek in the San Francisco wind. The woman can’t hide a blush, and relief passes through me seeing that she’s nervous, too.

“Hey,” she says. “I didn’t know you’d be coming with me.”

“Melissa’s instructions.” I give a lame little salute.

We stand there for a few awkward beats, and I have to assume we’re equally unsure what to say to get the conversation rolling. For the life of me, the only thing that seems to flash across my thoughts is the final second before we kissed last night, that moment of intense anticipation followed by the powerful relief.

“So,” she says, wincing sweetly.

“So,” I say back, biting down on my grin. Every time I did that last night she’d look at my mouth. Maybe the weight between us is still there today.

Carey tilts her head to the side, brows raised. “So is that our car?” She gestures to the curb, to the white sedan that’s pulled up, window down, driver leaning impatiently toward us. “James?” he asks.

With a mumbled confirmation, I open the car door for Carey and watch her slide across the seat, giving myself exactly the time it takes for her to adjust her skirt over her legs to appreciate the flash of bare skin.

We pull away from the curb and again, my mind goes blank. “How—um—are you?” I ask.

“I’m glad to get out of the hotel for the day, I’ll tell you that.” She glances behind us as if to somehow reassure herself that Melissa is well and truly not around.

“I bet.”

But is being alone together any more relaxing? I have no idea. It’s certainly not relaxing for me. I can close my eyes and remember how intense it was just unbuttoning her jacket, or the way her tank and skirt were soaking wet and clinging to her, or the way she blinked the water out of her eyes and her gaze kept sinking to my mouth as if pulled there by a weight.

“Did you sleep okay?” she asks.

I swallow a laugh. “Not really.”

When I look over at her, the blush is back. “Yeah. Me either.”

This seems like a fantastic opportunity for us to talk about why we both slept like crap, but of course our phones buzz in unison.

Robyn

Today is the day the Tripps become the most popular home renovation experts in the world!

This is a huge day for all of us.

Chin up!

The window to talk about the us in the car together closes as the other, bigger Us takes over again. Carey pulls in a deep breath and rubs her face, groaning. This event is probably the most important of the tour. Although the party is small, there will be hugely influential journalists and industry people in the room—from the Chronicle, Goodreads, Apple Books, and, of course, Netflix. The Tripps need to be at their very best. So it’s probably good if I’m not distracted by the idea of kissing Carey again anyway.

“Tell me how I can help you today,” I say quietly.

“I think everything should be ready to go.” She opens her notebook. “I have the menu confirmed, seating chart, florist …” Trailing off, she drags a finger down the page. “I don’t even know that I’ll have much to do except make sure things go smoothly.”

“Did you and Melissa talk about last night?”

“Um.” She closes the notebook in her lap. “Briefly, yeah.”

I can tell the abrupt subject change caught her off guard, but I’m invested now in her being more assertive and valued in this job. I don’t want her to sweep this under the rug. “I assume she apologized?”

“That’s a dangerous assumption to make,” she says, laughing a little, “but sort of. She said she was sorry my feelings were hurt, which … isn’t really an apology, but it’s about as good as I’ll get, and things are fine now.”