company.
“You don’t have to…” she begins, cheeks still heated.
“Yes.” I fold my hands on the table. “That’s one of the perks of working for yourself, I suppose.”
Her eyes widen just a little. “Having sex at work?”
“Having the option if the mood strikes.”
“I see.” The way she’s looking at me makes me wish we were alone in this building. But Lauren and Gabe are right down the hall, filming test footage of candidates for an assortment of shop owners. Anyone could walk in here at any time.
“Was it—was it someone who worked for you?”
Her question throws me off guard, and it takes me a second to answer. “No.”
“No?” Something that looks like relief flickers in her eyes.
“No. My ex-fiancée. Andrea.”
She nods, processing the information. It doesn’t seem to bug her, but I’m no mind reader. “You two were together a long time.”
It’s not exactly a question, but I nod anyway. “Yeah.” I hesitate, not sure how much to share. “I mean, sort of. The relationship lasted a while, but the cumulative time we spent together wasn’t that much.”
“What do you mean?”
I shrug, pushing back the faint remaining traces of guilt and anger. “I worked so much we hardly saw each other. Or she’d be off somewhere filming, and I’d be too busy to go visit.” No, that’s not true. “I wouldn’t make the time,” I amend, knowing that’s how Mari would have me frame it. I can take ownership for my fuckups. “Of course she’d look to someone else for companionship.”
Vanessa’s brow furrows. “You can’t blame yourself.”
“Sure I can.”
She shakes her head slowly. “Accountability’s one thing. But you’re not to blame for her cheating.”
I quirk an eyebrow at her. “And are you to blame for the dickheads you’ve dated?” Her face registers surprise, and I realize the blow landed harder than I meant it to. I soften my approach. “At the waterpark the other day, you blamed yourself. For dating guys who screwed you over or turned out to be married or whatever.”
She looks at me for a long time, then nods. “You’re right. It’s not entirely on me that I pick guys who manipulate or patronize or talk down to me.” She looks down at the table. “It’s sort of on me, though.”
“Or your mother.”
She looks up sharply. “What?”
I kick myself, pretty sure I’ve overstepped. “The way you’ve described her, it’s like you ran straight from one controlling relationship and into a series of others. Repeating the pattern or something.”
A faint smile tugs the corners of her mouth. “Does having a sister who’s a shrink give you an honorary degree?”
I laugh and press my palms to the table. I can’t help but notice her gaze lingering, and I wonder what that’s about. “Maybe a little. So how about you?”
“What about me?”
I pat the table and her eyes flick to my hands again. “Scandalous workplace hookups. Not your thing?”
She smiles and shakes her head. “No, but I made out with my sister’s husband while we were dangling a couple hundred feet off the ground on the Morning Glory at Smith Rock,” she says. “Does that count as scandalous?”
“What?” I gape at her, too stunned to come up with a better response.
Laughing, she tucks her hair behind her ear. “This was long before my sister met him. I was eighteen, visiting Oregon for the summer. We had this hot fling for a few weeks.”
Relief floods my system, along with a little intrigue. “Sounds…exciting.” My voice sounds weird, and I’m trying not to picture Vanessa having a hot fling.
She shrugs. “Hot may not be the right word. I was young and inexperienced, so we maybe only got to second base.”
It takes all my mental control not to picture second base. Not to recall the curve of Vanessa’s breasts brushing my arm in the waterslide or pressed against my chest when we kissed. “Is that awkward? Having your sister married to a guy you used to date?”
“Not at all,” she says. “He’s a great guy. Just not the right one for me.”
“I see.” I’m not sure I do, though.
I wait for her to share more, but she’s pressing her lips together now. “Sorry, I kinda derailed things for a bit.” Reaching across the table, she grabs the notepad she used for the interview. “So that’s a no on Bill, right?”
“Right.” And the end of our conversation, as far as I can tell. I glance at my watch. “Next contender will be here in just a few. Maybe she’ll be a better fit.”
“Maybe.”
I can’t help