The photographer and blogger were both running late. I should have called them this morning, but I supposed not everyone shared my appreciation for punctuality. “They told us to visit with”—I checked the paper in my hand before continuing—“Cassandra Kitchen? Her late husband played professional football. I figured it would be good for you to chat with her. Apparently Albert Kitchen was well respected in the NFL.”

“Wait,” Oakley interrupted, jarring my eyes back to him. It really wasn’t fair how good he looked for having so little sleep. It took me two hours to get ready this morning. “Albert Kitchen? As in the...” He started spouting a ton of stats and football jargon that I was not interested enough to listen to.

“I guess?”

His lips stretched into a wide smile. “Sweet! Meeting his wife will be really cool. Think she has any photos of him?”

It was kind of adorable to see him acting like a kid. He was positively giddy. This was exactly the type of moment I wanted the photographer to capture. Where was he? “Hold on just a second, I’m going to try and get a hold of the photographer,” I told Oakley and pulled out my phone. I found the email chain with his information. Nick Bell. I clicked Nick’s phone number, and it started ringing.

“Yeah?” Nick answered.

“Nick? This is Amanda Matthews, Oakley Davis’s publicist. I’m at the retirement center with Oakley. What’s your ETA?” I asked, sounding politely irritated. I didn’t see why it was so hard for everybody else to take their jobs as seriously as I took mine.

“I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes,” Nick answered and then hung up. I didn’t have to repeat the same process with the blogger, because she had magically arrived while I was on the phone with Nick and was now practically hanging off of Oakley. What the fuck, girl, have some professionalism. I was more bothered than I should have been, seeing her flirting with Oakley.

She was beautiful with long dark hair and bright green eyes; it wasn’t a mystery why she had Oakley biting his bottom lip like a cat in heat. She wore a University of Texas tee shirt with cut off shorts and wedges. She was hot. I could appreciate a pretty girl. I hated how I instantly compared myself to her. It wasn’t healthy. In fact, it was something the old Amanda would have done. I shook my head and approached them both.

“Hi, Sara. I’m Amanda Matthews, Oakley’s publicist. It’s nice to meet you.” Intentionally called her the wrong name. Damn, when did I become a jealous, petty bitch? Double damn, when did I become jealous? I really needed to get my shit together. Green was not my color.