But believing that would require me to be a different type of person—one who thinks soul mates are real, for starters. Or one who believes in rom-com perfect happy endings, instead of what I actually believe in, which is the real-life right now. Those happy endings don’t exist for people like me, but joy-filled moments sure do.

I put on some yacht rock, paste on my Customer Service Chloe smile, and try my hardest to forget that Nick Velez is back there in his office, possibly texting a beautiful woman at this very second.

Chapter Eight

“Wait,” Annie says on the phone, because the events of last night and today merited a phone call, not a series of texts. Annie’s currently in LA, doing something-something-something related to her movie (I zone out when she gets into specifics), and I decided this couldn’t wait until she was back in town. “You’re telling me you slept with Mikey Danger?”

“No need to put it so crudely, Annie,” I say, immersing my hands in the pie dough. I have her on speakerphone so I can work on making this vegan pâte brisée out of coconut oil and coconut milk. It’s occasionally confusing and bewildering to work without butter, but I love being able to offer options at the shop.

What I’m not telling Annie because it doesn’t matter is that Mikey and I didn’t actually have sex. We made out for a while and then he left, but I feel like I should at least keep up the Chloe Sanderson mystique.

“A lady never kisses and tells,” I continue, adding my chilled coconut oil to my flour.

“Could a lady confirm or deny the rumor that Mikey has the word Danger tattooed on his lower abdomen?”

I make a face that only the pâte brisée can see. “Uh, that’s a hard deny. I have standards, Annie.”

“Sorry! I’ve been wondering about that since high school.”

“Ew. No. All of his tattoos were normal and not warnings.”

“Okay. Um.” She sighs, the air rushing into the speaker. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Yes, I will be the godmother of your child.”

“If we were doing the whole godmother thing, it would be you for sure. But that’s not what I wanted to talk about.”

I add in a small quantity of solidified coconut oil and wait.

“What did Nick think about all this?”

My hands stop moving, covered in dough. “Um, why does that matter?”

“You know why it matters.”

I glance around my kitchen, at the teal backsplash I got on a deep discount from a home improvement store and had Nick install for me one weekend a couple of years ago. I shift my gaze and focus on the floral pictures with frames I painted in coral, yellow, and green, the ones I plan on hanging up at Nick’s once he agrees to let me redecorate. I spin around and come face-to-face with my succulent named Geoff—the only plant I can manage to keep alive because it thrives on neglect—and remember how I tried and failed to get Nick to let me bring in some plants to brighten up the place.