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Today, 3:27 PM

Barry:

I expect the sample in my inbox by noon on Friday.

Good luck, kid!

Say hi to Paisley for me.

Track 13

A Plate Full of Humble Pie

Paisley

November 9

“Paisley.”

I turn to find Kash jogging toward me. His dark hair falls into his face, and he brushes it back from his eyes when he catches up to me. Slightly out of breath, he flashes me a grin that’s part contrite and part calculating.

I don’t have to be clairvoyant to know where this is going.

“No,” I say, spinning around so quickly, the pom-pom tail of my sparkly Santa hat almost whacks him in the face.

“Wait,” he says, hustling to keep up with me. Our boots crunch over gravel and send small pieces of stones scattering. “You haven’t even heard what I have to say.”

I pick up the pace. Nothing he has to say interests me. Well, that’s not true. An apology would be interesting. Admitting he’s a jerk would pique my curiosity. I suppose if he were here to tell me I won the lottery, I’d hear him out. But realistically, he’s tracked me down for one reason and one reason only: He needs a favor. And I’m not in the mood. “It doesn’t matter. The answer’s no.”

“Please?” he asks, and he actually presses his palms together like he’s begging.

“No.”

“Pretty please?”

“Still no,” I grumble.

Kash follows me into the courtyard like a piece of gum stuck to the bottom of my shoe. It’s my night to work the cocoa stand. It’s not as crowded as it’ll be after Thanksgiving, but Mom’s running a drop-in cornucopia craft night over at the big red barn as one of our pre-Thanksgiving events, so there are enough people milling about to justify firing up the electric stainless steel water boiler.

“Pretty, pretty please with a cherry on top?”

There’s a desperate look in Kash’s big brown eyes, and I bet he doesn’t hear no an awful lot.

“What are you, like, six?” I pull open the hip-height saloon door to the cocoa stand and unlock the cabinet where we store the single-serve cocoa packets. Then I grab a wicker basket from the shelf and set it on the counter.

“Paisley,” he says with an impish grin that is most definitely not adorable. “Please just hear me out.”

“Why should I?”

His smile falters and his brows furrow. “Because I was wrong.”

Well, that gets my attention. It takes a lot to own up to something.

I stop setting out stirring sticks and paper cups and take a good, long look at him. I look past the shape of his jawline and notice the firm, determined set of his jaw. I ignore the golden flecks in his deep brown eyes and focus instead on the sincerity in their depths. It takes a second for me to convince myself that I’m not getting taken in by his good looks or a manipulative lie.

“I’m listening,” I say.

“I shouldn’t have been so quick to decide not to work with you. I should have shown up to that first session in the studio the morning after I arrived, and I should have made an effort. It was rude to blow you off and then show up while you were working to tell you I didn’t need your help. I can imagine how it felt to be treated like that. To have wasted your time. And I’m deeply sorry.”