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Daisy
Bea, Shira, Clara, and I sat in a line of pedicure chairs, passing my phone down from person to person, each of us frowning at my inbox. In the past forty-eight hours, Grazing had gotten ten cancellations. All the bookings Bea had secured were still on our calendar, along with the ones who had contacted us through our website, but at least half of the bookings made by women I’d met at events this summer had been deleted right off our calendar like they’d never existed.
Clara stated what we were all thinking. “This isn’t a coincidence.”
“No. There are too many of them. It can’t be,” I agreed.
My heart lodged in my throat, panicked over what to do. Nothing like this had ever happened to me before. My web design clients occasionally canceled, but never in droves. And our Grazing clients had been incredibly happy with our services. I really couldn’t fathom what had gone wrong. And now, I had Bea counting on the income from Grazing since she’d quit High Bar. If we didn’t rebook those empty slots, we were screwed—Bea more than me.
“Make any enemies lately?” Clara asked.
“I don’t think so. Bea’s the one more likely to make enemies.”
Bea snickered. “I’d be insulted if it weren’t true.” She flicked the mini butcher knife earring in her earlobe. “However, I don’t think it’s me. My enemies are drunk guys who try to grab my tits and this rich guy I keep running into everywhere.”
Clara leaned forward to look at Bea. “Rich guy? Is he stalking you?”
“Maybe. Does it even count as stalking if they’re rich and handsome?”
“Yes,” Shira said softly. “Do you need help?”
Bea waved her off. “I don’t think he’s the murder-y type. And to be fair, our run-ins could be a coincidence. They just happen often and tend to end in violence.”
Shira’s mouth dropped open in an O. “I’m intrigued by you.”
Clara waved a hand in front of her. “Can we get back to the matter at hand? I’m due at a board meeting in forty minutes.” She bent forward to talk to her nail lady. “I want creamy pink. Sheer as possible.”
“No fun colors on your toes?” I asked.
Sighing, she leaned back in her massage chair. “Should I? I always get pink, and I have no one to show them to anyway.”
“Nellie would get a kick out of a bright color,” Shira said.
“Who’s Nellie?” Bea asked.
“My two-year-old.” Clara tapped her bottom lip with her finger. “Oh, all right. Nellie’s into purple lately. Let’s go bright purple.”
“Yeah, girl,” Bea drawled in her deadpan way. “Get it.”
I wiggled my toes in the pedicure tub. “Maybe I’ll skip black and go red this time.”
Miles would be into it.
Bea twirled her finger. “It’s like Girls Gone Wild, Spring Break in Cancun edition.”
I shushed her. “Now that our colors are settled, can we talk about our business that’s quickly slipping away?”
“I think you need to reexamine who might not be your biggest fan,” Clara suggested.
“Nick the asshole,” came from Bea.
I scrunched my nose. “Nick’s scared of Whitney Mae. Besides, how would he know who had booked with us?”
“What about your ex?” Shira asked. “Is he angry?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t heard from Andy in a long time. His family mingles in the same crowd as a lot of our clients, but I think it being him is a longshot.” I turned to Bea. “Are you sure we don’t have a deluge of terrible Yelp reviews?”
“Nope. Plus, if we did, we’d have widespread cancellations.” Bea arched a brow. “I think some rich bitch hates you.”
