Page 44 of Unmanageable

“Life is all about balance, Finnian. I manage the brand during the day, and I manage the cravings at night. It’s a system. It works.” I grab a biscuit and tear it open, the steam rising. “So, tell me. How’s the shoulder actually feeling? Don’t give me the PR answer. Don’t give me the ‘I’m a machine’ routine. Give me the truth.”

He sighs, his posture dropping. “It’s tight. Every time I drop into a butterfly, I can feel the pull. It’s like a rubber band that’s been stretched too far.”

“And that’s why we’re doing this,” I say, my voice softening, the banter falling away. “I’ve got the best physical therapist meeting us in Memphis later. We’re going to be fine.”

“We?” he asks, his eyebrows arching, his gaze intensifying.

“We,” I repeat firmly. “I’m the agent. If you fail, I look bad. And I hate looking bad.”

“Right. The brand.” He reaches across the table, his hand hovering over mine. He doesn’t touch me yet, but I can feel the heat radiating off him, a tangible, magnetic pull. “Is that all this is? A brand exercise?”

“Cash,” I huff, my heart hammering against my ribs. “I’m trying to be professional here.”

“You’re doing a terrible job,” he says, his fingers closing over mine.

Loretta returns with the Garbage Plate—a mountain of home fries, macaroni salad, meat sauce, and onions—and an omelet for Cash. The food is magnificent. It’s an insult to health, and it’s exactly what I need.

“Oh my god,” I mutter, taking the first bite. “This is it. This is the peak of my life. Everything after this is a decline.”

“Better than the wedding catering?” Cash asks, stabbing a piece of bacon.

“Don’t tell Ivy, but yes. This meat sauce has a soul.”

We eat like people who haven’t seen food in a month.

We talk about Cal and Ivy. We talk about the old days, back when Cash was a rookie and I was just an assistant trying to make a name for myself. The diner feels like a bubble, isolated from the rest of the world.

Later, Loretta drops the dessert. It’s a massive wedge of cheesecake, battered and fried, drizzled with chocolate and caramel. I dive in before she even sets the fork down.

“You have chocolate on your nose,” Cash says, his eyes dancing.

“I don’t care.”

He doesn’t say anything for a second, just watches me with that lazy, half-amused look that always makes my pulse do something stupid.

“Hold on,” he murmurs.

He reaches out, his thumb brushing against the tip of my nose. His skin is warm, and his touch lingers for a fraction of a second longer than it needs to, his thumb sliding down the bridge of my nose in a slow stroke.

My breath catches in my throat, the entire noisy diner fading into a dull hum.

He pulls his hand back, casually licking a speck of chocolate off his thumb while keeping his eyes locked right on mine. “There. Professional reputation saved.”

“Right,” I say, my voice sounding a little hollow as I frantically try to gather my composure and pick up my purse. “We’re leaving. Before I order a third one and we both die of a sugar stroke.”

We walk out into the cool evening air.

“I’m driving,” I announce, snatching the keys from his hand.

“You? In those shoes? You’re going to put us in a ditch.”

I follow his gaze to my flimsy strappy sandals and wiggle my toes. “These? Please. I can do anything in these shoes, O’Connell. Get in the passenger seat and try not to scream.”

I climb into the driver’s seat, the seat springs groaning in protest. I turn the key, and the air-cooled engine coughs to life with a distinctive, rhythmic thrumming sound that vibrates through the floorboards. I put it in gear, the van lurching forward as I guide it out of the lot, the tires spitting gravel, the neon of the Rusty Spud fading into a blur behind us.

“You’re going sixty in a forty-five, Scottie!” Cash shouts over the wind, though he doesn’t sound entirely panicked.

“Then buckle up, Finny! It’s going to be a long night!”