She shoots me a quizzical look. “Who thinks that?”

I shrug. “Dunno. But probably everyone, I figure, since they are the smarter ones. Josie is great with books, and Nick is just . . . well, he’s Nick. The old noggin works really well on him. They did better in school than I did.”

“You already know where I stand on that front,” she says, and holds up a fist. “Black sheep united.”

I knock her curved fingers. “Seems we’ve got some things in common, the-almost-former-Mrs. Hammer.”

“Such a shame, since it’s a fun last name.”

“It is. By the way, I’m assuming the fact that we’re meeting at the farmer’s market, not the office, means we’re trying not to fuck like bunnies again?” I ask, aiming to make light of the situation.

She cracks up and gestures to the tents peddling asparagus, arugula, and artichokes. “What? You think I won’t tug you behind one of the veggie stands so we can get it on behind a box of portobellos?”

Immediately, I scan the market. “Where are those damn mushrooms?”

She swats me, and we make our way out of the market. “I do think we should try to be good boys and girls,” she says, her tone a touch more serious. “That work for you?”

I drape an arm over her shoulder. “Works for me. And it looks like we survived keeping our hands off each other, thanks to your mushroom strategy. Don’t think it’s gone unnoticed that there are no mushroom stands here today.”

She snaps her fingers in an “aw shucks” gesture. “You figured me out.” Her eyes drift to my hand on her shoulder, as if to say she’s caught me.

I hold out that hand, admitting my guilt. “I’m trying, woman. I’m trying to be a good guy.”

And I am. I’m trying so fucking hard not to hike her over my shoulder, carry her through the crowds, and kiss the hell out of her on top of the crates of berries, boxes of asparagus, or behind the bunches of bananas.

Because really, getting it on with her at a banana stand would absolutely be our style.

“Check out that banana stand,” I say with a tip of my forehead and a wiggle of my eyebrows.

She swats me. “You’re bad. We’re trying to be friends.”

I straighten and adopt a serious tone. “I meant as friends, of course. I want to be friendly with you behind the banana stand.”

She rolls her eyes. “Speaking of being friends, I’ll send you those videos later. I’m ready to show them to you.”

When I click on the email that evening, I vow to focus on helping her, not nailing her.

Because she needs the help.

These videos suck.

26

When Natalie dropkicks the wiry dude in the black sweats, he falls to the floor in a graceful heap.

As if he’s practiced the move before.

“See?” I say, pointing at the video playing on her phone on Monday night at the dojo, McKeon Karate. “It’s like he’s done it before. It reads like an ad rather than a real-life situation.”

We sit cross-legged on the blue mats. She finished her classes for the night and asked me to meet her here to review the videos, since I worked late at Violet’s on the kitchen remodel. This is the only chance we’ve had all day to connect.

She tightens her ponytail, tugging on the strands. Wearing her karate uniform, she looks tough and no-nonsense in the white pants and matching shirt, as well as the black belt. Her feet, though, are adorably cute. They’re bare, and her toenails are painted in alternating shades of mint green and bright purple. Just like she told me in Vegas she liked to do.

“It’s too slick, you mean?” she asks.

I tap my nose. “Bingo.”

“You think it needs to feel more authentic?”

“You’re trying to reach a broader audience with these videos. Inspire women to learn self-defense. You want the videos to feel more natural, in my opinion. Like this could happen and you’d be able to whip around and knock some fucking bastard to his knees.”

She stretches forward and flops her face down on the mat. “Thank God,” she says in a long exhale. “I thought you were going to say they were dull.”

“Ha. No,” I say, brandishing the phone. “This guy is just so Karate Kid. I watch this and I don’t think self-defense. I think two karate experts doing something I can never do. It’s very . . . choreographed.”

She sits up straight, turns to face me, and grabs my arm. “I can do this, Wyatt. I can fix them. I’ve shown them to people here, and they all say they’re great, but I knew deep down they weren’t.” She pokes my shoulder. “Thank you for being honest with me. I needed someone outside of the world of martial arts.”

I officially decide Natalie is one of the coolest people I know. I’ve never seen someone take criticism as well as she does. She’s not defensive; she’s not annoyed. She truly wants to make her videos the best they can be.

Also, look at us rocking it in the friendship department.

Note to self: Focusing on helping your employee pursue her passion is a much more noble use of your time than planning how to screw her senseless again.

Yup. This is how I can be a good guy. This is Wyatt post-greasy salad.

She stands and paces around the studio. It’s only us now. She’s locked up for the night. “Okay, so we want this to feel real. Like some guy just came up to me on the street.”

“Absolutely.”