Let it Show (Juniper Ridge Romantic Comedies Book 2)

by Tawna Fenske

  But she steps back, widening the gap between us. “Um, do you think we have five minutes before we sit down to dinner?”

  We’re ready to eat right now, but I sense she needs a minute. Hell, maybe I should take a second to stick my head in the freezer. “Sure, we can stall. You need the restroom or something?”

  Dumb. What a dumb thing to say to an attractive woman, but she doesn’t react. Just backs toward the front door, slipping her phone from her pocket.

  “I need to make a quick call,” she says. “To my professional mentor. She’s on the east coast, and the time difference makes things tricky, so I need a minute to check in with her.”

  I’m not following how an after-hours phone call makes sense if she’s on the east coast, but it’s none of my business. “Sure. Take as long as you need. We’ll keep things warm for you. You can call from the den if you want.”

  “That’s okay.” She keeps backing toward the door, and I wonder if she’s making a run for it. “I’ll just be a minute.”

  Turning away, she sprints for the exit. I watch her go, dark hair rippling behind her like waves as she hurls herself through the door.

  As it slams shut, I clutch the loaf cooling in my arms, wishing my libido would do the same.

  “Thank you for dinner.” Mari touches her napkin to her mouth. A mouth I definitely have not spent this dinner admiring. “That was delicious.”

  “Glad you liked it.” And gladder things got back on track once we sat down at the dinner table. Our botched kiss may have rattled her, but beer cheese soup made it better. I make a mental note that food is the way to Mari’s heart.

  Her heart is none of your business.

  “Olivia’s mom does a really good soup with chicken and potatoes and this spicy tomato stuff.” Soph drains the last of her milk and sets down the glass. “She made it for us last week.”

  Mari folds her hands on the table and studies my kid with a mix of kindness and clinical curiosity. “Olivia’s mother is pretty terrific,” she agrees. “Sounds like she’s taken you under her wing with food and hair braiding and things like that?”

  I read between the lines of Mari’s questions, and I’m curious, too.

  Are you okay without a mom in your life? Are your needs being met? Have I totally screwed you up by moving us 500 miles to an ex cult compound crawling with cameras?

  Soph hears none of those questions, probably because she’s twelve. “Yeah, she’s cool. It’s weird sometimes with the other girls.”

  Mari tilts her head. “You mean Olivia’s sister or the other girls at school?”

  These questions make me wonder if I should spend more time quizzing my kid. Her grades are great since we got here, but I haven’t monitored her social life.

  “Olivia’s other friends.” Soph glances down, picking at a crust of garlic bread. “There’s this one girl, Avery—she doesn’t live here, but she’s in our math class. And there’s this boy we all like—Ryan? He doesn’t live here, either, but we hang out after school sometimes.”

  “That’s great you’ve got a friend group already,” Mari says. “I’m not surprised. You’re a likable kid.”

  Soph looks a little less sure. “Yeah, so Ryan showed us this meme. A ‘your mom’ joke, you know?”

  My daughter flicks a glance at me, and I’m forced to admit I know this crass brand of humor. “Like ‘your mama’s so ugly that her birth certificate is an apology letter.’ Or ‘your mama’s so fat, she strikes oil when she wears heels.’”

  Both females stare at me, and I wonder if I should avoid repeating misogynistic crap at the dinner table. Or anywhere, really. “Definitely not okay to tell jokes like that,” I add feebly as Soph turns back to Mari.

  “So, this guy, Ryan,” Soph continues. “He showed a meme with someone roasting hot dogs on a rake and it said, ‘this guy handles sixteen wieners at a time, just like your mom.’ And I didn’t really get it, but I laughed anyway, you know?”

  Mari nods tightly, maybe stifling a smile. “Sometimes it’s tempting to act a certain way if you think it’ll help you fit in.” The tiniest furrow forms between her brows. I’d never have seen it if I weren’t staring at her face, and I wonder what it means.

  “Right, so I laughed,” Soph continues. “And then Avery looks at me and says, ‘you know that’s not funny, right? It’s sexist and stupid and also my mom is dead.’”

  “Oh, dear.” The furrow deepens in Mari’s forehead. “How did you feel when she said that?”

  “Embarrassed.” Soph pokes the spoon in her empty bowl. “And sad. Like I wanted to say something, but I didn’t know what. And later when we were both at Olivia’s, Avery kept ignoring me, and I felt even stupider.”

  My heart aches for my girl. I want to snatch her up and hug her and also maybe deck the kid who’d make her feel bad about herself.

  But Mari’s response is more constructive. “You know, it’s never too late to apologize. To say, ‘wow, Avery, I responded poorly, and I’m really sorry I hurt you. I’ll try to be a better friend, and I’m wondering if you could forgive me?’”

  Soph scrunches up her nose. “You don’t think that sounds dumb?”

  Mari smiles. “Admitting you messed up doesn’t make you dumb or weak. It makes you strong and kind and self-aware. Those are qualities any friend would want.”

  “Yeah, I guess.” Soph looks at me. “Avery’s at Olivia’s house right now.”

  I can tell where this is going. “And you’re proposing you invite yourself over?”

  “Olivia asked me.” Her chin tilts up, emotion shimmering in her eyes. “She texted and said they’re watching Tangled and maybe I could come over. Can I, Dad? Please?”

  Like I’m going to tell her no when she looks at me with puppy-dog eyes. I say a silent prayer Mari’s not judging my parenting skills too harshly. “After you finish the dishes,” I say. “And I’m texting Olivia’s mom to make sure it’s okay.”

  “Thank you!” Soph bolts up from the table and grabs Mari’s bowl. “Oh. Are you finished?”

  Mari laughs and tucks her spoon in the mostly-empty bowl. “I am, thank you.”

  “Cool.” Soph stacks it inside my bowl and grabs the empty breadbasket as she looks at me. “And yes, I finished my homework already.”

  “Atta girl.” I tuck my balled-up napkin in the top bowl. “And what do you say to Mari for her advice?”

  Mari touches a hand to her chest. “Oh, it’s not necessary to—”

  “Thank you, Mari.” Soph grins and carries the dishes to the kitchen.

  “You’re welcome, Soph.” Mari’s smile warms her eyes, and I almost forget our earlier awkwardness. The near-miss kiss and the buzzkill of my ex-wife’s photo.

  As soon as Soph’s out of earshot, I need to apologize.

  First things first, though. I trade a quick round of texts with Olivia’s mother, Jaya, confirming she’s home and open to entertaining an extra twelve-year-old.

  Mari excuses herself to wash up, and by the time we’re finished, Soph’s done with the dishes and clutching a brownie from the batch Mari brought.

  “Bye.” My girl stretches up on tiptoe to hug me. “Love you.”

  “Love you, too, kiddo.” I squeeze her tight, grateful she’s finding friends here. That maybe I made the right choice moving us to Juniper Ridge. “Please be home by eight thirty.”

  Soph draws back and grins. “How about nine thirty?”

  “How about eight thirty?” I fold my arms over my chest and brace for more bargaining. It’s her new thing, and perfectly normal, according to Mari’s parenting books. “Or not at all.”

  “Eight thirty’s good.” Soph shoves the brownie in her mouth and grabs her jacket from the coat rack. “And I know, I know…I’ll keep my phone on.” She rounds the table and stops in front of Mari. “Thanks again.”

  Before she can answer, Soph throws her arms around Mari and hugs her. Mari’s eyes flash with surprise as she hugs back and smiles at me over Soph’s shoulder.
r />   “Have fun with your friends,” she says as my daughter lets her go.

  “See you!” Soph darts out the door, slamming it behind her. I watch her race across the lawn, ponytail flying as she disappears past the next bank of cabins.

  Turning to Mari, I give a hopeful smile. “Tell me I’m not screwing up my kid?”

  I mean it as a joke, but Mari must hear the uncertainty in my voice. My fear of being scrutinized by a shrink and found lacking.

  Again.

  “You’re doing amazing.” She hesitates, then reaches across the table and touches my hand. “Seriously. In case no one’s told you that lately, you’re an excellent father.”

  “Thanks.” The lump in my throat makes me feel desperate and dorky, which is definitely not how I imagined kicking off alone-time with Mari.

  Because yeah, I’ve been thinking about it. All through dinner, I wondered what it might be like to score a stolen hour alone with her. Would we pick up where we left off with that kiss?

  Mari clears her throat and stands up. “I should get home. Maybe try calling Susan again.”

  “Susan?”

  “Dr. Susan Pantoja. My professional mentor.” She bites her lip, and I wonder what’s going through her mind. “I left a message earlier.”

  “Ah.” I resist the urge to ask questions. If she wants to tell me why it’s so urgent to reach Susan, she will. “Isn’t it getting late on the east coast?”

  Her grip tightens on the back of the chair. As her eyes search mine, her cheeks flush with color. “I suppose so,” she says slowly. “Susan’s usually good about returning calls.”

  Does she want me to talk her into staying, or give her an excuse to go? I suck at reading minds. If I knew how, I’d still be married.

  Thinking of Gabby sends a sour blast of memory through me. Oddly enough, I don’t feel regret. Not anymore, which is new. I guess that’s progress?

  “Tell you what.” I stand up and push in my chair. “How about you stick around for an after-dinner drink. We can talk about Soph or the show or whatever you feel like discussing.”

  Her brow furrows as she considers the offer. “I would like to know more about how you and Soph came to be here. It’s not that common for a father to have sole custody when his wife is still living.”

  “Ex-wife.” My voice comes out sharper than I mean it to, so I soften it up and try again. “That is a long and twisted story, which I’d be happy to share with you over a raspberry Kolsch. Or coconut porter. Or—”

  “Wine!” Mari darts to the kitchen and grabs the unopened bottle off the counter. “I forgot I brought this. I meant to open it for dinner.”

  “Sure, that works.” I edge past her and slip a corkscrew out of the drawer by the fridge. My fingers brush hers as I hand it over, and I try not to read anything into the way her eyes flash. “What do you need?”

  She blinks. “I—what?”

  “To drink out of.” God, she must think I’m an idiot. “I have stemless or stemmed wine glasses. Not that I drink wine, but guests have both to choose from.”

  Not that I have guests, either, but she doesn’t need to know I’m a loser who hasn’t embraced the Juniper Ridge social scene.

  “Whichever glass is easier to wash,” she says. “Which are you having?”

  I point to a pint glass. “Neither. I’m strictly a beer guy.”

  Another memory ripples through me. Gabby’s voice, bitter and mocking.

  “Just once, I wish you’d get out of your comfort zone and try something new…”

  “Actually, wait.” I look at Mari, then reach past her to grab two stemmed glasses and a second pint glass. “I’ll make you a deal. You share your wine, I’ll share my beer, and we’ll both share random bits of trivia about ourselves.”

  She gives me a curious look. “Like some sort of drinking game?”

  “I hadn’t thought of it that way, but sure.” Reaching into the fridge, I pluck out three small aluminum cans. “The canning equipment we’ve got here kicks ass, by the way.”

  “Oh? I know Gabe and Coop did a ton of research.”

  “They nailed it. I always wanted an in-house system to do these little eight-ounce nip cans one at a time. Don’t worry,” I add when I catch her eyeing me. “We’re not drinking all of this. I just want some samples. And I promise you won’t hurt my feelings if you don’t like any of it.”

  “Deal.” Mari seems more relaxed as she twists the cork from the bottle and pours a few ounces of red wine into two stemmed glasses. Her hands are delicate and confident, and I wonder how her fingers would feel skimming my chest.

  Stop thinking about that.

  “Do you have a tray we can use to carry this?” She nods toward the living room. “I thought maybe we could get comfortable in there.”

  I try not to read anything into that. She’s just being practical, and shrinks love couches, right?

  “Good call.” I slip a wooden tray from the space between the fridge and wall, struck by the jolt of intersecting worlds. I bought this six years ago to make breakfasts in bed for Gabby, a quest to be more thoughtful and spontaneous. We ended up using it for movie nights with Soph.

  I pile the assorted cans and glasses on the tray, then add a few brownies and a box of crackers. “For palate cleansing,” I say when I catch her watching me. “Might as well be professional about this.”

  “Professional. Definitely.” She smiles, but there’s a tightness in it.

  Speaking of tightness, I’m fighting not to admire the curve of her ass as she moves to the living room. I trail behind, holding the tray and reminding myself to take my cues from her. If she’s set on keeping things platonic, I’ll absolutely respect that.

  “So,” Mari says as she takes a seat on the sofa. “Tell me how you chose all your furniture.”

  I settle beside her, keeping a safe foot of distance between us. “Is this some sort of psychological test?”

  Mari laughs and plucks a wineglass off the tray. “Paranoid much?” She shakes her head and takes a sip of wine. “Just curious. We gave all community members free rein to choose their furnishings, so I wondered how you went about it.”

  “With Soph, mostly.” Glancing at the lone wineglass on the tray, I hesitate, then choose beer instead. I crack open a can without checking the label and splash some into a pint glass. “We had to move after Soph’s mom left, and most of our furniture came from thrift stores. I uh—didn’t do so great coming out of the divorce.”

  She watches my face, her cool, shrink stare looking right through me. Does she know how much I struggled trying to keep it together after Gabby walked out? Does she see the toll it took financially, emotionally?

  “I love the choices you made.”

  I blink, forgetting for a moment we’re talking about furniture. “Thank you.” I take a sip of beer, which turns out to be raspberry Kolsch. Not my favorite, but maybe Mari will like it.

  How much does she know about how I ended up here? Her siblings handled my hiring, but Mari would have processed the psychological stuff. I gave the bare bones of my backstory in interviews, but I never said what it felt like to be broke and alone with a daughter to raise. Never shared how desperate I was to right the ship, to give us a better life.

  Which, I guess is why we’re here.

  “Here, try the new porter.” I blurt the words like an idiot, then crack open the can and pour so fast it nearly overflows. “It’s a collaboration with a brewery in Hawaii. See what you think.”

  Our fingers brush as I hand her the glass, and Mari takes a slow sip. “Coconut?”

  “Yeah. I probably gave it away with the Hawaii thing, huh?”

  “No, I actually taste it.” She takes another small sip and sets the glass down. “Not my favorite, but I admire the craftsmanship.”

  I smile and make a mental note to stick with lighter beers. The dark stuff takes some getting used to.

  “Tell me about your custody situation.” She plucks a handful of crackers from the box a
nd crosses her legs. “Did Gabrielle fight to keep Soph with her?”

  “Gabrielle.” A stiff laugh slips by without my consent. “Sorry, I’m not used to hearing her called that.”

  Mari looks alarmed. “I’m sorry. You mentioned ‘Gabby,’ and it felt too informal to just—

  “No, it’s fine. You’re right, that’s her full name. Well, it used to be.”

  “Used to be?”

  I shrug, annoyed with myself for still talking about my ex. “Gabrielle Julia Walsh, but she used to go by Gabby. Then she started getting more acting gigs and a manager who convinced her that Elle Julia had a better ring to it. Sounds more sophisticated, I guess. That’s what she’s going by on her new show.”

  “She has a show?”

  “It hasn’t aired yet.” I shrug, wishing I could change the subject. “Some reality show called Hustlers and Housewives.” I laugh, but it comes out stiff. “Not as cool as Fresh Start at Juniper Ridge, eh?”

  “I see.” Mari looks like she’s jotting notes in her brain, and I wonder if that’s a shrink habit. I’ve never known anyone so observant. “So your ex is in show-biz?”

  “I guess.” I clear my throat, not sure how much to share. “She started trying to break in when we were still together. Mostly smaller stuff—a toothpaste commercial, or a little role on a hospital drama where she got to run in and say, ‘Doctor, he’s coding!’”

  I swallow hard, wondering if I can stop here. If she needs to hear the rest of this.

  Or maybe I need to say it, because the words keep coming. “Eventually, she asked for a divorce. Said I’d been holding her back, and she needed to chase her dreams.”

  “That must have been incredibly difficult.” Mari presses her lips together like she wants to say something else. Or doesn’t want to, I’m not sure. “And Soph?”

  “Was heartbroken. Hollywood’s not a great place to raise kids, and Gabby wanted to settle in first. Find a place to live, go on auditions, figure out where the good schools were before we worked out a custody plan.”