by Meghan Quinn
“Yup. Ever since I can remember he’s always been like that. My brothers could run off and be boys while my sister and I had to sit and look pretty. It was the Westbrook way. We are professional eccedentesiasts.”
“What’s that?”
Once again, she pulls out her little notebook and flips to the middle. She takes her time looking for the page, but when she does, she smooths her hand over the word and then follows the doodles around it. The word and definition are small, almost too tiny to read, but surrounding them are all different shapes and sizes of faceless smiles.
“Eccedentesiast. It’s someone who hides their pain behind a smile. We learned quickly how to become masters at this repressive art.” She shrugs and stares at her notebook. “It’s one of the main reasons I started this notebook. It was a way to escape, a way to find beauty in the world around me that was so fabricated, so stifling at times. It gave me hope. It made me happy.”
And just when I thought this woman was two-dimensional, she reveals layer after layer. I was wrong. She is nothing like the woman I thought she was.
“The shop, you still moved forward with it despite what your dad said?”
“Yeah. Luckily, Abe, my oldest brother, is like a second father to me. He looked over my plan and asked how much I needed. He’s been supporting me ever since my dad said no and kicked me out of his house. There have been three people who’ve been the driving force behind me when it comes to Limerence, and he’s one of them.”
“Who are the other two?” I ask, curious for some reason.
“Waverly and Madison.”
I nod and look down at my hands. “You sure it’s just three? Pretty sure I know a guy who would love nothing more than to see you succeed.”
Glancing in her direction, I give her a shy smile; she returns it in spades. God, she’s beautiful.
“You want to see me succeed?”
I don’t even have to think about it. I do. I want to see her succeed and shove her success in her dad’s face. I want her to be the woman she deserves to be: free.
I reach over and grab her hand, entwining our fingers together. “I want nothing more than for you to have everything you’ve ever wanted at your fingertips, Princess.”
And that’s the God’s honest truth.
Chapter Fifteen
GEORGIANA
The last few days have been weird. That’s the only way to describe it. Just . . . weird. Ever since we went shopping for clothes, it’s as though our dynamic shifted. We’re cordial to each other, almost afraid to make the other mad. For some odd reason, I don’t like it.
I don’t like it at all.
Instead of bickering, we ask each other if we need help. Instead of pulling pranks on one another, we kindly bring each other a bottle of water. And instead of fighting over what project to do next, Racer asks me what I would like him to do. And starts it.
I miss the tension, the push and pull between us; it was fun. And if I’m reading him right, like I think I am, he misses it too. Because instead of flowing harmoniously together, we’re awkward. At least when we were fighting, we were passionate, now we only touch the surface of the bond between us and it’s . . . boring.
How messed up is that?
I want to fight with this man. I want to see how far I can push him. I want to see that sexy smirk of his when he’s teasing me. I want the light banter, the fun jousting nights where we push each other to our limits.
It’s so twisted, our relationship, but ever since he’s started working here, I’ve become accustomed to his relentless teasing and nit-picking fights. I need them. They make me feel alive. He makes me feel alive.
“Would you like me to paint the bathroom today?” he asks as he walks up to me freshly off his day job. I don’t know how he does it personally, how he has enough strength to continue doing manual work day in and day out. Perhaps when you have no other option, you grin and bear it.
Before our little chat, the chat we have yet to acknowledge since that night, or the way we held hands and stared at a blank wall for over an hour without saying anything, Racer would never have asked me what I wanted done in the shop. He would have barged into Limerence, Little Debbie snack in hand, with his mind already made up on what he was going to do. There would be no discussion; it was what he wanted. And invariably, he was right, but I never acknowledged that.
He’s different now, and I know it has to do with what I told him about my father being a demanding ass. Racer is trying to present me with options, options I never had growing up. And even though I appreciate it, I want the old Racer back. The one who drove me crazy but also made me smile every day with his antics.
“Up to you,” I answer him. “Whatever you think is best.”
“Not my shop, Georgie. You have to let me know what you want. You’re the boss.”
Sigh, yup, giant sigh. “I guess finish up the bathroom so we can check that off the list.”
He winks in my direction. “Sounds good. I’ll be in the bathroom if you need me.”
When he leaves me, I sit on the floor and try to think about what this coming weekend is going to be like. Racer and I sharing a small cabin and being super awkward with each other in the Hamptons. Not only will Racer look and feel out of place, I’ll be stressed from the potential of what the weekend can bring to me, so we’ll be an awesome pair to be around.
God . . .
I rub my temples, trying to ward off the headache threatening to take over just as my phone rings. Since I’ve been getting lots of out-of-town phone calls from sellers, the strange number doesn’t throw me for a loop.
“Hello?”
“Hello, am I speaking with Georgiana Westbrook?”
“Yes, can I help you?”
I don’t recognize the voice on the other line so I’m wondering if I’m speaking with a possible vendor.
“Yes, this is Gerrick from Yamine Olaff, my colleague talked to you on the phone the other day about ordering stock for your store.”
Quickly, I pull up my spreadsheet on my iPad and look up Yamine Olaff and what I wanted to order from them.
“Yes, I spoke with Pauline. We discussed a new line of vintage-inspired gowns I could possibly sell in the shop.”
This is huge. I was hoping to hear back from them about their new line. Yamine and Natalie Roman are my girls. I want them in Limerence. I know they would sell well and represent everything I want for the bride I picture as my client.
“Ah yes, Pauline, she’s lovely. She passed on your information, and after I reviewed everything, I decided to follow-up with you.”
“Fantastic. How can I help you?”
“Tell me a little bit about your shop.”
“Well, it’s going to be a one-stop shop for brides looking for a specific—”
“Are there going to be cats?” Err . . . what? Did I just hear that right? Did he ask if there are going to be cats?
Confused, I ask, “Cats? What do you mean?”
“Sorry, I didn’t think it was a confusing question. I just wanted to know if you will house cats in your shop.”
Okay, so I did hear him right; he’s asking about cats, little meow meows. Weird.
“Uh, no. No cats.”
“Hmm, okay. Any live animals at all? It’s important to Yamine to make sure there will be no live animals near the dresses.”
What kind of bridal boutique would have live animals? That is just asking for a disaster. Then again, there are some shops that want to be different. But still, live animals around white dresses? Just stupid.
“No live animals at all. I can promise that.”
“So no doves?”
“Uh, nope. No doves.”
“Not even ones used for ceremonies.” Is there a difference?
Trying not to sound sarcastic, I say, “Nope, not even ceremony doves.”
“Okay. Can you tell me a little bit about your fridge space? Do you have a state-of-the-art industrial cooler?”
What? Why on ear
th would I need a cooler? I’m not running a restaurant. There won’t even be any food available to clients.
“No, no cooler in the shop.”
“Really?” He sounds stunned. “Are you planning to install one?”
Don’t act rude; do not act rude, G. This is a huge opportunity, just put up with his weird questions.
“No. We are not planning on installing a cooler at this time.”
Without skipping a beat, the man asks, “Then how do you plan on keeping the dresses fresh every day?”
Excuse me as I start to wrack my brain for answers. I’ve done my research. I’ve researched everything you could possibly think of when it comes to this industry, especially selling dresses, so I’m caught off guard when he asks me how I’m going to keep the dresses fresh.
“Um, dress bags.”
He tsks at me over the phone. “You plan on putting Yamine Oloff’s dresses in a bag? Please tell me you’re joking.”
I shift on the floor. This guy is most definitely a bit of a jerk, and he’s making me rethink everything I know.
“I’m sorry, Gerrick, but I’m new at this. Does Yamine have a specific way she would like her dresses stored?”
“Yes, in a cooler.” I roll my eyes. I’m not getting a cooler for dresses. “How else would you store her organic collection?”
Organic collection? Say what?
“I think our lines may have crossed. I was interested in her vintage-inspired collection.”
“I’m well aware. But like Pauline explained on the phone, you can’t just sell one collection. If you want the vintage line, you’re going to have to take on the organic line as well.”
“Oh, um, Pauline never mentioned that. I’m sorry, I was unaware.”
“I’m positive Pauline would never neglect mentioning that to you. Maybe you weren’t paying attention.”
Okay, now he’s just being an ass, which is completely unnecessary. I need to stay professional. If I learned anything from my dad, it’s always stay professional.
“I apologize if there was any kind of confusion, but I was unaware of the organic line.”
“If you want to carry the vintage line, you must take the organic line as well.”
“And the organic line requires a cooler to preserve the dresses? What are they made of? Lettuce?” I try not to laugh from my question.
“Two of them, yes. But most of them are hemp.”
Lettuce dresses? I’ve heard of dresses being couture, but lettuce, really?
“Oh. I don’t believe I’ll have the resources to maintain those kind of dresses.”
“So let me get this straight,” the man says, raising his voice. “You call the design studio of Yamine Olaff begging to carry her dresses, and when we decide to give you a chance, you disrespect Yamine as a designer?”
“No, I wasn’t disrespecting her, I was just—”
“You’re trying to work with Natalie Roman as well, right?”
Sweat coats my upper lip, my stomach starts to churn, and then I realize that a couple salad dresses that need to be stored in a cooler are going to ruin this entire opportunity for me.
“Yes,” I answer, swallowing hard.
“Well, Natalie and Yamine are very close, you wouldn’t want Natalie to find out about your inability to work with a designer, would you?”
“I don’t want anyone to think that of me,” I barely squeak out.
“Well then, I suggest you think twice about installing a cooler.”
Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God. I don’t know anything about dress coolers, is that even something I can find more about on the Internet?
“Can I ask you, how much do they usually cost?”
He huffs into the phone. “To house dresses, we’re looking at about fifteen grand plus a five-hundred-square-foot space.”
My eyes bug out of my head. That’s a third of my shop. For for a cooler. A dress cooler. There is no way I’ll be able to fit it in the plans. Plus a cooler for fifteen grand is going to break my budget. I start to gnaw on my nail, worry etching all the way down to my toes. I guess a regular Igloo roller cooler from Walmart wouldn’t be appropriate.
“Oh okay, I guess I need to think about it.”
“What’s there to think about? This is Yamine Olaff.” I’m well aware.
“It’s just a lot of money,” I answer. I hope I don’t sound cheap.
“I know of someone who could possibly help you out. Have you ever heard of Danny Kaye and the Morning Show?”
“Danny who?”
The guy’s voice eases as he repeats, “Danny Kaye and the Morning Show. They’re known for their morning prank phone calls.” My mind takes a second to process what he’s saying and then . . .
You have got to be freaking kidding me.
“Are you telling me this is a prank phone call?”
“Yup.” The guy laughs obnoxiously while sounding off some siren as if he caught me. “Your friend Racer called us and set up the whole thing.” He laughs some more.
Fire starts to spit out of my eyes as I look toward the bathroom. There he is, leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his impressive chest, and the most gorgeous smile I’ve ever seen gracing his handsome face.
“He did, did he?” I answer, looking straight at Racer.
“Yup, said to give you a hard time. Hope you’re ready to kick his ass, sweetheart.”
“Don’t you worry, I am.”
I give them the right to play the phone call on the radio and when I finally hang up, I stand and walk toward him. And so far, that same smile hasn’t left his face.
“You’re going to pay for that.”
“Not interested in carrying lettuce dresses in the store? Thought you wanted to be different, Georgie.”
I push his chest but he doesn’t move an inch. “I thought I was going to lose both of my biggest designers . . . over a five-hundred-square-foot cooler to house salad dresses. I’m going to kill you!”
He throws his head back and laughs so I tap his stomach out of anger. Not even flinching, he continues to laugh.
“Oh hell, you should have seen the look on your face during that entire conversation. Priceless.”
And just like that, the twisted twosome is back. Even though he just put me through the wringer, I don’t think I’ve ever been happier, because right now, the all-American boy who’s consuming my thoughts is smiling and joking with me. And hell, if I don’t thrive off it.
He opens his arms and I fall into them. When he wraps those strong arms around me, I realize something else just as true. He’s my friend. I have another friend in my corner, and with a flawsome man like Racer McKay in my corner, I know I’m extremely lucky.
***
“Thanks for lunch, I haven’t had a fine peanut butter and jelly sandwich in quite some time.” Racer takes a giant bite from one of three sandwiches I made him. The man can eat; I just want to know where he puts it all. “What is this, crunchy peanut butter?” He looks over the sandwich, studying it intently.
“Yes, it’s crunchy with mixed berry jam.”
He nods and takes another bite. He talks with his mouth full, which for some weird reason makes him oddly adorable. “Nice touch, George. The peanuts add a nice texture.”
“Are you going all food critic on my PB and J skills right now?”
Lifting his shirt, he dabs away some of the sweat that’s collecting on his forehead, beneath his backward hat. His abs flex with the movement, drawing my attention. Each divot calling out to me to touch, to examine . . . to lick.
“I think every human should be judged on their PB and J skills.”
I pull my eyes away from his stomach just in time not to get caught staring. “Why do you think that?”
“Because,” he takes another bite, “I think building a peanut butter and jelly sandwich is in everyone’s repertoire, but only the truly skilled know how to make a proper one. And I want to be friends with the truly skilled.”
“Is that so?�
�� I take a drink of my green tea and study him for a second, watching the way the muscles in his jaw move with each bite and swallow. It’s sexy.
His neck is sexy? Is that possible?
“So where do I land on your scale of sandwich artists?”
He smiles from my term, and I realize how much I adore his boyish charm. Pulling his eyes away from me, he examines one of the sandwiches I made him and starts assessing it. “Good ratio of peanut butter to jelly. Nice choice in bread. The crunch you added has been a pleasant surprise, and the mixed berry jam is fucking delightful.” I giggle from his girly term. “But . . .”
I perk up; there’s a but? “But what?”
He quirks his mouth to the side, almost to say, “Sorry, but you’re not quite perfect.” “The bread, it should have been toasted. Toasting it would have taken you to boss level when it comes to the PB and J.”
“Toasting it?”
He nods and takes another bite. “When you don’t toast a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, the peanut butter and bread form a paste on the roof of your mouth. Even though it tastes good, it can get quite irritating.”
“But I didn’t have a toaster.”
“Rookie mistake.”
“Well, If I knew I was going to be critiqued, I would have sprung for bacon.”
He pauses mid bite and stares at me over his sandwich. “You’re a beast for bringing up the option.”
I polish off the rest of my sandwich and wipe my fingers. “Well, maybe next time you’ll communicate expectations better. I’m not a mind reader, Racer. Frankly, the fact I didn’t make boss level is on you, not me.”
I stand and gather my trash as he stares me down. “Don’t you turn this on me. You didn’t have a toaster. The toaster is what’s key. This is on you, Georgie. This is on you!” he calls out as I make my way to the back, laughing to myself the entire time.
***
“What are you doing?”
“What do you mean?” Racer asks while he strokes the middle fork sitting in front of him.
“Why are you touching the fork like that? It’s like you’re trying to turn it on.”
“Everyone likes to get forked, Georgie.” He winks and I roll my eyes. Lame. “Plus, it feels nice. It’s so smooth. I like it when things are smooth.” He lifts his brow in my direction, indicating he isn’t really talking about the silverware.
