“It’s not you. Or work.” Adele sighed. “Not really.”
It was battling her inner demons, something she didn’t want to talk to Cilla about. Adele hated the moments when she felt weak and let outside people’s thoughts impact her.
But today, it was more than that. It was the guilt over feeling like her careless words changed the course of people’s lives. It was feeling like she was pining after a guy who simply wasn’t interested. She wanted a man who would chase after her, rather than waiting for her to ask him out, saying, “sure.”
“It’s me, Adele. Spill, or I’ll drag it out of you.”
Adele explained about the comments, her anger growing as she spoke until she was talking through clenched teeth. “I can’t believe I let them get to me. I’m just feeling overall like … I don’t know.”
“You know that neither of us might be normal”—Cilla made air quotes— “in terms of beauty standards.”
She patted her legs, and Adele felt sick that she had even thought to complain about her trolls or the insecurities that she sometimes dealt with. She opened her mouth, but Cilla stopped her by pointing a finger.
“That. Right there. You’re thinking that you don’t have the right to complain because at least you have working legs. Am I right?”
“Cilla,” Adele groaned. Despite the fact that she and Cilla had talked about her injury for the last six years, sometimes Adele still didn’t feel like she had the right words. But Cilla tended to bulldoze right through the awkwardness with her truth.
“That is exactly the problem with comparison,” Cilla said. “There will always be someone who is bigger or smaller. Someone with nicer legs or a prettier face. Someone with more or less abilities or a situation that seems easier or harder than yours. There is no perfection. Only accepting who you are in your own right, not compared to other people.”
“I know.”
That’s the thing that was killing Adele. She did know. But even if she had come to accept herself, being confident and comfortable, she never fully escaped the self-doubt and insecurity. It reared up at the most inopportune of times.
Cilla touched her hand again. Her voice was gentler and kinder now. “It’s also okay if you still struggle. It’s not like a one-time thing where you do it, and BAM! You’re always happy. I’ve had six years to get used to the fact that half my body is useless.”
“Cilla!” Adele squeezed her hand.
“I’m not trying to be self-deprecating. Just honest. It’s a fact: my legs don’t work. The end. I’ve had time to get used to that. And sometimes, I feel totally accepting. Then other times … I think about the fact that I have paraplegia and am about to marry an able-bodied man. Not just able, but he plays pro football, for crying out loud. You’ve seen his body. It’s a work of art. He should be made into statues and put on display in museums.”
Adele snickered, but Cilla wasn’t wrong. But for a flash, she didn’t see Pax’s strong body with its massive Scylla tattoo he’d gotten in honor of Cilla. To most women, a tattoo of a six-headed monster from Greek mythology would seem like an insult. But Cilla wasn’t most girls.
“The point is this: the standards of beauty or even of ‘normal’ are ridiculous. Useless. Fake. We are who we are. Getting comfortable with that isn’t just a one-time deal. It’s okay if you have days where comments online hurt. Heck, if you think that the internet trolls haven’t said their piece about me and Pax, you’d be wrong. Sometimes it gets to me. But most of the time, I remind myself that I’m made in God’s image and this is what he’s chosen to give me.”
Tears again pricked Adele’s eyes as Cilla’s words hit home. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have deleted the video. That means they won.”
“So, put it back up. Don’t let them win.”
“I will. Later.”
In her mind Adele was already formulating the perfect caption. One where she was honest about not feeling good about herself every second of the day. About how sometimes, she let voices get in that drowned out the one voice that was important, the one from God telling her that she was loved. She was precious. She was His.
“Thanks, Cills. You’re the best.”
“I know.” Cilla picked up her fork and took a bite of another piece of cake. “Now, let’s get back to cake. And the other thing that’s bothering you. The one you don’t want to talk about.”
Adele put her face in her hands and groaned. “You didn’t miss that, huh?”
“I’m no amateur. I'm your BFF. Emphasis on the last F. The most important truths in life are told over cake.”
Adele tilted her head, her brow furrowed. “Is that a quote? Who said that?”
Cilla smirked. “I did. Just now. Eat. Then talk. The chocolate hazelnut may be the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth.”
Adele took a bite and had to agree. Groaning, she said, “That’s the one. Not just for the groom’s cake. That is it.”
“I agree. Go on, now. I’m not getting any younger.”
Adele set down her fork and took a sip of coffee. “I don’t want to make a big thing of this. I think the conversation’s been heavy enough. It’s just … I’m so tired of waiting for Easton. And I know what you’re going to say: that I should stop waiting for him. It’s just easier said than done. I want all this.” She waved a hand toward all the wedding cake samples. “But it feels like I’m never going to get it. With Easton or anyone else.”
Cilla licked her fork, eyes thoughtful. “Did you ever think you were waiting for the wrong twin?”
Adele snorted. Then chuckled. Then laughed, long and hard. “No. I have not. Because that’s ridiculous.”
“Maybe you should think about it.”
Adele stared at Cilla. “You’re serious. Really? You know that I drive Elton crazy. And vice versa. His loud mouth is reason enough. Plus, he’s constantly dating women. Gorgeous women.” She held up both hands. “I know! I’m not supposed to compare. It’s just hard not to. He’s a player, a loudmouth, and a jerk. Even if all of that weren’t true, it’s completely my fault he’s on house arrest.”
“True. How mad about it does he really seem, though?”
“Oh, he’s making me pay. I have to go over tonight and hang out with him. That’s my penance. He’s making me come over a few times a week to hang out since he can’t leave the house.”
Adele had been surprised that he asked her, not sure why he didn’t have a long list of women who could keep him company. But she’d said yes because she did feel responsible, even if in part. And being there meant she would potentially see Easton those same nights.
Cilla grinned, and Adele didn’t like what it implied. “Hm. What a punishment. Sure sounds like he hates you.”
“Shut up.”
“Interesting that for a playboy, he doesn’t just consult his black book for companions.”
“Maybe he will on the nights he’s not with me.”
“Maybe,” Cilla said, tapping her fork against her lips. “But when’s the last time you saw him with another woman?”
Adele searched through her mind. Honestly, the last time she’d seen Elton with another woman had been a year ago. “It’s not like I’m his keeper. I don’t see him all the time.”
Her words sounded defensive to her own ears. Plus, why should she care who Elton dated? But she found that for some reason, picturing Elton with other women made her skin itch.
Jamie made her way back to the table, looking over the mostly finished plates with a smile. “Ladies, have we made any headway on choosing a cake?”
Cilla smiled at Adele first, then Jamie. “I think we know exactly what we want.”
Adele couldn’t be sure, but before Jamie responded, it sounded like Cilla muttered, “Even if some of us aren’t ready to admit it yet.”
Chapter Ten
Elton
It may not have been a date, but that didn’t stop Elton from planning it as one. The perfect Adele-winning date night.
Well. As perfect a
s a night in with the backup twin wearing an ankle monitor could be, that is.
Adele only had more reasons to like Easton better now that Elton was a convicted felon. He still had trouble believing the words, even after sitting in court at a table next to Ben in his slick, lawyering suit. All Elton could think about at the time was, If Mama could see me now.
She would have been so disappointed in all of his life choices. Except pursuing Adele. He knew that his mama would have been thrilled with that. Getting the rest of his life in order would come. But first, he wanted to get the girl.
He had popcorn—the real kind—made on the stovetop like his mama used to make. Melted butter—also the real kind—and just the right amount of salt. A range of sodas, a veggie tray so they could pretend like they wanted to make healthy choices, and brownies in the oven, set to come out in forty-five minutes. With Blue Bell ice cream ready to go on top as soon as they did.
If the smell of brownies baking wasn’t enough to win her over, it was probably a lost cause. These weren’t just any brownies, but his mama’s famous candy bar brownies, which he knew for a fact Adele loved. They were from a mix, but you made two full boxes, then layered candy bars over half the batter, pouring the rest on top. No one could resist his mama’s brownies.
In the den, Elton had set up the couch with a fuzzy blanket and blasted the AC, so Adele might be more willing to snuggle under said blanket with him. If that was cheating, so be it. Were there really rules to love?
He had Pretty Woman all set to go. After a quick Google search, he found that women voted it one of the most romantic movies of all time in some survey. Better that than The Notebook, which he knew from a bad first-date experience came with tears. Lots of tears. And no kiss at the end of the night. Because: tears.
Plus, Pretty Woman featured a redhead like Adele. Subliminal messages for the win.
He wore a heather-gray T-shirt of Easton’s, because he’d seen the way she looked at Easton when he wore it last week. It stretched even tighter across the muscles of Elton’s chest and strained against his biceps. Women loved that, right? And if she happened to lean into him, the shirt was well-worn and soft.
Best. Date. Ever. (With a currently convicted felon under house arrest.) Elton was pretty pleased with himself.
And when Adele arrived, it seemed like things were going that way. She stopped and sniffed the air as she dropped her purse on the kitchen table. Her eyes went wide. “Mama Boyd’s candy bar brownies?”
Elton smiled at the tone of her voice, which was hushed. Almost reverent. He winked. “I pulled out all the stops for you, Adele.”
Was it crazy how it made his heart beat faster every time he said her name? Yep. It probably was.
“And popcorn! With real butter!” She practically squealed this, clapping her hands. “You really did go all out. You know that you didn’t need to do this, El. We’re just two friends, hanging out.”
And … there it was. A heavy dose of reality like a shot of lead to the gut. Elton tried to put on his megawatt smile, despite the way something in him shriveled up and died at her words.
“You know how I like to entertain.” The words felt hollow even as he said them. But he would not give up. Maybe she wouldn’t start out thinking of this as a date. He had time to convince her.
Adele gave him a knowing look as she picked up the bowl of popcorn. “I’m sure I’m not the first lady you’ve entertained with homemade popcorn and brownies.”
Elton deserved that. Truly, he did. Even though he had never, not one time, brought a woman home and made popcorn or brownies for her. This non-date date with Adele had taken more planning than any date Elton had ever been on. He had never felt this flutter of nerves or pinned such hopes on any woman in his life.
But he got why Adele might think that. Elton had dated a lot of women. And, in truly immature fashion, had made sure Adele knew about it. The goal was to inspire jealousy. But now, she apparently just thought he was a player, which cemented him even further in the friend zone. Fantastic.
The opposite was actually true. He’d never had a meaningful relationship. He had never wanted one. Most of the women he dated hadn’t gone past a first date. Two, maximum. But Adele only saw what he had let her see.
Now that she’d written him off as some Don Juan, did he have any hope?
Swallowing hard, Elton pulled two glasses from the cabinet. “What would you like to drink? I’ve got everything. Except alcohol. That, uh, would get me in more trouble.”
“Water, please. No ice.”
“No ice? How European of you,” Elton said. He heard her laugh as she walked to the den.
Only unstable people drank water with no ice. Elton added a few extra cubes to his, just to make up for Adele’s unholy, lukewarm water. When he got into the den with the two glasses, Adele stood staring down at the couch.
She looked up at him, her nose wrinkling. “Do we need to sanitize this?”
He frowned. “Sanitize the couch?”
“I mean, how many women have made out with you or … whatever … here.”
His gut sank. Is that what she thought of him? That his casual dates had also included casual other things? He set the waters down on the table and turned to face her on the couch.
“Adele,” he groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “I haven’t—I’m not—”
She set the popcorn down on the table, then held up both hands. “You know what? I don’t want to know.”
“But—”
“Nope. The last thing I want is to hear about your exploits.”
“There are no exploits, Adele. You’ve got the wrong idea. Please. Just let me—”
The look she gave him shut him right up. She was not going to listen to a thing he said. And he could only blame himself for the fact that she apparently thought he slept with all the women he dated, which couldn’t be further from the truth.
“Let’s just watch the movie,” he grumbled, picking up the remote.
“Are you serious? Pretty Woman?”
Elton stifled another groan. “What’s wrong with Pretty Woman?”
“Have you seen it?”
“No. But it was … never mind.” Should he admit that he googled the most romantic movies? So far, it seemed like his instincts were wrong. All wrong. “I thought all women liked this movie. I thought you would.”
She touched his arm. That got his attention.
“Pretty Woman is popular, sure. It’s got the Cinderella trope going on.”
Elton didn’t interrupt. Even though he had no idea what a trope was. Adele was on a roll. He might have zoned out, distracted by her lips, as she said something about the depiction of prostitutes and the inequality of power in the relationship. Something about the patriarchy.
Okay. So, Adele had some feminist tendencies. That was fine. Elton could get on board with that.
But when she started in on Julia Roberts, he snapped back into her words.
“I’m sorry. Did you just say you don’t like Julia Roberts? America’s Sweetheart?”
Her look turned deadly serious. “Do you like Julia Roberts, Elton?”
He could immediately tell that he was swimming in dangerous waters. But he had no idea exactly what dangers lurked below the surface.
“Like her? I hardly know her,” he teased.
It did not work. Her expression let him know that this line of questioning was deadly serious. Or at least, Adele thought it was serious. Elton, however, kind of loved that she got emotional about movies and actresses.
He couldn’t very well say that Julia Roberts reminded him of a much less pretty version of Adele. It would be too much. And it’s not like she’d believe him. Apparently, Adele had built up a pretty solid opinion of Elton—a totally wrong opinion. But she didn’t seem likely to budge.
“Do. You. Like. Her?”
The right answer was clearly no. And in truth, Elton didn’t care about Julia Roberts. Not enough to like or dislike her. But he wouldn’t ju
st say that. That would be too easy and he kind of liked the fight.
Grinning, Elton said, “I like redheads.” That was true. He just didn’t happen to like the one in the movie. Only the real woman seated beside him.
If he wanted to poke the bear, that was the right stick to use. Adele threw her hands up in the air. “She’s not even a real redhead. Did you know that?”
“I did not.”
“Yep. And yet somehow, she has become the poster child for all redheads ever. Gag me.” Adele rolled her eyes.
“Is that all?” Elton’s lips twitched, but he tried to keep his face serious.
“No. It isn’t. She has no idea what it’s like to actually grow up as a redhead. The teasing. The inappropriate questions.”
Adele gave a little shudder. The caveman part of Elton got stuck here, wanting to demand who said what inappropriate things to Adele so he could find them and make sure they knew how he felt about that. But he kept his mouth shut and she continued.
“Did you know there are whole Facebook groups and real-life clubs about hating redheads? Or gingers, as a lot of the world calls us. It’s worse in England!”
Had Adele ever been to England? He had no idea. But she still wasn’t done.
“Julia Not-Redhead Roberts did not have to suffer as a redheaded child. Or middle school student. She got to dye her hair for this terrible movie, have a Cinderella moment, and become one of the most favorite redheads in the world, without paying her dues. She never had to listen to people calling her—”
Adele’s mouth snapped shut. She crossed her arms over her chest. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes flashed.
“Calling her what?” Elton still had that protective vibe rumbling around in his chest. “Adele? What did you get called?”
She stuck out her lip, shaking her head. She looked angry, not wounded, or he wouldn’t have kept pressing.
“Come on. For redheads everywhere. Speak up. What did people call you?”
“Fatty McGinger Bottom.”
Elton didn’t want to laugh. Bullying isn’t funny. The idea of a pack of middle school boys making fun of Adele—his gorgeous, amazing Adele—infuriated him. But the name …
Winning the Cowboy Page 8
