by Ney, Sara
It’s not the fun I’m worried about—it’s the ‘leave it to me’ part, and the fact that I feel too comfortable with a man who is clearly not the kind to settle down and have a family.
I might not be that old, but I know I want kids sooner rather than later, and a home, and a life that’s far different than the one I grew up with—a life filled with parents who fought constantly, because Dad is a workaholic and made Mom miserable, and probably cheated on her every chance he got.
Our life might have been privileged, but it was a gilded cage I want no part of living in.
Trace: Noon?
Me: Whatever you say, Buzz…
5
Trace
To say I’m shocked at the sight of Hollis Westbrooke’s apartment complex is an understatement. I was expecting a high-rise on the waterfront or a brownstone in the cool part of the city. Perhaps even a shiny little condo in a pricier area.
Instead, the address Thomas Westbrooke’s youngest daughter texted leads me to what can only be described as the shady part of town, or at least the opposite of where I was expecting her to live.
Dang, doesn’t her family help her out?
I swallow as I pull my sports car up to the curb adjusting my rearview mirror so I can check out the terrain behind me. As I grab my phone to shoot her a note, maybe this is the wrong place.
I text her to make sure, noting a woman pushing a stroller coming my direction from down the block and two kids playing catch on the other side of the street.
Head down, I double-check the address.
Me: Hey, I’m outside, but I’m not sure I’m at the right place.
Hollis: Are you looking at a black door with a pineapple door knocker on it?
Me: Yes?
Hollis: Then you’re in the right place. Give me a second, I’ll be right down.
I set my phone in the cup holder and wait, watching the neighbors and cars creeping slowly down the street, clock counting away the seconds it takes Hollis to bound through the front door.
“Shit. Maybe I should get out,” I mumble.
I should get out, right? And wait for her? Stand next to the passenger side door or something to be polite since I didn’t go up to her place? Not that I know which one is hers—I’m assuming this is an apartment with multiple units.
Yeah, I should get out.
I walk around, leaning against the black, lacquered paint job of my car, which I had washed to a high shine this morning. Cross my arms and legs like Jake Ryan in the cult teen classic Sixteen Candles so when my date comes out of the house, she’ll see me and be like, Who me? and I’ll be like, Yeah, you! The heartthrob Jake to her Molly Ringwald or whatever her name is in the movie.
The theme song plays in my head, and I imagine us eating birthday cake in the middle of my kitchen table later—but then again, I don’t actually have candles, and it’s not my birthday. Maybe if I’m lucky she’ll make out with me anyway.
Sweet love with her mouth.
I grin, imagining the whole thing, then the front door opens and Hollis steps out, giving me a little wave before turning to lock up.
When she faces me? Goddamn is she adorable in a bright orange and pink skirt, flip-flops, and a tucked-in tank top.
Uh-dorable.
Her hair is down, and she’s carrying a gift bag I can only assume is a hostess gift, not a gift for me. My excitement dims a bit, because I love presents.
“Hey there.”
“Hey,” she says by way of greeting, and I step aside to pull her door open, letting her slide inside and get comfortable before shutting the door. I watch as she buckles her seat belt, walking around the front, a knot forming in my stomach.
Relax, I tell myself. You’re hot shit—what are you so nervous about? Everyone in America wants a piece of you.
Not her, I remind myself. Which could be the point and why I’m working this so hard, when really, I should leave her alone and let the whole thing go. Unfortunately for her, she laughed one too many times at one of my stupid jokes, and because I’m thirsty for compliments, I’m not willing to walk away without a fight.
Or until I see the look on Marlon Daymon’s face when I show up at the party with Hollis Westbrooke on my arm.
If she’ll touch me, that is.
Er, probably not. Hollis doesn’t strike me as the overly affectionate type, and certainly not with me.
But she thinks you’re funny…
“Which apartment is yours?” I glance up through the window at the three stories, guessing she’s either the second floor or the top—in my opinion, no single girl should live on the ground level, for safety’s sake.
“Actually, I own the building.”
I cringe. The place is ugly as fuck. “Oh, that’s…nice.”
Hollis’s laughter fills the cab of my sports car, harmonizing with the rev of my engine. “It’s more of an investment property. I’m slowly renovating it and will eventually sell. I’m hoping next year.”
“So you’re into flipping properties?”
I’m into flipping properties, too.
“Yes, I love it. This is my second place—the last one didn’t take as long, but I really love this neighborhood. The outside might not look like much, but the inside has tons of charm.”
Charm.
A word only a chick would use.
“Nice car,” she says when I put it into drive, her nosey eyes scanning the front seat and then the back. Luckily, I tossed all the trash this morning before leaving to grab her.
“Thanks.”
“Is this your Sunday ride?”
“Mostly. I have a truck, too, for when I want to feel manly and do manly things.”
Hollis laughs, and my chest puffs out. “Manly things? Like what?”
“Chopping wood and stuff.”
My car is filled with more laughter, and I can’t tell if she’s laughing because she thinks I’m cute, or because she thinks I’m an idiot.
“That sounds oddly specific. Where do you find wood to chop?”
“My parents’ place—my brother and I usually have dinner there on the weekends we’re home.”
“Oh that’s right, you have a brother. He’s an athlete too, yeah?”
“Yes. He plays around with the old pigskin.” That’s one way of saying he plays football.
“Is he married?”
I give her a sidelong glance, only taking my eyes off the road for a split second. “No, he’s not married.” Is she feeling me out to find out if he’s single?
“Your poor mother, two bachelor athletes. I bet you were a real handful growing up.”
That’s putting it mildly. “I’m shocked she doesn’t have gray hair.”
“I can only imagine.”
“I’m my mom’s favorite,” I brag.
Hollis’s brows go up. “How do you know?”
“She told me.”
She rolls her eyes. “She probably told both of you that and I bet she did it so you’d behave.”
“No for real, I’m her favorite. She always sneaks me the last piece of dessert.” Though come to think of it, Tripp always leaves their house with leftovers and I don’t.
The last time we were there, he had two plastic containers in his hands on the way home.
Fuck!
“What’s that look for?” Hollis wants to know, but I suspect she already does.
“Nothin.”
“Oh, come on—mothers can’t have favorites. That’s the law.”
“She gave him leftovers!” I blurt out.
My fake date looks over at me like I’ve gone and lost my damn mind. “What on earth are you going on about?”
“Mom—she gave Tripp leftovers last time and all I got was the last stupid piece of fruit tart!”
More laughing. “Well maybe you should pass on dessert and she’ll give that to him. Then you can have take-home containers.”
“I don’t want leftovers. I want cake.”
“Then why are you complaining?”
“It’s the principle of the thing. Also, one year, they bought Tripp a football-tossing machine for Christmas and they never bought me a pitching machine, even though I wanted one, and I’m a better athlete.”
“How old were you?”
“Thirteen.”
“My god, are you seriously complaining about something that happened over a decade ago?”
I grumble, “No.”
But I am.
I clamp my lips shut.
“Thanks for picking me up. It wasn’t necessary.”
I glance over. “If I hadn’t picked you up, you wouldn’t have come.”
That makes her chuckle. “True.”
“What do you have against me anyway?”
“Against you? I don’t even know you—I bumped into you once before you railroaded me at the fundraiser yesterday. You haven’t given me a chance to have anything against you.”
Valid points. Still, “So you’re saying, had we gotten to know each other better, you might have organically wanted to go on a date with me.”
“First of all—this isn’t a date. Secondly, did you seriously just say ‘organically’?”
“First of all, this is a date. Even a pretend date is a date, in my opinion. If two people are out doing something? Date. If two people are going to eat food together? Date. If two people are—”
“I get it, I get it. Fine. To clarify, I mean it’s not a romantic date. Better?”
No. “Sure.”
“You don’t sound sure.”
Because I’m not. “You have terrible taste in men.”
Hollis turns toward me, surprised. “What on earth would make you say that? You don’t even know me.”
“A of all, you dated Marlon Daymon.” I pull a face. “B of all, you won’t date me. Ergo, terrible taste in men.”
She studies me from her spot in the passenger seat, wide-eyed. “Are you always like this?”
“Like what?”
“So…persistent and argumentative.”
My mouth opens to argue, but I clamp it shut. Open it. Clamp it shut. Damn her, why’d she have to go and call me argumentative—who can argue against that? “Am I? How so?”
Hollis laughs as if I’m a stand-up comedian who has just told the world’s funniest joke, tears actually running out the sides of her eyes. “Oh my god, you’re hilarious. I can’t.” She waves a hand, fanning it in front of her face to dry it. “Ugh, for real. You kill me.”
I don’t get the joke, so I stare out the windshield, concentrating on the road and the journey to Noah Harding’s house, which is a twenty-mile drive that takes thirty-five minutes. He lives outside the city—we both do—away from the hustle and bustle in a gated community.
For a bit, we drive in silence, the gift bag on the floor in front of Hollis drawing my curiosity, and I wonder what’s inside. Probably booze. Isn’t that what everyone brings?
“What’s in the bag?” I ask, letting the interest get the best of me.
“Um. Let’s see…” She pulls it onto her lap. “Foaming antibacterial hand soap, and…” She roots around. “Hand lotion, chocolate-covered almonds, and a candle for the kitchen.”
That’s really nice of her. “Where’s my goody bag?”
Hollis rolls her eyes. “It’s not your party.”
“Yeah, but I invited you.”
“You did not invite me! You manipulated me into coming! Ergo”—she stretches the word out—“you do not get a gift bag. Stop being a beggar, jeez.”
Well that was rude. “I was just asking.”
“Why. Are. You. Like. This?”
I shrug. “Probably because I had to live in my brother’s shadow my whole life.”
“You literally just got done telling me you’re your mother’s favorite.”
Hmm. She’s right, I did.
We arrive at Harding’s gate and I lean out the door to punch in the code since the gatekeeper isn’t in his tiny hut. House. Whatever you call the spot where he sits so he’s not bacon in the sun.
“You have the code?”
I won’t lie, my chest puffs out in pride at my own importance. “Pfft, heck yeah. Harding is my best friend.”
Hollis smiles out the window.
I get to show off again when we get to the second set of gates—Noah’s actual house—and I punch those numbers into that keypad, too.
“This is so pretty.”
That’s an understatement; the house is a McMansion—although, by Hollis Westbrooke’s standards, having grown up with a silver spoon in her mouth, she’s probably used to giant homes like this.
Me? I was raised in your average neighborhood with starter homes, two point five kids, parents who both worked long hours, and we never took vacations. Tripp and I only saw homes like this in the movies—I don’t think there were any even remotely this grand within a fifty-mile radius of where I grew up.
And here I am, best buddies with a guy who owns one.
Not to say my house isn’t as nice, though it isn’t. I’ve been doing what Hollis has been doing: buying up shitholes, renovating in the offseason, then selling them for a profit. I haven’t told her that yet, mostly because for all the talking I do, I’m actually a private person, and right now, she doesn’t seem interested in getting to know much personal information about me.
Damn shame.
The garage door is open, and there is an empty spot, so I pull inside, much to Hollis’s horror.
“What are you doing! You can’t park here!”
“Why not?” I put the car in park, cut the engine, unbuckle my seat belt. “I always pull in if the space is open.”
“Oh my god.” Hollis burrows down in her seat, and it’s not bright enough in here to tell, but I’m certain she’s blushing.
“It’s no big deal—I told you, Harding is my best friend. He won’t care.”
Actually, he does care, because he bitches about me parking in his garage every time I park in his garage. But in my defense, it has plenty of room that he’s not even using, and if I can get my sweet ride out of the sun and into the shade, I’m gonna.
I leave the keys in the ignition.
Climb out, scuttling to the passenger side.
Hollis has unbuckled, too, and is pushing the door open when I make my way over, attempting to get out of the low bucket seat of my sports car. I offer her a hand.
“I’ve got it.”
But she doesn’t got it, can barely get out, the seat she’s in determined to keep her ass in it. Smart seat.
“Here, just let me help you.”
Hollis hands me the gift bag then attempts to heave herself up. “This is ridiculous. What a dumb car.”
“Tell me how you really feel.”
She gives me another eye roll as she smooths out the fabric of her skirt, then a nervous smile.
But that can’t be right—what does she have to be nervous about? She’s the general manager’s daughter, for fuck’s sake. Everyone inside works for her old man.
That doesn’t mean I won’t try to keep making her laugh.
I let us both into the house, bypassing the side gate outside so I can set some things down in the kitchen—Hollis wasn’t the only one to bring a gift. I come armed with new grilling tools and a small cooler full of hamburger patties, a roast, and several pounds of lean chicken breasts, because I’m thoughtful like that.
And let’s not forget I spend half my time at Harding’s house, crashing the party of two out of sheer boredom and loneliness. There, I said it—I’m lonely.
“You brought them a housewarming gift, too?” Hollis looks on curiously as I punch in the code, hip-bump the front door open without knocking or ringing the doorbell, and help myself to Harding’s foyer.
“My mom taught me some manners.” We’re both all the way inside, so I close the door behind Hollis until it clicks shut.
“That was really nice of you. Very thoughtful.”
Yeah, it is, considering I practically live here and eat most of my f
riend’s food. Come to think of it, maybe I should actually move in. It isn’t the worst idea since I’m never at my own place, always wielding a hammer when I’m flipping a house, spending my down time on Noah’s couch flat on my back with a remote in my hand.
Things will probably have to change now that his girlfriend has moved in, but I choose to ignore the fact that he doesn’t want me around anymore.
Anymore? Did he ever?
Potato, potahto. Semantics has never been my forte.
I set the cooler on the floor and the grilling tools on the counter, along with the card I bought that reads When my roommate said he was going to kill whoever was taking all of his stuff, I nearly shit his pants and set the red envelope on the counter.
Beyond, in the yard, it looks like everyone has arrived, and I glance over at Hollis, whose eyes are glued to the pool area—and Marlon, his arm around what could only be a jock chaser.
Real classy, bringing a groupie to your teammate’s house to make someone else jealous.
Hollis shakes her head to clear it then shoots me a forced smile. “Wait! We can’t go out there yet.”
“Why?”
“We never settled on a safe word.”
Shit, we didn’t—the one thing we didn’t discuss in the car on the way over is the word we’re going to use if she wants to bail on this party.
“Marvin Gaye,” I suggest.
“That’s two words.”
“Right, but then everyone will just assume you want to go get it on, and no questions asked—boom, we slip out the back door.”
Hollis stares blankly. “How about something simple, like spaghetti?”
I feign a yawn.
“What? I can just say, ‘Oh, I’m making sauce from scratch tonight for my spaghetti,’ and then no one will think I’m being rude.”
“What’s rude is talking about food when I’m hungry.” Which reminds me… “I like tacos—what about something having to do with that?”
“Hmm,” she muses. “That would make more sense if it were Tuesday.”
I disagree. “Taco kitty.”
“I refuse to say taco kitty in public.”
“How about ‘These are na-cho tacos’?” I pause. “Get it?”
“No to tacos.”
“Would you care to revisit my earlier suggestion of wieners?” I pronounce it veener, a good old-fashioned German pronunciation, though if I recall from my languages class in high school, it’s a schnitzel auf Deutsch. “I notice there are no hot dogs on the grill.”
