Chapter 18
I try not to smile as Evie adjusts her T-shirt and runs her hands through her wild hair that I had smoothed out and then immediately messed up. While she goes to answer the door, I sit back down on the couch, rest my elbows on my knees, and scrape my hands through my hair in an attempt to settle myself. What the hell just happened? Was that a bad idea? I haven’t fully decided yet. As the height of the moment is wearing off, though, I do think I’m grateful she put a stop to it. I’m not just Jake. I have a daughter to consider before I get too tangled up with anyone new.
And believe it or not, what happened a minute ago is not why I came over here. I only intended to give her the invitation and run. Just your friendly neighborhood postman.
But no. I saw her, and my body suddenly had other plans. Plans to kiss her. Plans to do a lot more than just kiss her, apparently.
What now? I wanted to move slow. This little action just changed things. Now I have a conversation on the horizon that I’m not at all prepared for.
Well, maybe I’m a little prepared for it. The more time I spend with Evie, the more I can’t imagine not dating her. But I don’t know if I can trust myself. I’ve made a poor decision concerning a woman before, and look how that turned out. Although, I know I don’t want to spend the rest of my life alone . . . so I’ll have to face my fears at some point. Looks like that point is now.
I hear Evie open the door, then gasp. I turn toward the door just in time to hear her say, “Mom. Dad. What are you doing here?”
Oh, super.
I shoot up from the couch, and in a split second—because Evie’s apartment is made for ants—I’m standing beside her at the door. Her mom’s eyes are wide as they look from me to Evie and then slowly down Evie’s body in the same way one might look at a nudist they’ve just encountered on the sidewalk.
I don’t know why I suddenly have the urge to defend our current state. She’s wearing shorts! I’m a grown man, and Evie’s a grown woman. Even if she weren’t wearing shorts, that’s our business.
But Evie’s mom has the look of a woman about to chew out her daughter. Instinctively, I move to shield Evie. “Hi,” I say, sticking my hand out toward her dad first. “I’m Jacob Broaden.”
He shakes my hand with all the gusto of a dead fish and cocks one eyebrow. “Harold Jones.”
Wait a second.I pause mid-handshake. Harold Jones? As in, the Harold Jones from the long line of Joneses that have made up the majority of our city’s wealth for generations? I knew Evie’s last name was Jones, but I guess I never thought to ask her if there was any connection because she just seems so . . . normal.
I slide my wide eyes to Mrs. Jones, and she rolls her eyes at Evie.
“I can see you haven’t told him who your relatives are.” The woman sounds like she’s never been more bored in her life. She looks at me again but doesn’t even offer me her hand. “Melony Jones.”
Oh yeah. I know who she is. Everyone in Charleston knows who this woman is. And she’s just as off-putting as I had imagined.
Suddenly, I feel like laughing. Here I was, thinking that Evie would be impressed with my little architectural firm and two-thousand-square-foot house, when she grew up with the leading socialites of Charleston in a twelve-million-dollar home. I know this because I read the magazine article about it last month. I feel embarrassingly ignorant.
She gave up all that to live in this shoebox? I have a whole new appreciation for Evie. Not because she came from money but because she turned out so down-to-earth despite her entitled upbringing.
Mrs. Jones turns her sharp eyes to Evie; apparently, she’s done with me. I’m just a small fly, and I’ve been swatted away. “Evelyn Grace, are you going to make us stand out here all night?”
“I’m entertaining a guest right now,” Evie says through her teeth. I’m impressed by her backbone. She’s not cowering under this woman’s haughty glare—and believe me, it’s more than a little intimidating.
“Clearly,” Mrs. Jones says with another accusatory glance at Evie’s bare legs.
I take one more look too, because goodness she has amazing-looking legs.
“But you’ve been taught better than to leave your parents standing out in the heat like this.” Mrs. Jones pushes past both of us and steps into Evie’s place uninvited. It’s shocking. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone do that before.
Mr. Jones pulls out his phone and frowns down at it. He answers it, turns around, and walks back out without so much as a glance to the rest of us. These people are something.
“I can’t do this right now, Mom. I don’t want to inflict our drama on an innocent bystander.” Evie gestures toward me.
I have no idea what to do right now. Do I jump to her aid? Do I act as her bouncer and throw these people out? I’m not prepared for this, but I want to help somehow.
Mrs. Jones acts as if she doesn’t hear Evie’s comment. “We won’t be long.” She runs her finger across the small entry table and then examines it for dust. “Honestly, Evelyn, what has happened to you? This place looks like a pigsty.”
I expect Evie to take offense to this, but instead, when I look at her, I notice that she’s looking at me—and she’s amused. No, not amused. She looks like she’s about to crack up laughing. And then I realize she’s looking at my hair.
I glance in the mirror on the wall and find that it’s sticking up in all directions. Possibly from where I ran my hands through it while Evie was getting the door. Possibly from where Evie ran her hands through it while I was licking her neck. Who’s to say. But this, coupled with Evie’s outfit, looks more than incriminating. I quickly smooth it down, trying to hide my own laugh now.
“If you’re just here to comment on my cleanliness, Mom, you can walk right back out. I’m happy with the way I live.”
“That’s not why I’m here. Although I do feel compelled to mention that if you would stop being foolish and accept Tyler, you would be able to move out of this cardboard box.”
Wait a minute. Who’s Tyler?
“I don’t live in the 1800s, Mom. I’m not going to accept a man’s proposal just because he has a big estate. Am I the only one who thinks this idea is ludicrous?”
Proposal?Apparently, Evie’s not as unattached as I thought. . . .
Mrs. Jones’s eyes suddenly shift to me, and I can see her sizing me up. “Is he the reason you’re not accepting Tyler?” She’s looking at me, but it’s clear that she’s not talking to me.
“Okay, this conversation is over.” Evie walks back to her door and opens it. “Time to go, Mom.”
Mrs. Jones turns a smirk to me. “If my daughter won’t answer me, I’ll ask you. Exactly who are you to Evelyn?”
“He’s a friend,” says Evie before I have a chance to open my mouth.
Mrs. Jones makes a guttural noise and then starts to stroll toward the door at a leisurely pace. “I only came by to inform you that your cellphone bill is overdue. If I don’t see your payment in our account by the end of the week, I’ll be forced to have your phone turned off.”
Turned off? Is this woman high on something? She sounds more like a villain in a movie, threatening to bash Evie’s kneecaps in if that ATT money doesn’t show up soon.
This reminds me of something Evie said the first time we had coffee, about her bank account balance matching her age. At the time I thought she was kidding. But now I’m genuinely concerned.
“Of course,” her mother continues, “if you decide to have a relationship with Tyler, all of those ugly bills will go away. And you are welcome to come live in the guest house for free until you and Tyler marry.”
“Great, not going to happen,” Evie bites out. “Message received. You can leave now. Tell Dad I said thanks for stopping by to check on me.” Her sarcasm is thick, and although I’ve never seen her like this, I understand it. Admire it, even.
A protective energy courses through my veins, and I’m powerless to stop it. If this villain in the baby-blue pantsuit doesn’t leave in the next minute, I’m going to end up throwing her out myself.
Mrs. Jones shakes her head at Evie. “You’re making a mistake, dear. I just want the best for you and your future.” That almost sounded nice. And maybe it would have been a kind parting had she stopped talking right there. Melony casts a disgusted glance over Evie’s appearance one last time. “And for heaven’s sake, Evelyn Grace, you shouldn’t be so easy. It looks bad on the Jones name.”
Okay, that’s it. I’m hot on Melony’s heels, but Evie reaches out and catches my chest before I can follow the monster out. She shuts the door quickly and puts her back to it like she doesn’t trust me to not wrench it open and go after Melony Jones. Probably for the best. Not sure I trust myself right now.
I stare at Evie for a minute, waiting for the floodgates to open or her fury to burn hot. Instead, her dimples pop, and she smiles. “Can I bring anything to the pool party on Saturday?”
My mouth falls open. “How are you so calm?!” I feel like the Hulk, ready to rip my shirt off and burst through the ceiling; and she’s just standing there, looking like a springtime fairy. “How are you not spitting angry right now?”
She shrugs and steps away from the door. “I stopped letting that woman steal my joy about fifteen therapy sessions ago. Where do you think all my money disappears to?”
I don’t know what else to do, so I walk over to Evie and wrap my arms around her. I want to hold her close because, somehow, I get the feeling she and Sam share more than just the same disability. I think Evie is tough as nails, but she’ll still cry into her pillow the second I leave.
For a moment, she seems shocked. She doesn’t move. Her arms are limp noodles beside her body. But then they finally lift up and wrap around my waist, and she squeezes me back as tightly as I’m squeezing her. It’s all I can offer her.
“They suck,” I mumble into her hair, and she laughs.
“Yeah. They’re not the best parents.”
“Why didn’t you tell me what family you were from? I had no idea.”
She pulls away from me and starts busying herself by packing up all the nail polish. “Because number one, how weird would it have been if the second I met you, I said, ‘Hi! I’m Evie Jones. You know? Of the famous Joneses who practically own this city?’ And number two, I’m trying to make my own way in life without riding their coattails.”
She moves on to a fluffy blue blanket, which she aggressively folds.
“I understand that.” We’re both quiet for a moment, and then, when I can’t take it any longer, I finally ask the question that’s been eating at me. “So, who’s the Tyler guy your mom was talking about?”
Evie grins like she can tell I’m jealous and likes it. “Have you heard of my dad’s law firm? Jones and Murray? Well, Tyler is Tyler Murray. He just inherited his dad’s half of the firm. Our parents have been planning on our marriage since we were kids so that they could always keep the company in trustworthy hands. The problem is, I’m the only one who doesn’t want the marriage.”
Only one?
“So, that means Tyler does want the marriage?”
Evie shrugs like it’s not a big deal. Like this relationship I was beginning to picture between us didn’t just grow fuzzier and more unclear. Is there even a chance for us now? If Tyler is one of the Murrays, I’ve no doubt he’s a millionaire. By society’s standards, he would be a catch. How do I stand a chance against someone like that?
Then again . . . I’m here with Evie in her little apartment that she chose to live in because she didn’t want the same life as her parents. So, that’s something. Isn’t it?
“Tyler wants a pretty wife on his arm who will help him climb the social and economic ladder. Marrying a Jones is exactly what he needs to ensure that happens. He doesn’t want me. He wants what we would represent together. A unified company in more ways than just business. Investors would love it and it could be a boost to the company.”
“And you don’t want that?”
Evie laughs, and the sound makes my heart lighter. “I sent that idea down the toilet a long time ago. Honestly, Tyler and I dated for a while in high school, and that was enough to make me never want to be attached to that man again. And he’s only gotten worse since we broke up.”
I don’t say anything for a minute. I’m not sure what to say.
Evie accurately interprets my silence and goes on. “Jake. I don’t . . . I don’t know if it’s necessary for me to say this to you or not,
but there really is no chance of me ever wanting to marry Tyler Murray—or any man like him, for that matter.”
I really want to let those words soothe my fears, but it just isn’t helping me feel better about wanting to date her. If anything, it adds to my terror about a million percent. What if we get serious and then she changes her mind and finally takes Tyler up on his offer? I don’t know. I can’t think about that right now. I need to change the subject before I self-sabotage. “Did they say you’re still on their phone plan?”
She gives me a look that says, Don’t you dare make fun of me. “It’s cheaper that way. I hate being beholden to them, but I can’t afford it without the family-plan discount.” Right. This reminds me of something.
I walk into her “kitchen”—meaning I take two big steps to the right. I’m not sure you can actually call this a kitchen. It’s really just a fridge and a sink and a one-foot-square slab of butcher block that, if you squint, might be able to pass as a counter. I open the top cupboard, and it’s just as I suspected.
“What are you doing?” she asks, sounding a little panicked.
I reach in and push aside the box of colorful cereal and an open pack of sour candy. When I spot a tumbleweed blowing across the back, I move on to the fridge. I pull it open and find a carton of milk with a questionable date and a Tupperware container that’s half-filled with what looks like egg salad, but I don’t dare open it and find out.
She runs up and shuts the fridge door like I was peeking in her lingerie drawer instead of her fridge. Her cheeks are burning red, and suddenly she looks like she might bite my head off. “If you’re hungry, we can go down the street to a diner that stays open late.”
“Evie, do you have money to get groceries?”
Her cheeks burn deeper. I could fry a pancake on them. “Yes! Of course I do.”
“Do you have money to buy more than a box of cereal?”
“I’ll have you know that a serving of that cereal has half the recommended intake of fiber for the day.”
She’s trying to play, but I’m not having it. I’m the bad guy now. Stop fooling around; things just got serious. “Come on. Get your shoes.”
I grab her hand and start pulling her with me toward the door. Charlie darts off his perch on the bed and grabs his vest. For once, he gives me a look that says he is on my side. Evie deserves to have someone on her side, and I’ve just decided that that someone is going to be me.
She hits the brakes and digs her heels into the floor. “STOP. Where are we going?”
I swear, I will pick her up and carry her over my shoulder if I have to. “The grocery store.” She’s fighting, but I’m a big bully, and she doesn’t stand a chance against my size. “I’m buying you some food to go in that fridge.”
“No! Jake. I’m fine, I swear. UGH. Charlie, attack!”
Charlie trots beside me. I pause at the front door long enough to scoop up her tennis shoes. “Evie. You can’t live on cereal. And I will never be able to sleep at night knowing that the woman who helped change my daughter’s and my life for the better is at home with no food. Now, either you can hop in my truck on your own or I will pick you up and put you in myself, but either way you’re going to the grocery store with me.” I pause and then tack on, “Please let me.”
I can’t tell if she wants to smack me or smile. I think there’s a hint of both on her face. “Can I at least put on a bra first?”
I smile. “I guess.”
She stares me down, and her eyes narrow in contemplation. “I don’t need a sugar daddy, Jake.”
“Good, because that term has always creeped me out, and I really don’t want to be associated with it.”
“I’m serious. I’m not helpless. I’m just a little broke until I get paid again, because my insurance went up again this month, making things a little tighter.”
“When is payday?”
“. . . Two weeks.”
“Yeah. Come on.” She looks so torn. If I don’t want to throw her over my shoulder, I’m going to have to reason with her. “Please, Evie. Let me help. I promise this won’t make you beholden to me. I can just help you with this one little thing to get you on your feet, and then I swear I’ll never force my money on you again.”
She grins a little. “All right, fine.” She’s crossing in front of me, headed for my truck. Bra forgotten. “But we’re also buying the ingredients for your favorite brownies so I can make them as a thank-you.” She pauses at the right bumper and looks over her shoulder. The wind catches her hair, and she looks way too cute in that oversized T-shirt. “Except, I’m going to have to make them at your place because I don’t have an oven.”