Chapter Eight
Avery might not have been worried about the complications of the social media debacle, but Jo’s complications continued to flood in that night and over the days that followed. Texts she ignored turned into calls she didn’t answer.
“Can’t you turn the damn thing off?” Brooke muttered as she stopped counting choux buns. “I keep having to start over every time it rings.”
“No.” Jo plugged in her grandma’s mixer and wondered what she would have said about all the mess she’d gotten herself into. “Avery might call.”
“Ooh, can’t miss Avery’s call,” Brooke teased, then gasped. “Wait. That means you have a special ringtone for him.”
Jo rolled her eyes and tested the temperature of the ganache she’d left cooling. Perfect. Control in small things steadied her when everything else felt noisy and unstable. “How else would I tell his call from the others?”
“Uh-uh.” Brooke planted her hands on her hips. “Since when does he call, and since when do you worry about him calling?”
“Since last night.” Settling the bowl, on the stand, she lowered the whisk into the ganache, ready to whip it until it was light and creamy. “I dreamed today was all a cruel joke my family put him up to, and he cancelled at the last minute.”
“You can’t even get away from them when you sleep.” Brooke shook her head. “As much as they live in your head, you should start charging rent. I say block the mofos and save us both the headache.”
Jo chuckled. That was why she’d left the phone on in her room. Her family had driven her crazy all week.
She thought of Walt’s texts from last Friday.
They had been all about shaming her for not answering and having to cover his ass with Lydia.
Saturday morning while she’d shopped for the library literacy benefit dress, they’d turned to concern, Lydia’s version sharp and transactional.
All of which, if Jo had to guess, had instigated Chase’s visit and was still prompted by the same driving force.
Lydia: You should be ashamed of yourself. Your father has been beside himself with worry.
Other than staying out of trouble with his wife, the only thing her father worried about was where he’d find his next beer and piece of ass.
Lydia: You might not care about him, but the least you could do is answer a simple text.
Lydia: We’re trying to plan a wedding. I need to know if you’re coming or not.
After Chase’s visit, they’d turned downright nasty. Nothing new there.
Lydia: So, you got fired. I knew you were wasting the money that should have been Walt’s on that cooking school. Little good it did.
Lydia: I hope you don’t think we’re going to support you.
As if they ever had.
Lydia: Georgia is our priority now.
It had always been about Chelsea. Not that she would ever ask them for help or expect anything to change. The only reason they’d taken Jo in after her grandma died was to keep up appearances. Well, that and the insurance money. But thank God, Grandma had locked that up tight.
Lydia: Poor Chase is heartbroken.
By the time Avery dropped Jo off the night of the gala, after their impromptu dinner at Taqueria #11, where she’d been torn between enjoying his witty banter—he really was funny—and fear of another paparazzi invasion, Lydia’s tone had changed somewhat.
Lydia: Well, no wonder you dumped Chase. You’ve caught a big fish. I didn’t think you had it in you.
Lydia: The least you can do is bring him to the wedding, for your sister’s sake.
Half-sister. And what was she smoking?
Georgia: I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye, but we’re adults now. I’d love to see you at my wedding.
Georgia: Please feel free to bring your new boyfriend. What’s his name? Avery?
The girl was about as subtle as a cattle truck full of bawling cows that reeked of bullshit. Even if her situationship with Avery was real, she’d never invite him.
Jo finally had enough and texted Walt.
Jo: Sorry to make you worry. Everything is fine. See you at the wedding.
That was it. It would have to be. She was exhausted.
After reading through the texts that should have been supportive and concerned, she’d answered Brooke’s text, the only one to ask if she was okay.
Brooke had called immediately, and Jo spent the next half hour lamenting the tougher moments of the night and celebrating the good ones, like her decision to follow Avery’s advice and go freelance now rather than continuing to search for a job.
Because of that, a better kitchen was called for, so Monday morning apartment hunting had become a priority. Most were out of her price range. One had possibilities but no vacancies. Still, she’d been added to a waiting list.
She snorted. She might get a call sometime next year.
Tuesday afternoon, Avery had texted a request for her to join him at a last-minute business dinner, which had been dull.
Avery spent most of it in deliberation with executives from two companies Jo had never heard of.
The wives of the major players were a bit condescending, but she held her own.
Afterward, Avery seemed amped to be somewhere else—probably meeting his friends at Pulse—when he walked her to her car, so they’d parted quickly.
A few minutes later, her phone chirped, and she was ten thousand dollars richer.
The rest of the week had flown by as she prepared a menu of pastries that would, hopefully, influence Avery’s family to recommend her to friends, as well as impress Kate Sullivan.
Jo’d selected wedding favorites—mille-feuille, choux buns stuffed with chocolate ganache and sprinkled with powdered sugar, brown butter macarons with a buttercream filling, and of course, raspberry-vanilla petit fours.
Now, as she kept an eye on the ganache and the last batch of choux buns, she glanced at the clock. Avery would be here soon.
“These are done.” Brooke set a box of macarons on the coffee table. “Let me do that while you go change.”
One hand holding the cord just so, Jo clamped the other on top of the mixer’s motor housing. It was prone to travel across the counter if unattended. She looked down at her T-shirt smeared with raspberry. Her black yoga pants were dotted with powdered sugar and buttercream.
“Right.” She looked at the chocolate ganache in the bowl. “It just needs another few minutes.”
From years of practice, they made the transition without the motor cutting out. Everything was done except filling the choux buns.
“And answer your damn phone,” Brooke yelled as Jo trotted down the hall, “tell them all to go to hell, and then change your number.”
If only.
Jo grabbed the cashmere sweater she’d ordered online earlier in the week after Melody called, saying she hoped Jo didn’t mind that she got Jo’s number from Avery, but she wanted to let Jo know the family was going ranch casual—jeans and boots.
More in Jo’s comfort zone than the dress and heels she’d planned.
The sweater arrived this morning, but she hadn’t had a chance to try it on yet.
Crossing her fingers, she stripped, slipped the sweater over her head, and picked up Walt’s call on the last ring. “Hello?”
The other end was silent for a minute before he said, “I didn’t think you were going to answer.”
She held the phone to her ear and shimmied into new jeans because the holes and frayed seams on her old ones weren’t made by a designer. “Sorry, I’m working.”
“You found a job?”
More or less, if she could count Avery’s crazy scheme a job. “Yes.”
“She got a new job.” His voice was waffled—a hand over the phone? “She can’t talk right now.”
I never said that.
Which meant he was making the call under pressure and would use any excuse to get out of talking to her.
“Working the pole?” Even muffled, Georgia’s snide tone came through.
“If she cared at all,” Lydia said, “work wouldn’t interfere with family.”
Jo ground her teeth. She didn’t have time or the emotional bandwidth for this. Her nerves were as frayed as her old jeans.
“Walt?” She yanked on a pair of socks, shoved her feet into her not-so-new but comfy boots, and headed for the bathroom.
He sighed. “Yeah, uh, hang on.”
More background conversation ensued as she stood in front of her bathroom mirror. The dusty blue sweater made her eyes pop, but it was a little deeper in the cleavage than she’d like, considering this was more of a business meeting than a backyard barbecue.
She pulled the scrunchie from her hair. It fell in waves around her shoulders, hiding the skin above the neckline. That’s better. “Walt?”
“You need a plus one,” he blurted out. “Are you bringing the new boyfriend?”
“He’s not my boyfriend.” She fluffed the top of her hair and plucked a bit of buttercream from the top.
“I saw the picture. Looks like you know him pretty damn well.”
Ugh. “I gotta go.”
“Wait! Sorry, I’m just getting a lot of shit here. Can’t you at least ask?”
Her arm flopped to her side. They didn’t care if she came or not. Only that she brought her rich boyfriend.
Jo headed up the hall. “We barely know each other, so no, I’m not asking Avery to—”
Her feet skidded to a halt as her gaze met Avery’s over the peninsula where she’d left Brooke. He was holding the tempermental cord and the top of the mixer, grinning like he was having the time of his life.
“Am I holding it right?” he asked.
“Gotta go,” she said into the phone and hung up. Her gaze connected with Brooke’s.
Brooke shrugged as she added a divider to the box awaiting choux buns. “He said he wanted to help.”
Jo flew around the counter to check the ganache. “You can let go of the cord now. It’s ready.”
As soon as he let go, the mixer sputtered to a stop. He stepped back, and she retracted the whisk.
“What is this?” he asked, nodding toward the bowl.
“Ganache.”
He reached around from behind to catch the thick chocolate threatening to plop into the bowl.