Chapter 3
3
brYCE
I itch the blank skin around the new patch of ink on the back of my hand and strain my eyes to keep them from rolling at my mom’s words.
She’s dressed to the nines like usual in a knee-length, powder-pink, A-line dress and matching pumps. Her platinum-blonde bob is swept out of her face with diamond-encrusted butterfly clips ordered in the same pink as her outfit. One step into the town office and I could smell the old money wafting from her.
It’s easy to recognize the scent when I’ve spent years scrubbing it off and extracting it from my blood with every prick of a tattoo gun.
My father is the mayor of Cherry Peak, but that isn’t why they stink the way they do. This isn’t a town where you’ll find fame, riches, or glamour from that title.
Their old money comes from generations back when my great-great-great-probably even greater-grandparents bought up half of Montreal, specifically Westmount, where my mom grew up, when it cost two cents for a loaf of bread and ten dollars for a Summitt view.
Dad was born into his own family fortune here in Alberta, but Mom’s makes his look like pennies in comparison. When they married, they became moguls without having to lift a finger.
I’ve never gone into the financial details with my parents, but I know enough to realize my family name won’t run out of funds for decades upon decades to come.
Big fucking whoop.
“He said you were quite rude, Bryce,” Mom says, continuing to go on and on about the guy she forced me on a date with last week.
Her French accent should be watered down after two decades in Alberta and less than a few months spent back home in Quebec, but it’s still loud and proud. Thicker in moments like this when her emotions get the better of her.
Much to my parents’ disapproval, I don’t have an accent at all. Worked hard to ensure that. If I hadn’t been forced to take private French lessons growing up, I wouldn’t have bothered learning the language either.
I slouch back in my office chair. “He also said he wanted me to date him and his brother and give them a family of eight starting immediately.”
“Oh . . . and you didn’t think the brother was an acceptable option? Did you ask to see a photo?” she asks, jumping right over the problem.
“No. I didn’t ask for a photo of his brother. Do I really look like the right person to marry two men? And to birth not one but five kids? That’s not ever fucking happening.”
She tightens her stare, and I prepare for her scolding. “You really shouldn’t be so picky, Bryce. You’re not going to be in your twenties for much longer. Do you know how much harder it gets to find a man when you hit that number?”
“I only recently turned twenty-eight.”
“So you think it will only take you two more years? I’m trying to help, darling. I simply don’t want you to be lonely forever,” she soothes, the Botox in her cheeks keeping her smile from spreading the way it did when I was a child. “You were already born by the time I was twenty-eight.”
“Alright. Well, I’ll be fine.”
She turns her nose up with a scoff. “Of course you will be. You’re a Lemieux.”
“So, you understand that I don’t need my mother setting me up on dates, then.”
“No. No, that I do not understand. I am trying to help you, ma belle .”
“ J’veux pas ton aide .”
She shakes her head, hair swishing. “Nonsense. I will tell Jean that you will meet him at the house for pastries on Wednesday afternoon. I’ll have the cook prepare a spread for you.”
It’s only Friday, but Wednesday is still too soon. My skin crawls at the thought of not only entertaining another blind date but having it at my parents’ house.
“Mom—”
“ Non . You will not argue with me further on this,” she snaps, accent growing thick enough to stick some of her words together.
I clench my hands beneath the office desk and swallow my anger. “Fine.”
She grins, veneers blinding. A single clap of her hands, and she bends over the desk to kiss me on both of my cheeks.
“That’s my girl. So thoughtful, hmm?”
I spread my lips in a saccharine smile. “I always am, Mom.”
With a pat to my shoulder, she hums happily. Her expensive perfume slams into me, and I have to clear my throat to keep from coughing.
“Is that all you came here for?” I ask, pulling back and away from her.
“As if I would come here for anything else. Your dad is the only one of us who likes this place.” Her nose crinkles, top lip lifting. “You do look mature in those clothes. ”
“If by mature, you mean sixty-five,” I deadpan.
At the reminder of the clothes, I tug at the neck of my high-collar blouse where it cuts into my throat. The sleeves cinch in at the wrists the same way the collar does, hiding every inch of my skin from my hands up to my chin. My tattoos are left to suffocate beneath the scratchy material. They’re “too inappropriate for the workplace,” according to my parents. I cross my ankles, hating the way the loose skirt I’m forced to wear nearly drags along the floor.
My mom takes a long look at me from the other side of the desk and nods in approval. “You look professional. Much better than those tiny skirts and shirts you wear, hmm?”
“Hmm,” I echo.
If she knew I had my black boots on beneath this desk, she’d lose a veneer.
“Maybe you will start dressing like this outside of work. I would love that. It would make such a beautiful impression on Jean to see you in such conservative, respectful clothes.”
“You’re feeling very assuming today, Mom.”
“Assuming? Non, ma belle . Hopeful.”
“Right. Well, I have to finish up here, so . . .” I wave toward the exit.
She tightens her grip on the strap of her purse. “Of course. Finish here and call me so we can speak details about Wednesday.”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll see you, darling. Love you.”
“Love you too, Mom.”
She clicks her nails on the desk before flashing a final smile and stepping outside, leaving the office in blissful silence once again.
I let out a full breath for the first time since she arrived and hang my head back. Her intentions have never been cruel. They’re just . . . short-sighted. My bisexuality isn’t a secret to anyone, let alone my parents, but the constant shovelling of men down my throat has been something I’ve been dealing with for the last several months.
My dating a man is something that my parents understand. It’s a comfortable situation for them. Me with a woman is harder to wrap their heads around.
Every time Mom sets me up on one of these fucking dates with another man she knows through her network and family ties, I humour her. It’ll never be more than that. I know my mind well, and I know what I want in a relationship.
That’ll never be a man.
I look forward when my phone buzzes on the desk.
Pops: Did you get the emergency text?
Poppy’s text is confusing at first glance, but once I notice the dozens of others on my screen, I open them, expecting some shit to have gone down.
The group chat is flooded with messages all sent over the past few minutes. I silenced it the other night when they wouldn’t shut up, so it makes sense I didn’t hear anything while Mom was here.
Johnny: Emergency meeting at Peakside tonight at 6. @everyone
Garrison: I’m still in Toronto.
Anna: B + I will be there!
Poppy: I’ll leave the house now. Miss u baby
Johnny: WBU Brycie?
Johnny: Bryce? Sorry, got rid of the i
Johnny: Miss you too Pops
Poppy: That was for Garrison, Johnny. I saw you last weekend
Johnny: And?
Garrison: Shut up, Johnny.
Garrison: Miss you more, honey.
Johnny: You tell me to shut up but call me honey? Mixed signals here people.
Anna: Will you tell us what this is about before we get there, Johnny?
Poppy: Where the f is Ice? As if the office is busy. Leaving now. TTYL xx
I roll my eyes at her last message. It’s never busy here. I spend most of the day playing Solitaire on the computer.
Me: I’ll be there. Need a drink or 10.
Johnny: KAY!
Anna: See you soon, Ice
Once the message comes in, I lock my phone and shove it in my bag before heading home.
Two and a half hours later, I’m a block away from Peakside when the sky opens up and starts raining on me. Thunder rumbles loudly as I curse and hurry my strides.
It would have been so much fucking easier to just drive, but knowing I’m planning on drinking my body weight in vodka, I didn’t want to have to worry about my car afterward. Now, I’m wishing I’d used my head when I smelled rain the moment I left home.
By the time I reach the bar, I’m soaked. My denim skirt is chafing against my thighs, and my shirt is suctioned to my chest. There’s water in my boots, and I’m positive my makeup is smudged .
“Fucking perfect,” I mutter before pulling open the heavy wooden door.
My least favourite genre of music is playing, the country twang I hear on the daily whenever Brody speaks drifting from the speakers. It’s empty besides the table of my friends past the double-sided bar.
I get a glare from the bartender, a.k.a. the mother of my ex-girlfriend, as I pass, my boots squeaking on the floor. I’d feel guilty for the mess I’m leaving if she and her daughter weren’t on my shit list.
The bathroom sign is right ahead of me now. A beat later, I duck inside the ladies’ room before anyone notices me and grimace at my appearance in the mirror.
I move quickly, wringing my hair out in the sink and dabbing paper towels beneath my eyes to clear away the smudged mascara. With my fingers, I comb through my wet hair and huff when it starts to frizz immediately after beginning to dry. Leaning over the counter, I rub my thumb on my temple where a streak of eyeliner has appeared before staring at my chest, grateful I wore a black shirt instead of white.
There’s a flush, and then one of the stall doors rattles before opening. A small gasp has me looking behind me in the mirror.
“Bryce?”
My throat clogs at the voice before tightening to the point of pain when I meet Daisy Mitchell’s eyes in our reflections. Static fills my ears as I narrow my stare.
Her hair is a deep, glossy red colour, and her piercing blue eyes are so intense they could shift planets with a single stare. Tall and slim, with a narrow, sharp jaw and a set of plump lips that I’ve seen blow bubbles in gum a hundred times, she’s drop-dead gorgeous.
Her legs are miles fucking long and exposed in a pair of white cutoff shorts that I know must expose the underside of her ass cheeks with every step she takes. I tongue my cheek when I read the saying on the front of her waist-gripping shirt. Too good for you.
I almost laugh.
“Are you okay?” she asks, her voice sugar sweet and pure.
I swallow, glaring at the sink but watching her in my peripheral. “Fine. Just leaving.”
She walks to the second sink beside me and turns on the tap. The way she shifts is awkward, janky. I made her feel that way.
“Were you caught in the rain?”
“Yep.”
“Did my brother ask you to come tonight too?”
“Obviously.”
She squirts soap into her palms and starts to lather it. The tap continues to run, and I snap a hand out to shut it off on habit. Silence hangs between us before she speaks again.
“I have a feeling that I know what this meeting is about?—”
“I’m done in here,” I rasp, snapping my eyes upward to look at her in the mirror one last time.
“Oh. Okay.” Her expression closes down as she digs her teeth into her lip.
I keep my jaw shut to avoid saying something stupid and leave before I rip it open and speak anyway.
Daisy Mitchell has that effect on me. From the moment we met, I’ve had an annoying fucking impulse to blabber about anything and everything without a single reason as to why.
It doesn’t matter.
I’m not in the mood to dig into that right now. She’s right, anyway.
Too fucking good for me.