Chapter 8
8
brYCE
The only thing more ridiculous than being set up on a date with a man your mother picked for you is to have him pick you up and drive you to your family home for it.
Not only do I not like random people knowing where I live, but I really, really fucking hate it when I don’t want this man to be anywhere near me to begin with.
My family home is about fifteen minutes north of town in a small community of exorbitantly built designer homes. It faces the golf course that loops through the entire community and a man-made swamp that I bet Darren to swim in years ago. The HOA fees are disgusting, and the rules that go along them with are just as bad, but my parents love living there.
I’ve always thought it was ironic that the mayor of Cherry Peak doesn’t even live in the town, but fuck if anyone else cares about that.
The inside of the sports car is stuffy and uncomfortable, but once Jean steps out, I take a full breath and shake some of the tension from my shoulders. He’s heading for my side, so I pop open the door before he has a chance to do it for me.
The man my mother set me up with today is tall and lanky with classically handsome features, boring brown eyes, and a clean-shaven jaw. The lines of his white dress shirt and matching linen pants are crisp and perfectly ironed.
There are brown loafers on his feet.
Loafers .
I’m more concerned about how my mother thought for even one half of a second that I would like this guy than I am about how I’m going to ditch him in a few minutes.
Jean grips the side of the door and pulls it as far open as it’ll go before I step out. My boots scuff the driveway as I sidestep the hand he offers to me and tug my denim skirt further down my thighs.
“May I at least open the front door of the house for you?” he asks, half teasing, half begging.
I linger, waiting while he shuts my car door and uses an app on his phone to lock both of them. “I like to open my own doors.”
“We’re on a date. I will open the door for you always.”
His French accent is so thick all it does is remind me of my mother.
“No, thanks,” I say before beginning the walk to the house.
The stench of flowers from the bushes lining the edges of the curved driveway has always been overwhelming. I’ve never seen my mother watering them once in my life, and I doubt I ever will.
Jean catches up to me quickly, and I shove my hands in my pockets before he grabs one of them the way he tried to on the drive here.
“Your mother told me you do not like kind gestures. I thought she was lying,” he reveals.
“My mother lies about a lot of things, Jean, but that wasn’t one of them.”
“It’s rude to deny genuine gestures.”
“I never said I wasn’t rude. ”
He clucks his tongue to the roof of his mouth. “It would be a lie.”
I stop moving, coming to a stop before the cement stairs leading to the massive double doors leading inside the house. The tall columns on either side of the stairs are thick and round, supporting the balcony that faces this side of the property and connects to my parents’ room. If I thought for a moment that my mom was up there, I wouldn’t bother with my next words, but I’d bet she’s on the other side of the front door, waiting and watching for us to come in.
Turning to face the bureaucrat wannabe, I set my hands on my hips and keep my expression stiff.
“Listen, Jean. The only reason I’m here is to get my mother off my back for a little while. I don’t know what you did to deserve being forced to take me out on a date, but whatever it was, I’m sure it wasn’t terrible enough for you to stick this out. You’re more than welcome to leave if you’re going to sit and complain about my rudeness for the next hour. Whether we finish this date or not, I came, and she’ll take that as a win.”
He stares at me for a few moments, surprise and almost a bit of humour appearing in his eyes before he clears his throat.
“I am not leaving.”
I shrug a shoulder. “Your funeral.”
The front door opens, and a beat later, my mother’s face appears. Her makeup thick and flawless, she beams at Jean and gestures for us to come in with a hand heavy with diamond rings.
With her hair curled tightly and pinned at the base of her skull in an intricate bun and makeup giving her the appearance of a younger version of herself, I wonder how long she spent getting ready this morning.
“Jean! It’s such a treat to see you again,” she welcomes, voice high and bubbly.
Jean takes my hand and tightens his grip when I try to tug it free, smiling sweetly at her. “Thank you, Mrs. Lemieux. Your home is magnifique .”
My mother looks at him with a sense of pride I’ve never witnessed in the same way. I’ve grown tired of being jealous of such stupid things. It’s easy to brush off.
She pins me with a stern look, one that says Look! Someone with manners. “Oh, you’re a delight, Jean. Come in, come in. There’s tea and biscuits on the back patio.”
“I hate tea,” I say.
“Coffee, then,” she pushes through flat lips.
Jean stares down at me. “Shall we?”
I carefully pat my pocket, checking for my phone without drawing attention, and then hum in agreement. “I have to use the bathroom first.”
“I’ll lead Jean to the backyard. You remember the way there, Bryce?” Mom asks.
I fight off an eye roll. “Yeah, I remember.”
Without needing further confirmation, Mom takes Jean’s other hand and starts guiding him through the door and into the house. He’s forced to release me, and I stretch out my fingers before turning down the first hall.
I’m not fifteen steps from the entry when I pull my phone free and send a text.
Me: SOS. You know what to do.
I duck into the bathroom and lock the door behind me. The typing bubbles appear on the screen before a reply pops up.
Darren: Again?
Huffing, I lift the toilet lid with the tip of my toe and let it bang closed. I wouldn’t put it past my mother to have followed me.
Me: He’s wearing loafers.
Darren: Yikes. Alright. Ten minutes?
Me: I’ll make it work. Thank you
Pocketing my phone, I take a breath before flushing the toilet and washing my hands. There’s no one on the other side of the door when I leave, and my relief is instant.
There’s no sound in the house besides the clack of my boots on the floor. Probably should have taken them off at the door, but the prospect of getting mud on my mom’s shining floors fills me with too much excitement.
“Bryce?”
I stop at the sound of my father’s voice and inhale a long breath. “I didn’t know you were home.”
“I’m happy I was.”
He comes around to face me and inspects me with deep blue eyes before pulling me in for a hug. It’s mostly comfortable. I even return the gesture.
“Not that I’m not pleased to see you here, but why are you home? I didn’t know you were going to be here,” he says.
“Mom didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
I leave his arms and arch a brow. “I’m on a date.”
His expression levels out. I take that as a good sign. Maybe he’ll tell Mom to stop it with all of these terrible potential matches.
“I see.”
“You see?”
“Your mother just wants you to have someone,” he explains.
I lick my lips before letting my words out. “Tell her to expand her criteria, then. No more finance bros. I’d appreciate if she included a few pageant queens as well.”
“Are they not just opposite sides of the same coin?”
“Maybe. But at least she wouldn’t be blatantly making a show of which gender she’d prefer I wind up with,” I mutter.
Dad reaches out and drags his thumb over the edges of my forehead. He’s always been the more affectionate one, but that isn’t saying much. Mom hasn’t hugged me since I was a little girl. I doubt she even remembers how. Dad being a hugger doesn’t mean he enjoys my company all that much, so really, I could do without the empty affection.
“You know how she is, Bryce,” he says, stepping back.
I realize I’ve been dismissed and grit my teeth, passing him on my way to the backyard. The lack of family photos on the white walls and shelves should make me sad, but it just . . . doesn’t anymore. I don’t have any photos of them in my house, so why should they have to have any in theirs?
I’m incredibly aware of the weight of Dad’s stare on my back until I turn and it’s gone. He doesn’t follow after me. He never has. Mom can be cruel to both of us, but for some reason, I’m the only one who won’t stand there and let it happen. It’s always been this way. I resent my dad for it sometimes.
From my side of the patio doors, I can see Jean and Mom sitting at the patio table, a kettle and tower of fancy fucking pastries resting between them. The teacup in front of Jean is more than likely topped to the rim with tea and honey. Probably cream too. I crinkle my nose and join them.
“Your mother was telling me about your passion for stocks? Is that true?” Mom asks, her cup poised at her mouth.
“Ah, yes. It’s a newer hobby for me. Something to kill the time.”
I hover by the doors, not letting them know I’ve stepped out yet. This conversation is exactly the one I thought they’d be having.
“I suspect you don’t have a lot of that with your career, right?”
Jean smiles bashfully at her. “Oh, I make the time for my favourite things.”
Her cheeks tint with a soft pink that makes me move toward them, done watching. The last thing I want is to see them continuing to . . . flirt?
Fuck’s sake.
“You started without me,” I state bluntly.
They both turn to face me, and Mom gets up instantly, taking her cup with her. Jean jumps up and pulls the chair closest to him out from the table.
“Just waiting for you,” he says.
I reluctantly take the seat and push it in before he can. “What were you talking about?”
“Jean was telling me about his interest in the stock market. Have you ever thought about investing, Bryce?” Mom asks pointedly.
I meet Jean’s waiting stare. “No. I’ve always hated numbers.”
“Oh. Well, that’s alright. They aren’t for everyone,” he says a bit too quickly, face growing a bit weary.
“My only hobby is tattooing. Do you have any ink?”
He blanches. “No. I don’t, actually.”
“What a shame.”
The air grows awkward as neither of us speaks, and I think I enjoy the silence more than I did the conversation. Mom fiddles with her teacup, a nail tapping along the edge. Her stare is hot and angry on my face, but I ignore it.
“Bryce has an interest in art,” she puts in, trying to spin my love of tattoos into something more proper. “Do you have that in common?”
Jean’s eyes light up, colouring coming back to his cheeks. “Yes, I think we might. What type of?—”
Having left my ringer on after leaving the bathroom, it begins to go off, cutting him short. I pretend to look apologetic as I pull it free of my pocket and answer it.
“Hello?”
“Is it going that badly? You can still say this is just a scam caller,” Darren says, his voice a familiar comfort in my ear.
“Oh shit. Really? Is she okay?” I ask.
Jean keeps his stare on me as I speak, his curiosity sharp. Mom doesn’t buy it. I’d be concerned if she did, considering I’ve done this to the past three guys she’s set me up with. But she won’t say anything about it in front of Jean.
“You owe me a day of free babysitting, Rye,” Darren says .
“Yes, I do need a ride. I’m at my parents’ house. See you soon.” Hanging up, I meet Jean’s waiting stare. “Something’s come up. I have to go.”
“Let me wait outside with you,” he offers, already standing.
“That’s okay. I don’t need company.”
“He’ll wait outside with you, Bryce,” Mom tells me.
Gritting my teeth, I nod once. “Fine.”
I move quickly, wanting to get away from her as soon as possible. Jean follows at my heels, not giving me an inch of space. It’ll take Darren fifteen minutes to get here, and that’s fourteen too many.
“If you don’t mind me asking, what’s happened?” he asks.
“Something involving my best friend’s daughter,” I lie, stepping through the patio door. He tugs it from my hand and holds it for me.
“Is she alright?”
“Yes.”
“Am I really that bad?”
The question stuns me enough that I turn my head to look at him. Guilt twitches in my gut.
“It’s not you.”
“No?”
“Honestly? I’m bi, Jean. And I swore off dating men a long fucking time ago. You and me? We wouldn’t work. I’m sure you’ve pieced that together by now too.”
He doesn’t answer for a minute. Still, he opens the front door for me and waits until I’ve stepped out to follow. His manners are immaculate, but unfortunately, that isn’t enough.
“Does your mother know about what you’ve told me?” he asks gently.
“Do you think it would matter either way?”
Another pause. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“How were you supposed to?”
“Still, I am sorry for putting you in an uncomfortable spot. It wasn’t my intention. ”
I peer up at him, taking in his sincere expression. “Thank you.”
“Can I wait for your ride with you now? Maybe we can speak about your hobbies while we do?”
“You want to know about my hobbies?”
He nods. “Yes.”
I give in. And for the next thirteen minutes, I divulge more about myself to a stranger than I think I ever have.