Chapter 8 #2
“Thank you, handsome.” She tucks a silver strand behind her ear. “Will you sing me a little Al Greene? You know, I love me some Al.”
“I’d be happy to.” His baritone eases smoothly into the chorus of “Let’s Stay Together.” She puts a hand over her heart and sways. I know just how she feels—swept off my feet.
He kisses her hand at the end, and she thanks him with the most adoring gaze.
“Looks like Miss Arlee is in love,” I say when he reaches me.
“I am popular with the seniors.” He chuckles. “They think I have an old soul.”
“Uh-huh. I’m sure that’s it. You sounded amazing, by the way.”
“Anytime you want a private concert, say the word.”
Is it possible for a pulse to race and stutter at the same time? Mine seems to be doing both. “So, what’s this drink you need my expert opinion on?” I ask, trying to pull myself together.
“You tell me.” His eyes carry a teasing glint as he joins me, setting down the saucer and mug. “You’ve guessed them all so far.”
I lower my gaze to admire the stunning latte art.
The creamy foam swirls with dark, glossy lines of chocolate that curl in graceful arcs, forming the shape of dancing flames.
Cookie crumbles are artfully scattered around the edge, creating the impression of embers.
“Wow!” I lift my phone, snapping several shots. “I can’t believe all the details.”
“I wanted to get it right.”
“You did.” I pick up the mug and take a sip. “Mmm…chocolate, marshmallow, and oh . . .” I lick the crumbs off my lips. “Graham cracker. It’s a s’mores latte. It even has that campfire taste. How did you manage that?”
He drags his gaze from my mouth, and I see the heated memory of last night in his eyes. My cheeks warm. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about our kiss either.
“I toasted the marshmallows before melting them into a syrup,” he explains, his voice slightly rough.
“That sounds like a ton of work.”
“I don’t mind putting in the effort for something important.”
“I appreciate it,” I say, my fingers brushing the napkin on the saucer.
“There’s something on it,” he tells me, leaning in across the table. “Turn it over.”
When I do, my smile comes unbidden, my heart skipping at his corny sweetness. Scrawled across the napkin in black felt, he’d written:
Feeling the same way, I look up to find him smiling too. Fear can come later. I take a breath and jump. “Are you free tonight?”
“Yes,” he answers right on the heel of my question. “I know this place—”
I shake my head, stopping him. “Since you’ve been indulging all my interests, I thought we could switch things up and stay in. You can introduce me to Black Panther, and I’ll take care of dinner.” Then I warn in a stern voice, “Don’t bring anything. I’m in charge of this one.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He snaps a salute, grinning. “I like this bossy side of you.”
“It comes out occasionally. Does seven o’clock work?”
“I’ll be there empty-handed.”
“Perfect.” I raise my mug for another sip. “Thanks for the note and latte.”
“My pleasure, Blue.”
Later, outside on the boardwalk, I wait for it—the second thoughts, the doubts, the why-did-you-go-and-do-that?
The idea of Chaz and me in close quarters, watching a movie, is reason enough for my brain to pitch a fit.
But other than a mild buzz of nerves, I’m okay.
Better than. I read his note once more before slipping it into my pocket, suffused with pleasure.
But it fades a moment later when my phone trills, and I check the screen.
Miranda Townsen. Prickly fingers of tension crawl up my neck.
All the peace I’d gained from my time with Chaz evaporates in an instant. I consider letting the call go to voicemail, but I’m going to have to deal with her sooner or later.
My hand tightens around the phone. “Mother,” I answer, trying to sound neutral at best. “How are you?”
“How do you think I am, Alexandra?”
“I hope you’re well.”
“I most certainly am not. This stunt has gone on long enough.”
“It’s not a stunt.” I exhale, praying for strength. “I’m taking some time for myself.”
“How am I supposed to explain your extended absence?”
“What’s there to explain?” I duck between two shops, finding shelter from the wind, to continue a conversation I’d rather not have.
“Don’t be na?ve. A lengthy disappearance is bound to stir up ugly gossip—drugs, alcohol, who knows what else.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Do I have to remind you of the Forsythe scandal when their daughter was on leave?” she says the word with implied air quotes.
“Their name was dragged through the mud until Felicity returned with a new face. By then, the damage was already done, and I’m not only referring to the bad nose job.
Being a Townsen and the long-awaited fiancée of Dr. Richard Schnauss comes with an image to uphold. Have you forgotten that?
“Evidently you have,” she answers her own question. “A spinster is not a good look, Alexandra. An unmarried woman of thirty-two presents as over-ripe and damaged.”
“I’m not a fruit, Mother,” I retort, squeezing my stress ball so hard it squishes through my fingers.
But not to be dissuaded, she keeps on, “You are fortunate that Richard is a patient man. He has given you the grace to come to your senses. But rest assured, an eligible man of his standing is not going to wait forever, and six weeks may as well be that.”
“I have not asked Richard to wait for me. Our breakup is not temporary. I’m sorry my choices upset you.”
“You’re being incredibly selfish.”
“I don’t see it that way.”
“Selfish people often lack self-awareness. You are going to bring embarrassment to this family and lose Richard for good.”
As was inevitable, each lancing word brings on a throbbing headache. I breathe through the pain but refuse to remain silent. “I intend to complete what I came here to do. Please try to accept that.”
“I will do no such thing. Your father is as displeased with you as I am. But he leaves these unpleasant matters to me while he buries himself in work. If you can call late dinners with Drew work.”
That name pokes at me. Drew Marshall, whom my father made CEO of his latest acquisition, Ignite Advertising, is arrogant and condescending.
He gives off sleazeball vibes that lend credence to the industry’s rumblings about bad behavior.
There have been no specific complaints about him, or none that I’ve heard, which doesn’t mean a thing.
I judged him as a walking red flag, but my father wouldn’t listen.
Drew Marshall had the Midas Touch, and that was all he cared about.
This, among many other reasons, makes it impossible for me to return to Townsen Industries.
I’ve seen how hard my father pushes for growth and profits at all costs.
He’s rigid in his thinking and closed to debate and input.
Whenever I voice my concerns or ideas, he dismisses them as inexperience or me being too emotional.
I’m just a figurehead there, a mere puppet with Theodore Townsen pulling the strings.
“Why don’t you visit with Carmen and Genevieve?” I suggest, hoping to steer the conversation away from me.
“Do you honestly believe I can face the questions and all the talk?”
“No one is going to be talking, Mother.” I close my eyes, wishing I had my pills with me. “You’re upsetting yourself unnecessarily.”
“How can you do this to me?” she cries as if I’ve committed a crime.
“I’m not doing anything to you. I’m doing what I want, what I need.”
“Well then,” her tone turns brittle as ice, “since you don’t care about this family, I won’t contact you again, and you needn’t contact me either.”
“Mother—” The phone goes dead. Miranda Townsen is a master at having the last word.
I stand in the narrow alley, my back against the brick wall, feeling the cold slicing through my coat and the familiar pounding at my temples.
I draw a deep, shuddering breath, willing myself to move, to let my feet carry me to the cottage.
When it gets this bad, what I need is to take my meds, strip out of the clothing that makes my skin feel tight and itchy, and burrow beneath my soft, heated blanket.
Galvanized by the pain, I slowly make my way back across the boardwalk, my eyes squinting against the daylight.
I had tried to stand firm, tried to deflect the hurt, and not let her sharp criticism affect me.
But I realize just how fragile this escape of mine is.
Even from a distance, their disapproval can still seep in to fill those weak cracks and pull me under.