Chapter 9
Eloise
Iall but sprint out of the bakery’s front door and crash into Clara. “I’m so sorry.”
She holds her hands up, pretending at being disoriented for a moment before smiling. “God, girl, what are you doing?”
“Panicking.”
“Yes, I can see that. About what?”
“I need a date.”
“Ohh.” She lights up like a Fourth of July firework display and cracks her knuckles. “Yesssss.”
“No, it’s bad.”
“For you. Not for me. I love this for me.”
I sulk and push past her to Stone Ink, throwing the door open. “Sloane!”
“It’s too early for you to be screeching,” she says, completely undaunted in her work of inking the ribs of a young woman with a bird and flower. At least, that’s what it will be. It looks like she’s just started, with only the black outline done.
“I’m so sorry,” I tell the woman, hands pressed to my heart. “But I just did something very stupid, and I need to talk to my best friend about it,” I finish, motioning to Sloane.
“I totally get it,” the woman on the table says with a wince. “Spill it.”
“Awesome. You’re amazing. Thanks so much.” I point at my own side while tipping my chin toward hers. “This is gonna look great, by the way. Sloane’s the absolute best.” Then I grab a chair and roll up beside the table and officially introduce myself. “I’m Eloise. I own Sweet Cheeks.”
“I love Sweet Cheeks.”
“Do you? Come over when you’re done today. I’ll give you a free treat for letting me interrupt your appointment.”
“That’s really kind of you. Thank you.”
I wave. “The least I can do. What’s your name?”
Sloane sighs, having lived through my soliloquies for fifteen years. I ignore her, legs crossed, chin in my hand, waiting for my new friend’s name.
“April.”
“April, it’s lovely to meet you. My mother is the worst.”
April laughs and then cringes in pain.
Sloane spares a quick glare at me, and I apologize with a shrug. “She is.”
Sloane snorts. “I know.”
“Worse than my mom?” April asks, entering the game.
“What did she do?”
“Tells me I don’t need therapy or medication. Just a cup of tea and a good night’s sleep.”
I shake my head, laughing. “And they wonder why we need therapy.”
But I suddenly stop laughing because it’s really not funny.
Except, if we don’t laugh about how our mothers are hurting us, intentionally or not, we’d most likely not be able to roll out of bed in the mornings.
I tell April, “My mother and my aunt have been in this never-ending death-match competition, and that’s spilled down to me and my cousin. ”
April listens as I explain how Lily and I have never gotten along because of our mothers and how my mom puts so much pressure on me to live up to whatever stupid standards Lily’s mother has placed on her and, therefore, me.
I go on and on about what it was like when they’d dress Lily and me up the same at holidays and how my mother constantly compares us.
Why couldn’t I go to a better college like Lily?
Why don’t I have nice hair like Lily? Why don’t I try to dress like Lily?
Wear clothes to make me look skinnier like Lily?
Why can’t I find a boyfriend? Lily’s been with her guy for years.
Why am I wasting the best years of my life?
I roll the pendant on my necklace between my fingers, my gaze focused on the photo Sloane has taped up on the wall of Micah and Livie. Sloane’s an amazing mom, and those kids are so lucky to have her.
“My mom was trying to convince me to take this psychopath to the wedding. I mean, maybe he’s not an actual psychopath, but I used to babysit this kid, and it wouldn’t surprise me if he killed a few cats back then or something.
And she wouldn’t leave it alone, so I told her I had a boyfriend and was bringing him to the wedding. ”
April gasps, and Sloane’s tattoo gun pauses.
“I don’t know what came over me. The holy spirit, a demon, I don’t know, but now I have to find a boyfriend by the wedding.
Actually!” I throw myself over, bending in half, remembering.
“I have the shower this weekend. I’m gonna have to have pictures or something to prove it.
” I heave myself back up, moaning, “What did I do?”
And that’s when I see him.
Roman, The Beautiful Refrigerator, Stone standing by the entrance of Stone Ink.
I force myself to my feet, stuck somewhere between laughing and crying in misery, and meet him halfway. “Tell me you just walked in and didn’t hear anything I said for the last five minutes.”
He shakes his head. I hang mine. “Clara told me I had to come quick for some emergency here.”
Since Clara is nowhere to be found, I can assume I am the emergency. Sloane makes the same guess and says, “No emergency. Not a life-threatening one, at least. I’m the only one here right now, so if you two want to…”
She tips her head toward the windows, silently directing us to take it outside, and I remind April of my promise of a free cinnamon bun then shuffle out to the sidewalk with Roman at my heels.
He towers over me, blocking out the sun.
His eyes are so dark they’re almost black, brows slashed down.
But when he grips my chin between his thumb and forefinger, there is nothing but tenderness underneath the thrumming current of tension coming off him. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, but he shakes his head again.
“Don’t lie.”
“I’m not—”
With a single arch of his brow, I’m silent. And apparently on the verge of tears, by the sting in my eyes and nose.
“I’m embarrassed,” I say eventually, and he exhales a long breath, jaw tight under his beard. He’s angry, and I’m already so exposed, unable to pretend it’s funny anymore, that any negative reaction will send me over the edge. So I do the thing I’m used to when I upset someone. “I’m sorry.”
“Why are you apologizing?”
“I don’t know. You look…”
“I’m pissed,” he says, hands between us like he wants to touch me, but he curls his fingers into fists and drops them to his sides. “Not at you. I…I don’t like that you’re hurting.”
I sniff and clear my throat, but it doesn’t do anything to help my blurry vision, and I blink a few times, hoping to stem the tears. “I’m fine. Don’t get worked up for me.”
“You’re not fine, and I’m already fucking worked up,” he grates out then grips my wrist, his hand engulfing it.
I’m not a small woman, but he makes me feel like I am.
Like he could snap my bones as if I were not more than flimsy tissue paper, but he holds me like I’m delicate porcelain, tugging me to him until my hand rests against his chest and my head is tilted back.
“You don’t deserve to be bullied by anyone, let alone a parent. Don’t ever let anyone make you feel like you need to pretend to be anything other than yourself. You’re perfect the way you are.”
And I could cry for a whole other reason.
Because I’ve been trained to hide my eccentricities or apologize for them, I don’t know what to do with this man who wants to protect them. Protect me.
“I’m used to it,” I say, and his voice sinks even lower.
“You shouldn’t be.”
With his fingers still curled around my wrist, I twist my hand and flatten out my palm on his chest, hard like granite yet moving with every breath he takes, and I don’t feel like letting go yet. Except Jaybird sails down the street on a skateboard, calling out to us. “Heyyoooooo!”
Roman and I each take a small step back, putting a few inches between us. I force a smile. He frowns. I’m about to apologize again out of habit, but he lifts his hand. “Don’t do it.”
I smile for real, watery as it may be. “I won’t.”
“Good.”
Jaybird kicks his board up, catching it. “Uncle, what’s up? You meeting Dad or something?”
Roman shakes his head in answer, his focus still on me.
Jay obviously catches on to whatever it is that’s happening between Roman and me and whistles low. “Anywayyyyy. You two have fun out here staring broodily at each other.”
I bite back a smile. “I should get back to work.”
Before Roman can answer, I speed back to my bakery, where I studiously complete a dozen bakes, locked in on sugar and flour, keeping out my mother’s voice and the simmering rage on my behalf in Roman’s eyes.
By the time I finish for the day, I realize I missed my lunch and chow down on the cheese sticks and trail mix I packed myself, before stuffing a still-warm mini apple tart into my mouth. I didn’t earn these hips and thighs from not eating what I make.
I check in with Morgan on my way out, stalling at the door because of the rain coming down outside. My bike is safely tucked away under the awning, but I don’t want it to rust, and I don’t especially feel like getting drenched today.
With a sigh, I cross my bag over my body and open the door, angling myself away from the raindrops to unlock my bike. As I place my hands on the bars, intent on wheeling it out onto the sidewalk, a car horn beeps, and I lift my head.
A huge black SUV is stopped on the street in front of me, blinkers flashing. A moment later, Roman strolls around the back of the vehicle, uncaring about the raindrops darkening his T-shirt or jeans. “You need a ride?”
I shake my head. “Nah, it’s only a few blocks. I’ll be fine.”
He props his hands on his hips. “You’re not riding your bike in the rain.”
“I literally live eight blocks away.”
“I will literally drive you eight blocks home.”
“You don’t—”
“Don’t be so fucking stubborn,” he growls, stomping over to me to manhandle my bike. The same one he gifted me. “Get in the goddamn car, woman.”
When I don’t move fast enough, he wraps an arm around my waist and hauls me up, carrying me two steps before I shove off him, my annoyance fighting my amusement at how this guy is so offended at my independence. “It’s just a little rain.”
He huffs and points me to his passenger seat then stuffs my bike into his trunk.