13. Chapter 13
Chapter thirteen
I ’m exhausted. Mentally, thanks to Cade, physically, thanks to working at the diner, and emotionally, thanks to, guess who, Cade Deans.
I have a date with Shane tonight, and I wanted to call it off because of simply being tired. But we’ve been texting all day; he’s excited to see me, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t excited to see him.
He’s sweet. He’s caring, attentive, and it seems like we want the same things. He’s the anti-Cade. And he’s perfect.
“Can you zip me?” I ask my mother, turning around and moving my hair away from my zipper.
“Are you headed to the bar with that friend of yours?” she asks. “The cute one with the smile.”
“No, I’m not headed out with Cade,” I tell her flatly. “I met someone at Beach Brew a few weeks ago. We’ve been out a few times, and we’re going out tonight.”
“I think you should try it with Cade,” Belinda urges. She fluffs my hair with meticulous hands. “You’d be better as a brunette, sweetheart,” she decides. She smooths out my hair.
“You’re blonde,” I tell her. “I think it looks great on you. Why not on me?” The ticket for someone like Belinda is to compliment her.
“And you’re keeping the color to maintain our similarities!” Belinda exclaims. She claps her hands together, bangles clanging. “You’re just the sweetest, always knowing how to make your mom love you even more.”
My hair has absolutely nothing to do with Belinda and everything to do with my unwillingness to dye it because I like the color. But narcissists like my mother don’t think that way. Ever.
“Have you talked to your father?” she asks. Her eyes sparkle with a devilish curiosity. “Have you told him about working at the diner and how much you’re enjoying it?”
Texting Mollie pictures of my swollen feet and wads of cash from tips counts, right?
“Yes,” I say. “He’s happy.”
“As he should be,” Belinda says. “It’s not like he and that woman could give you an opportunity like that. Shame on them for not thinking of your future.”
Shame on them? Oh, she’s got to be kidding. Like she was thinking of her daughter’s future when she abandoned ship.
“Mom and Dad do fine,” I say. “My tuition is basically covered. Mollie’s is, too. Thanks to scholarships.”
“Stop calling her that,” Belinda snaps. “ I’m your mother.”
“A mom and a mother are two different things,” I tell her. “To me.”
She guffaws. She gets into the fridge and pulls out her white wine, pouring herself a hefty glass. “Care to explain?” she asks, peering at me over the goblet.
No. Not really. “Greta, my mom, didn’t give birth to me. But she does everything else a mom should. She was there for all the good stuff, and the bad, without complaint. She’s the most selfless person I’ve ever met.”
I think that was the snarkiest thing I’ve said to Belinda. And all I did was compliment somebody else, call somebody else a good person, a good mom.
Belinda blinks. “I do that and more,” she says. She pauses, taking a gulp of her wine. It’s nearly empty. “And the fact that you aren’t seeing it is terrible.”
I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose in frustration. There’s no understanding with her, only dominating the conversation, winning the fight that was never meant to be one in the first place. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I appreciate that you’re allowing me to work at the diner.”
She finishes her glass with a tip of her head, then sets it gingerly on the counter. “And thanks would be appreciated for helping your friend, too. I hired Cade.”
“I know you did.” And I have a feeling you’ll fail to put him on payroll, too. Guilty by association.
“And you don’t appreciate it,” Belinda tells me.
“I do,” I say, white flag waving pitifully once again. “I appreciate everything you do.”
Tonight will be the night that I fling Shane.
Tonight will be the night where I become the girl who guys want.
Casually.
“Thank you for dinner,” I say. “That restaurant was stunning.”
“A diamond in the rough, for sure,” he agrees. “Probably the best carbonara I’ve ever had.”
“And the bill,” I say, narrowing my eyes at him. I offered to pay for my meal, knowing how expensive the restaurant was. He waved me off and had the audacity to wink after.
“If you bring it up again,” Shane says, mocking a warning, “there won’t be another dinner date.”
My stomach flutters, my heart soars. Oh, hell. “I’m starting to like you,” I say.
He smiles warmly. “Ditto.”
And I’m not kidding. Shane is more than fling material. He’s boyfriend material. Without a single doubt. He took me to the most expensive restaurant in the whole town, and now he’s giving me a tour of his art studio.
We walk up the narrow staircase, and Shane pushes the door with his shoulder, holding my hand in his own. “I have a surprise,” he says when we reach the landing, “so close your eyes.”
I grin. “Shane.”
“Gigi. Close your eyes.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “You’re my eyes now,” I say. “I’m trusting you.”
“And I won’t let you down,” he says, smooth. He leads me away, then positions me perfectly, his hands on my waist. “Okay,” he instructs, “open.”
My eyes are met with a reflection of me, swiped beautifully across a cream canvas. Shane painted me. And did it well. I’m looking into a mirror, platinum waves perfectly captured, blue eyes glistening back at me.
“Oh, my god,” I say. “I don’t know what to say.”
Shane’s honey-golden eyes widen. “You hate it,” he says. “You hate it, and you think I’m a creep.”
I smile at him, and he relaxes. “No,” I tell him. “Shane, oh my god, this is the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me. Ever.” I close the small distance between us, kissing him. “Thank you. I’ve really liked this. Being with you.”
“I’ve liked being with you,” he says, looping his arms around my waist. “And you look absolutely incredible right now.”
My heart skips. I kiss him again.
“I think I’d look more incredible without this dress on,” I mumble against his lips.
He smiles against me and pushes me backward, into the brick wall, cool against my skin. “I couldn’t agree more,” he says.
I feel elated, gratified, as Shane fiddles with the zipper on my dress. Once he has it undone, I let it slip easily off my shoulders, down my legs.
He looks at me, his eyes aflame with want. “Is this okay?”
“More than okay.” I nod feverishly.
He grins, pulling me into him and against the brick all at once.
As he slips my underwear off, he whispers, “So beautiful. I could paint you this way.”
That’s the hottest thing anyone has ever said to me.
As I let my eyes fall shut, enjoying Shane and this, Cade Deans appears behind my eyelids.
Tan. Tattooed. His dimples flashing.
That’s my girl, Cade says in my fantasy. About doing the damn thing, about being daring enough to sleep with someone, about setting a goal and reaching it.
But once I hear his voice, smooth and deep, say it again, I can’t take it. And it’s the thought of Cade Deans praising me that carries me all the way to the end.