Chapter 13
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Hope and rivals. Wait. No. “Rival” implies equal standing. Hope and idiots.
Damion
There’s a very, very, very slight chance that Mirabelle doesn’t hate me. Or find me completely repulsive. Which is incredibly encouraging.
Does she like me?
No. Probably not.
But does she blush every time I get close to her?
Absolutely.
And for right now, I’m counting that as excellent progress.
“I hate this,” she says, sitting beside me while I drive us to the store.
Over the past few days, she’s been getting a little better—potentially due to my incessant prodding—about letting the words in her head out.
I’m so proud of her.
“This is going to make the rumors so much worse,” she whispers down at her lap. “Also, your ‘disguise’—” She scowls when she throws me air quotes. “—is stupid.”
I cut a look at her when we roll up to a stoplight.
She, immediately, tenses.
“Hoodies are extremely effective disguises. And so are sunglasses.” I adjust my sunglasses.
Distress fills her face. “You look like a drug dealer. Do you not have any clue how small towns work? If anyone sees you, like this, hanging around me, you’re going to get tased.
” Sinking in on herself, she buries her face in her hands.
“Also, for personal reasons, if you don’t take the sunglasses off in the store, I’ll just…
I’ll have a breakdown. For personal reasons. ”
“You’re pretty popular, aren’t you?”
She peeks at me as the light turns green, so I have to drag my attention back to the road before she can answer. “I don’t think I’m popular. I think, probably, I just stand out.”
“Because of how you dress?”
“Mm, yeah. Probably how I behave, too.”
Adorably? Perfectly? Yeah, I can see where that would stand out. “When you spend so much time subduing yourself so you’ll fit in, why don’t you change the way you dress to fit in better?”
She runs her fingers down the length of her apron—white today, and lace…
so much lace. “People hate me because of the things in my head. People don’t hate me for how I dress.
And I like dressing like this. So there’s no reason to stop.
It’s something…” She hesitates, gives her head a slight shake, and continues, “It’s something me that I’m allowed to be, so I’m going to be it. ”
My grip around the wheel tightens. “Anyone who hates you for what’s in your head is an idiot.”
She frees a small laugh. “You sound like Fawn.”
“Fawn is a smart woman.”
“She is.” Publix comes into view, and Mirabelle sinks in the passenger seat of my SUV. “Please, please, please just stay in the car? I won’t be very long. If I take more than twenty minutes—”
“No.”
“But—”
“A lot can happen in twenty minutes.”
“Fifteen?” she asks, voice reedy.
I enter the parking lot, secure a spot, and cut the engine before turning to her. “No.”
“Why are you so stubborn?”
“It comes with the territory.”
Her nose scrunches. “What territory?”
I think for a moment. “Straight white male territory.”
Her lip juts, and she crosses her arms before firmly fixing her attention out her window. “Ew.”
Heaven help me, she is so cute when she’s unfiltered. I’m going to have so much to record in my journal later. “Are you ready?” I ask.
Sighing, she twists, reaching into the backseat to get her clipboard and collection of reusable bags. In a last ditch effort, she turns her big blue eyes up to me and says, “Would Cinnamon, Toast, and Crunch approve of this behavior?”
A puff of air leaves my nose as I open my car door. “Yes, absolutely.”
Stepping out into the brusque chill of early October, I take in the picturesque range of mountains dancing beyond the grocery store. While I’m absorbing the view, Mirabelle attempts to dash off into the store alone.
Luckily, I’m paying attention and catch up to her in four steps.
“Curse your legs,” she snaps.
I snort.
She freezes, and I end up ahead of her, so I stop short. “What?”
“Did you just…laugh?”
I arch a brow. “I laugh all the time.” Mostly around her. So she should really know that.
She regains herself, catches up to me, and continues toward the building. “You do not.”
I follow. “Don’t I?”
“This is the first I’ve heard of it.” Entering the first set of automatic doors, she pulls out a cart and sets her clipboard up in the child seat before nestling her bags in the basket.
“Glasses,” she states, so I remove them and tuck them in the collar of my black hoodie.
She spares me a glance, a sigh, and an, Ugh, before she plows through the other set of doors into the building.
This is…fun.
Smiling, I follow my precious Mirabelle to the produce section and watch her methodologically go through each aisle in accordance with the shopping list neatly printed on her clipboard.
I spend the first half of our trip thoroughly enjoying myself amid brief snatches of envying her pen whenever she taps it against her perfect pink lips.
Then, disaster strikes.
“Mira, fancy meeting you here.”
“Jeffry,” she says, startled, but suddenly smiling brightly.
Jeffry approaches with a cart full of garbage—a case of beer, chips, dip, microwave pizzas. Whatever happens to my face makes the man stop short the moment he sees me. “Uh…who are you with?”
Mirabelle’s precious smile strains as she steps aside so she’s no longer separating us. “Jeffry, meet my boss. Mr. Anders, this is Jeffry Wilkin.”
“Charmed,” I grumble.
“You’re…shopping with your boss?” Jeffry asks, and something about his tone grates on my nerves.
Light as air, Mirabelle laughs. “Well, I…couldn’t stop him.”
Judging, Jeffry sizes me up, and his grip on his cart tightens. Relaxing some, he moves his attention back to Mirabelle. “The guys are coming over tonight, if you’d like to stop by.” His finger taps against his cart handle. “Fawn can come, too, if she’d like.”
“Sounds fun!”
I flinch.
“Fawn probably won’t be interested, per usual, but I’d love to. Anything you’d like me to bring this time?”
This time?
The way the corner of Jeffry’s mouth lifts makes me murderous. He catches my eye and holds my gaze. “Anything you’d like. The cookies you made last time were great. I like brownies.”
“Brownies,” Mirabelle murmurs, checks the cart, smiles brighter. “I can do brownies.”
“Great. Looking forward to them. See you at the same time as always.” He starts forward, stopping when we’re side by side. Speaking to her, he looks me dead in the eye. “Oh, yeah. Don’t worry. I’ll pick up some vodka and Kahlua to make your chocolate drink.”
“Yay! I appreciate it.”
“No problem. See you.” The smug look on his face as he passes makes me want to punch him, but I refrain. I refrain, even though my knuckles crack when I close my hands into fists.
“Brownies…” Mirabelle whispers, assessing her shopping list. “I’ll need chocolate chips.” Brilliantly beautiful, she turns to me. “We need to backtrack a little bit.”
“You’re going out tonight?” I ask.
“Yeah, every Friday night Jeffry and some friends get together at his place and watch something or play video games. They invite me sometimes.”
“And there’s drinking?”
“Mhm.”
“And you drink?”
“Jeffry mixes up Mudslides for me.”
Mudslides? “Aren’t those strong?”
“I don’t know. I think they just taste like a milkshake. I’m careful and don’t drive home until the fuzzy feeling goes away.”
Oh. So. She’s there half the night, then?
Oblivious, she says, “I’m very good at following rules.”
Mm. Yeah. And I’m very good at not losing my absolute crap. But I have a feeling I’m going to need to remind myself of that for the entire rest of the evening anyway.