Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
T hat kiss . Well, it was more than a kiss. It was a lot of kisses. And touching. And wanting.
Michaela sat in her car for long minutes after Troy dropped her off at the office. She’d practically jumped out, and when he opened the back of the SUV, she’d grabbed her boots, then her backpack, hugging it to her as if it were a shield.
They hadn’t talked about those kisses or the touches—or how close she’d come to begging him to do more—on the hike back or on the drive down the mountain.
She’d talked inanely about how great the hiking boots were, how well they fit, how much hikers would love them—anything to avoid talking about what they’d done on that picnic bench.
He’d told her to keep the boots. She’d said she had to pay for them.
He’d said he hadn’t paid for them anyway.
And on it went, when really she wanted to say the kiss hadn’t meant anything.
But what if he kissed her again to prove his point?
Or what if he agreed that it meant nothing?
The flurry of thoughts in her head was made all the worse by the tactile memories.
How good he tasted, how sexy he smelled, how much she yearned for more.
But it wasn’t a date. It couldn’t be a date. Troy was all wrong for her. They were wrong for each other.
So here she sat in her car, fighting with herself.
The man jumbled her up, and she didn’t need her life all jumbled up. She started the car, pulled out of the parking garage beneath her office building, and saw him still sitting in his SUV on the street out front. As if he’d been waiting to make sure she was safe and on her way.
He waved. She waved back. Then she punched the gas pedal, and he disappeared from view.
She returned home to find her mother on the back patio of their townhouse, enjoying an iced tea. They had a small backyard Flo had filled with hydrangeas, rhododendrons, and azaleas. Hummingbirds flew in and out of the blooms, and squirrels chattered in the surrounding trees.
“Come and join me.” Her mom beckoned. “I’ll pour you a glass of iced tea.”
Flo was so vivacious. She’d worked hard all her life, but she’d never seemed depressed, never complained.
Michaela sat on the little bistro chair and gratefully took the iced tea. “Thank you. Did you have a good day?”
Her mother fairly glowed in the afternoon sunshine, her smile radiant. “It was lovely. The day is so beautiful, don’t you think?” It wasn’t really a question. After a delighted sigh, Flo said, “So tell me how the boots were.”
Michaela had been sure to tell her this wasn’t a date, that she was helping Troy by trying out the new boots he wanted to carry in his stores if he could make the deal.
Michaela raised her feet and waggled the boots. “They’re so good. I forgot I had them on. Usually, as soon as I get back from a hike, I want to take off my boots.”
“That’s wonderful. And they didn’t give you blisters even though this was the first time you wore them?”
“Not one,” she said, thankful the conversation wasn’t about Troy.
“And how was the rest of the hike?”
“It was great,” she said with a casual wave of her hand. “That trail is nice. A bit of scrambling, but good. You and I should do it sometime.”
“Did Troy enjoy the special picnic you prepared?”
Okay, so now they were talking about Troy. She should never have had her mother call Susan to find out his favorite lunch. “Yes, he enjoyed the sandwich and ale.” She tried to sidetrack Flo by adding, “I’m not a beer kind of girl, but that ale was good.”
Flo said, “That’s lovely.” She added nothing more, as if waiting for Michaela to tell her the rest.
Because her mother knew there was more. She had a sixth sense that way.
Finally, Michaela couldn’t hold it in. “There was some kissing.” Some people had girlfriends they talked to, but her mother was her best friend.
And her best friend said, “Was it good kissing?”
Michaela couldn’t help a laugh. “Oh yeah. It was very good.” Then she sighed, a woebegone sound even to her own ears.
Which Flo interpreted correctly. “Honey, I know how conflicted your feelings are for this man.”
“I don’t have feelings for him,” she said quickly.
But Flo wouldn’t let her get away with that. “Sometimes the thing we think we want the least is exactly the thing we need in our lives.”
It reminded Michaela of the Rolling Stones song “You Can’t Always Get What You Want.” She knew her mother was saying that she might not get what she thought she wanted, but she could possibly get what she needed.
But did she need a man like Troy Harrington?
Flo reached over to squeeze her hand. “I don’t want to meddle in your love life.
And I know you feel a bit messed up, but at the same time, I’ve never seen you glow like this.
” When Michaela opened her mouth to tell her there was absolutely no glowing going on, Flo rode right over her.
“You glow after you’re with him. He makes you feel alive, doesn’t he? ”
She wanted to deny it again, but Michaela could never lie to her mother. Without saying a word, she nodded. God, he made her feel all glowy inside.
Flo still held her hand. “Regardless of how this turns out, sweetheart, everything’s going to be okay.”
Those were the comforting words Flo always used when Michaela was upset. They were like comfort food that Flo delivered whenever yet another man disappointed Michaela.
Flo stood and announced, “I feel like baking.”
Michaela knew she would make one of her favorite treats. Jumping to her feet, she threw her arms around Flo, hugging her tightly. “I love you, Mom.”
Holding her just as tightly, Flo whispered, “I love you too. All I want is to see you happy.”
Her mother was right. Everything was always okay in the end.
Maybe it would be this time too.
Troy’s Wednesday night talk with the foster kids who were aging out of the system was held at Gideon Jones’s San Francisco youth center.
The facility wasn’t just for the young, but served veterans as well, with a pool, meeting rooms, and a well-equipped workout room, all catering to both the young and the older.
The massive game room boasted an enormous big-screen TV for Friday night movies, along with pinball machines, pool tables, ping-pong tables, and card tables where veterans played hearts or poker or pinochle.
A movie-theater-style popcorn machine scented the air with butter and salt.
Next to the game room, Gideon had built a bowling alley.
After Troy spoke, the plan was for everyone to head there for bowling.
The center was nothing short of impressive.
Gideon had brought Rosie and their son Jorge, along with baby Isabella, who, Rosie told Michaela, would be a year old next month. She hadn’t started walking yet, but the little girl liked to stand holding on to a chair seat or her father’s knee. Those first steps would be coming soon.
“Thank you so much for telling Gloria Madden about my work,” Rosie said, her eyes glimmering with gratitude.
“I love to share great art with my friends and clients.”
Rosie blushed. “Thank you for saying that. Gloria even wants to introduce me to other art patrons she thinks will enjoy it.”
Michaela squeezed her hand. “That’s wonderful.” And it was exactly what she’d hoped would happen. “She’s very influential.”
“I know.”
Michaela couldn’t be sure, but she thought tears glimmered in Rosie’s eyes.
“After my show back in January,” Rosie went on, “and having Dane commission my work for his resorts, and now this, things are really moving for me. So, thank you.”
Michaela didn’t stop to think—she hugged Rosie. This was why she loved being a matchmaker.
Then it was time. Seventeen foster kids sat on sofas and chairs, eating popcorn and drinking sodas, ready for Troy.
This was no formal lecture with rows of folding chairs, and Troy didn’t use a microphone. He sat on a stool before his audience, one foot hooked on a rung, the other planted firmly on the floor.
Michaela wore leggings and a long-sleeved shirt against the cool San Francisco night, which was foggy even in June. She sat next to Rosie on one of the couches.
It had been four days since their Saturday hike, and Troy hadn’t pushed her with a bunch of texts or phone calls, just a note saying how grateful he was for her analysis of the boots.
That was all. A note.
His smooth, deep voice filled the room; even the old-timers seemed to listen. “Swimming and diving were always my passions. And I was lucky enough to have a family who supported me. Who believed in me. They helped push me to fulfill the dream I had of competing as an Olympic diver.”
One of the kids, a burly boy with a scar along his jaw, said, “Right, you’re one of the lucky ones with a family who could support you.”
Troy didn’t let the heckling faze him. “That’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about,” he said, pumping his index finger in the air.
“Not everyone is as lucky as I was.” He looked the boy straight in the eye.
“I know many of you have had a tough life, that foster homes can often be filled with more kids than the adults can give their full attention to.”
A grumbling agreement ran through the room.
“But does that mean you don’t have dreams?” He waited a beat, and then he threw out, “Who has a big dream? If you want to share it.”
Dylan Beck was the first to answer. “I’m going to be a great street artist like San Holo.”
Michaela remembered Gideon talking about Dylan at the gallery, the foster kid who was being mentored by both Gideon and Troy’s brother Clay. Troy had told her more on the way up. The boy’s artwork was phenomenal.
“Tell me how you can make that dream become a reality,” Troy said.
Dylan shrugged, shoving his longish brown hair out of his eyes. “I dunno. I’m just doing it.” His gaze on Gideon, he added softly, “But I have help. Gideon—” He chin-jutted at his mentor. “—and Clay.”