By now, the kitchen was nearly completed, which made Miss LaRue's suggestion all the more ridiculous.
Her lips pursed as she eyed the cabinets. "But they're completely wrong."
No. She was completely wrong. As for the cabinets, they were completely right.
I crossed my arms. "Oh yeah? How so?"
With a condescending smile, she said, "The current trend is counter-less cupboards."
I shook my head. "What?"
"Counter-less cupboards," she repeated. And then, as if to drive the point home, she marched to the nearest upper cabinet and pulled open its door. With a delicate scoff, she said, "See? This will never do."
I looked, but saw only perfection. The cabinets looked wonderful. They even smelled wonderful – all woodsy and clean, like the rest of the house, under Brody's expertise.
Hey, I could give credit where credit was due.
Grudgingly.
To Miss LaRue, I said, "I have no idea what you mean."
She pointed to the countertop just below the open cupboard. "The newest trend," she announced, "is to have the cabinet doors skim the countertop when they open." Her chin lifted. "Counter-less. See?"
I frowned. "So wait a minute. What you're telling me, is that you want to replace these with cabinets that will make the countertops impossible to actually use?"
She bristled. "No. That's not what I mean at all."
"Are you sure?" And then, as if speaking to a two-year-old, I said, "Because the way you describe it, any time you open a cabinet door, whatever's on the counter will be knocked off."
She gave a curt nod. "Right. It's the newest trend."
I was finding this a little hard to believe. "Even if it is," I said, "it's totally stupid."
Her mouth tightened. "And why is that?"
"Because," I said, "what are you gonna do with your toaster? Or your coffee maker?"
"I presume you'll make toast. Or coffee." She gave a delicate scoff. "And your point is….?"
Obviously, she still wasn't getting it.
I marched to the same cupboard that she'd opened just a moment ago. I closed it and glanced around, searching for something to help make my point. On a nearby work bench, I finally spotted a big, crumpled fast food bag, obviously destined for the trash.
I set the bag on the granite countertop underneath the cabinet door that I'd just shut. With a smile, I pulled the door open again. As expected, the bag stayed put. "See?" I said.
Miss LaRue gave me an annoyed look. "Yes. I see. It's a bag. What of it?"
I shut the cabinet door. "Just bear with me." I glanced around and spotted some discarded cardboard. Using stray electrical tape, I taped the flat cardboard to the bottom of the cabinet door, extending the door so low, it would skim the countertop, just like she'd described.
Again, I opened the cabinet door. This time, the bottom of it – meaning the cardboard extension – knocked the bag onto the floor.
I looked to Miss LaRue. "See?" I said again.
She spared the bag half a glance. "It's still a bag."
"Right. But it could've been a toaster."
"Except it's not."
"But it could've been," I insisted. "I'm just saying, the way you describe it, you won't be able to put anything on the countertops."
"Yes. Well maybe some people prefer a clean look."
"Yeah? Well maybe other people like to make toast in the morning." As I said it, I thought of Brody. He loved toast. In the mornings, he slathered it with butter, peanut butter, and jelly.
The way he did it, it really was a masterpiece.
Miss LaRue said, "Maybe the toaster doesn't belong on the countertop."
"Oh yeah?" I said. "Then where does it belong?"
"Inside the cupboard."
I almost laughed in her face. "You can't make toast that way."
"You can if you pull it out and plug it in."
"Yeah, but if you do, you'll knock it off the moment you open the cabinet."
Through gritted teeth, she said, "Then I suggest you don't open the cabinet while you're making toast."
"But what if you need peanut butter?" I gave Brody a sideways glance. "Crunchy peanut butter, because it really is the best."
On Brody's face, I swear I saw the hint of a smile. And something about it – even as small as it was – went straight to my heart, making me long to throw myself into his arms.
How stupid was that?
And now I was all distracted.
As for Miss LaRue, she was focused enough for all of us. With a sound of annoyance, she lunged for the cabinet door and tore off my cardboard extension. She hurled it onto the kitchen floor and eyed me like I'd just crapped on the countertop.
I stared down at the cardboard. "Why'd you do that?"
"Because," she said, "your point's ridiculous."
"My point's ridiculous?" I scoffed. "Well, your point – no, your idea – is completely ridiculous."
She crossed her arms. "Is it now?"
"Of course it is," I said. "This is a house, not a showcase – which means that someone will actually be living here. And they'll be making toast. And coffee, too."
"I'll have you know," Miss LaRue said, "that Felicity St. James has counter-less cupboards in her new kitchen, and she absolutely adores them."
"Felicity St. James?" I laughed. "The actress?"
With a smug smile, Miss LaRue said, "The very same."
I gave a snort of derision. "I'm sure she does 'adore' them. And you wanna know why?"
"I'm sure you're about to tell me."
Oh yeah. I'd be telling her, alright. "It's because," I said, "she probably has her own private chef."
"Of course she does. So?"
"So she doesn't make her own toast. Or her own coffee."
"Of course she doesn't," Miss LaRue said. "She's a very important person."
"Yeah, well so is Brody." As I said it, I realized how very true it was. He was beyond rich and famous. If he wanted, he could have a private chef of his own.
But he wasn't like that.
In fact, there'd been plenty of mornings when he'd made toast for the both of us. And bacon, too. As for myself, I'd specialized in pancakes, slightly crispy on the outside and fluffy in the middle, just the way Brody liked them.
In fact, we loved them the same exact way.
As the memories hit, I felt a pang of longing so deep, I almost wanted to cry. Or maybe I was just tired of all the drama.
Unable to stop myself, I turned to look at the guy who'd been haunting my thoughts nonstop. He looked so amazingly good, standing there in the open doorway like he used to, back when we were friends. And lovers. And partners, in a roundabout way.
As our gazes locked, his smile, faint as it was, slowly morphed into a frown.
I didn't like it. I didn't like any of this. And yet, I couldn’t bring myself to look away.
I was still lost in the memories when Brody yanked his gaze from mine and looked to Miss LaRue. "Fine," he said. "Tear them out. Hell if I care." And with that, he turned to go.
And me? Like an idiot, I scurried after him.
Chapter 64
Brody
Screw the cupboards. And the toaster, too.
I'd been off toast for a while now, ever since moving out of the crew house. I'd been off just about everything. Even bacon.
That's how I knew it was bad.
My plan now – assuming I had one – was to get into my truck and get the hell out of here before I said something I'd regret.
I was halfway out the front door when Arden called out, "Brody, wait!"
Shit.
I turned around and gave her a long, silent look.
She rushed toward me. "You can't be serious."
"About what?"
"You know what," she said. "Counter-less cupboards? Seriously?"
"Yeah, so?"
She bit her lip. "But how will you make your toast?"
"Screw the toast."
I wa
s standing just outside the front door. She was still inside. But even from here, I could smell the scent of her shampoo and see the flecks of gold in her troubled brown eyes.
Quietly, she said, "What, you don't like it anymore?"
These days, I wasn't liking much of anything. Everywhere I looked, I saw the Arden I thought I knew.
And now, even the maple cabinets pissed me off.
We'd picked them out together. The granite countertops, too.
And we'd had a good time doing it. Back then, Arden had made everything better – more interesting, more fun, more like home. A real home.
As far as the kitchen, I recalled my promise to lift her sweet ass onto the finished countertop and screw her silly, just the way she liked.
But of course, I hadn't counted on us being broken up by the time the kitchen was actually done.
Now, just looking at Arden made me feel sick inside. She looked so sweet, with her big brown eyes and long, brown hair. She was wearing dark jeans that hugged her hips and a pale pink T-shirt that made me recall the pink of her nipples and the taste of her lips.
Like a dumb-ass, I still missed her. Not just her body. The whole package, inside and out.
What a cluster.
As our gazes locked, she moved closer and said in a near whisper, "If it makes you feel any better, I hate toast, too."
She hadn't always.
But I got what she meant.
Misery loves company, huh?
But hey, this was her doing, not mine. And for all I knew, this latest scene was just another ploy to get what she wanted – the only thing she wanted.
The house.
I told her, "It's not your house, remember?"
She blinked. "I never said that it was."
"Yeah? Then how come you're acting like it?"
She took a small step backward. "I'm not." She frowned. "I just don't want you to have a terrible kitchen, that's all."
With a laugh, I said, "Get real, will ya? It's not about me. It's about you."
She shook her head. "It is not."
"Right." And with that, I turned away.
"Wait!"
Once again, I turned back. "Why?"
Her face was flushed, and her eyes were accusing as she said, "Because I want to know why you're being like this."
"Yeah? And I wanna know things, too. But hey, that's life. Deal with it."
"Deal with it?" She made a scoffing sound. "That's soooo easy for you to say. Everything works out for you."
"Is that so?"
"Definitely," she said. "Even that thing in high school, you were the one who started it – the thing that made us hate each other in the first place."
Where the hell had that come from? "What?"
"The lab," she said. "It was your fault it blew up."
"No kidding." With a tight smile, I leaned toward her and said in a low voice, "Boom."
She flinched. "That's not funny."
"Maybe not to you."
"No. It's not funny, period." She glared out at me. "Although I can see why you'd think so. You came out just fine."
"We were both suspended," I reminded her. "Not just you."
"Yeah, but I didn't do anything to deserve it. And you? You didn't even care about being suspended. But I did."
"So?"
"So it cost you nothing. And it cost me everything." In a quieter voice, she added, "At least as far as school."
"Yeah, well." I shrugged. "That was a long time ago. So like I said, get over it."
"Get over it?" she repeated. "Do you even remember how awful you were that day?"
I didn't want to talk about. I didn't want to think about it either. But hey, if she was gonna toss it in my face, maybe I'd do some tossing of my own.
"Yeah?" I said. "I was awful. And you wanna know why?"
"Why?"
"Because my mom had just told us – in a fucking letter, no less – that she wasn't coming back."
Arden froze. "What?"
"That's right," I said. "She told us she found someone she liked better."
"Better than who?" She hesitated. "Your dad?"
I laughed. It wasn't a happy sound, but fuck it. "No. Dad was long gone by then."
Her eyes filled with sympathy. "You mean dead? That long ago?"
"No. I mean, he ran off."
"But—"
"He died after. No big loss, the way I see it."
From the look on Arden’s face, she didn't agree. And hey, maybe I didn't agree either. But it was better to hate both of them than to mourn the parents they'd never been.
"So…" Arden hesitated. "When your mom said she found someone better, she meant…?"
"Better than us kids."
Arden sucked in a breath. "No."
With a bitter smile, I replied, "Yeah."
Arden moved closer. "But if that's the case, who were you living with? Back in high school, I mean."
"Nobody. It was just us."
"You mean…" She shook her head. "You and your brothers?"
"And Willow."
"Oh, right. But about your mom – not coming back, I mean – you found out before you met me at the lab that day?"
"That's what I said."
"But…" Again, she paused. "If that's the case, I'm kind of surprised you showed up at all. So, why did you?"
"Because I told you I would."
"But—"
"So I did. End of story." I forced another laugh. "Bad for you, huh?"
"No. I mean, yes. Wait…"
I didn't stick around to hear what she was going to say next. I was done talking. And the truth was, I hadn't meant to tell her any of this.
During the months we'd been together, she'd asked plenty about my family. It was a sore subject, and maybe I'd done a sorry job of explaining why it still pissed me off – and why I didn't want to sully a good thing by dwelling on something so bad.
Still, I should've done better. If nothing else, I should've mentioned Willow. But that was a sore subject of its own.
And hey, what's done was done, right?
When I backed my truck out of the driveway, Arden was still standing in the open doorway, looking too stunned to move.
And me – I sped off, and didn't look back.
Chapter 65
Arden
At the crew house, Waverly was saying, "Why do you care? It won't be your kitchen."
She was right. It wouldn't be.
But I wasn't obsessing over the kitchen. I was obsessing over Brody.
I couldn’t stop thinking about what he'd told me yesterday – that basically both of his parents had abandoned him – cripes, abandoned all of them – while Brody had still been a minor.
The whole thing was incredibly sad. And now, in hindsight, I couldn’t help but wonder about so many other things I'd assumed, even back in high school.
Back then, Brody had missed a ton of classes. I'd always figured he was just a classic cut-up. And then, after accidentally torching his truck, I'd figured he was out mowing lawns during school hours because he valued cash over his education.
But now, come to find out, he'd been dealing with problems a lot worse than I'd ever faced.
In the crew house, Waverly was still talking. "So it just seems to me, you're getting all worked up for nothing."
She had no idea.
Today was Saturday, which meant I had the whole day off. I'd spent most of the morning in my bedroom, and had only emerged at noon because I'd thought the house was empty.
No such luck.
I'd found Waverly at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and – judging from her computer screen – shopping for new luggage.
As if she didn't have enough already.
I'd been hoping she'd simply ignore me. But she hadn't. Instead, she'd surprised the heck out of me by asking why I looked so depressed.
Like a total sap, I'd felt compelled to give her at least some answer. So I'd briefly mentioned my concerns about Brody's kitchen, specifi
cally Miss LaRue's plans to replace the current cabinets with something totally unworkable.
In reply to her latest statement, I said, "Yeah, but doesn't Brody deserve a kitchen he can actually use?"
"Oh, chill out," she said. "If it's unworkable, he'll rip it out and start over. The guy's totally loaded. He can do whatever he wants."
She was right, of course. Brody had the money and the expertise.
He was smart, too, which made his recent decision about the cabinets all the more confusing.
But it wasn't thoughts of the cabinets that had kept me up late last night, tossing and turning in my cold, empty bed.
It was thoughts of Brody. I couldn’t stop thinking about his childhood. I felt awful for him. And now, a new question was haunting my thoughts. Why hadn't he told me any of this when we'd been together?
Was it because he didn't trust me?
Or because he'd seen me only as a fling?
Or maybe he was just allergic to sharing any truth between us.
At the thought, I felt my mood sink even lower.
To Waverly, I murmured, "Yeah, I guess you're right."
Already, I'd grabbed a bottled water and was just about to return to my bedroom when she said, "And if you ask me, you're just lucky he lets you stick around."
I stiffened. As much as I hated to admit it, she was probably right about this, too. Yes, I fully realized that Brody wasn't the one who'd hired me and that he technically wasn't my boss.
But I also realized that if he wanted me gone – truly wanted me gone – he'd have plenty of power to make that happen.
So why didn't he?
To Waverly, I said, "Yeah, well, maybe he'll fire me tomorrow."
"He can't fire you tomorrow," she said. "It's Sunday."
"Fine. Monday then."
"If you ask me, he should fire you," she said. "The way I hear it, you could've killed his sister."
"What?" I shook my head. "He doesn't even have a sister."
With a mean little laugh, she said, "If you say so."
"I do say so." I didn't bother pointing out that I'd known Brody since high school. And more recently, I'd known him intimately. Very intimately.
During those few blissful months, we'd talked for hours, and not only about the house. I might not know everything about him. But I did know this. He had zero sisters.
At the table, Waverly actually snickered.
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