Dumpster Fire (Life Sucks Book 3)

by Elise Faber

  He pushed through the door, closing it quietly behind him, his gaze going directly to Sophie’s and holding.

  “Hey, Rob,” Misty said. “I’ll be right with you.” She smiled at Soph. “So, as I was saying, I’m teaching a class to make this pattern, starting tomorrow and Thursday and then again next Tuesday and Thursday, if you’re around that long.”

  “I would love to take a class,” Sophie admitted. “I’m likely to muck up without help.”

  “Well, I can certainly help,” Misty told her with a chuckle. “Why don’t you pick out three skeins of yarn, whatever color you’d like, and I’ll check back in with you about needles.”

  “Thank you,” she said then remembered the sweater. “Oh, I’m sorry, I meant to ask earlier. Is the sweater in the window for sale?”

  Misty shook her head. “I’m afraid not, but I do sell the pattern.”

  “Great, thanks,” she said, forcing a smile despite the disappointment filling her. Ridiculous, since it was just a sweater and she was certain she could get Misty to help her buy the yarn to make it.

  Frankly, it was good practice for her not to get everything she wanted, not to be coddled. For a salesperson to not be all like, let me get that for you, Ms. Jackson Hollywood self. Hell, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d been told no.

  Plus, now she had a project to move toward.

  Hashtag, life goals, etcetera, etcetera.

  In the meantime, she deliberately turned her back on Rob and Misty, ignoring the bolt of jealousy that slid through her when she hugged him tightly and they began talking softly.

  She didn’t know the man, didn’t have any reason to feel jealous.

  Nope. No, sir. No way—

  Oh look, that was a pretty purple, maybe even the same color as the sweater. Perhaps she could make her own ombre, just in scarf form, for practice.

  Colors selected, she headed to the counter, both drawn to and dreading the man still standing there chatting with Misty. The pretty blonde halted the conversation, took Soph’s basket, and gave her a brief run-down on needles so she could select a set. When Soph slipped away, Misty and Rob began talking in earnest, making her ears prickle, wanting to know what he was saying, even though she shouldn’t care.

  Having returned to the counter with two pairs—a deep mahogany wooden set and a pretty acrylic couplet, since she couldn’t decide between them—Misty began ringing her up, and she got a glimpse into the serious discussion.

  A bathroom remodel.

  Which made her feel better. They weren’t planning a date or a secret affair. They were talking about pipes and cold water and a sink faucet.

  “How do I sign up for the class?” she asked when Misty and Rob paused in their conversation about a late shipment of tile.

  “I’m sorry,” Misty said, “that was terribly rude of me to jabber while you’re waiting.” Her lips quirked. “You clearly heard I’m redoing my bathroom, and it’s been . . .” She bit her lip. “Well, it hasn’t gotten off to the best start.”

  “It’s been a disaster,” Rob said, not mincing words. “We found mold and dry rot and had to tear out the entire floor, then the plumber installed not one, but two dysfunctional valves, and now her tile is delayed three weeks.”

  “Oh no,” Soph said. “Do you at least have another bathroom you can use?”

  Misty winced. “I’ve been showering here at the shop.” A shrug, her eyes flicking to Rob’s then away, cheer immediately returning to her face. “At least, I have a toilet again.”

  Now Rob winced. “I’m sorry, Dew Drop.”

  Soph’s heart clenched at the nickname, at the obvious affection between the pair, even as she told herself she was an idiot to even feel that way.

  “Hush,” Misty said. “It’s not your fault.”

  Rob grinned. “I think it’s your right as a paying customer to complain when your contractor doesn’t finish a job on schedule.”

  “Meh.” A shrug. “You’re doing the best you can.”

  “Still, feel free to yell at me like any other customer.”

  “I love you.” She pressed a kiss to Rob’s cheek. “But there will be no yelling. Plus,” she said, lightly punching his shoulder, “I can always bum a shower at my big bro’s house.”

  Relief.

  It slid over Sophie like a cool compress pressed to a feverish forehead, slowly soaking in, filling her with respite.

  Because the relationship hadn’t been obvious until that moment, but then Soph couldn’t believe how she’d missed it. The lines of their faces, their eyes—so unique with that swirl of amber and chocolate and gold mixing together.

  “It’s good to have options,” Soph said with a smile, feeling more relieved than she should that the pair were related. “Especially when it means he can’t reasonably say no.”

  It was convenient; that familial relationship made it easier for her to not have to examine the depth of her jealousy all that closely.

  “True,” Misty said, then bent and retrieved a binder from beneath the counter. “So, you’ll be around for the class?”

  “Yup.” Sophie nodded. “Thanks for mentioning it.” Then she paused, lips twitching when she saw the color of the binder, unable to stop herself from saying, “You like purple, don’t you?”

  “How could you tell?” Misty deadpanned, holding up the gorgeous purple binder, along with a purple pen. Her voice dropped to a whisper, her mouth turned up into a smile. “I may be a tad obsessed.”

  “You made the sweater for yourself.” Sophie tilted her head toward the window.

  Pink on Misty’s cheeks. “I did,” she said. “That’s why I can’t bear to sell it. I’m sorry.”

  Soph reached over and squeezed her hand. “Don’t apologize. You’re allowed to have nice things and to keep them.” A smile. “I’m sure it took you ages to make, so you should at least be able to enjoy it!”

  Misty blushed harder, flipping through the pages of the binder. “Ah—I— um . . . thank you for saying that.”

  “You’re welcome,” Soph said and let her gaze wander away from Misty as she began filling out a form, just so happening to catch Rob’s, to get snared in his swirling brown eyes.

  “Thank you,” he mouthed, and she felt warmth slide through her.

  “Okay.” Misty set the paper in front of Sophie, along with the purple pen. “If you’ll just fill out the rest of this, I’ll bag up your items, and—”

  The bell rang.

  “Go,” Rob told her as a trio of older ladies walked through the door. “I’ll finish helping Sophie.”

  “Thanks, big bro,” she said with a kiss to his cheek. “I’ll owe you.”

  “We’ll call it even.” A beat. “Especially after the tile.”

  “And the toilet,” Soph said, unable to stop herself from interjecting, even though it wasn’t her place.

  But luckily the siblings were amused—Rob snorting, his eyes dancing with amusement, Misty giggling as she walked over to help her new customers.

  “Your sister is sweet,” she murmured into the quiet that descended.

  Rob finished scanning the yarn and pattern, placing them carefully into a paper bag that looked to be hand-stamped with a rendering of Rapunzel’s tower made out of yarn.

  Tangled.

  So stinkin’ cute.

  “She certainly is,” he said. “That will be sixty-eight sixty-two.”

  She passed over her credit card, signed the slip, and waited as he put her receipt into the bag and handed it over.

  “Oh, wait.” He took the bag back, pulled out a packet of papers, and stuck them in along with her supplies. “For the class,” he told her when she glanced at him in confusion. “Misty put together an intro and supply list and”—he shook his head, lips curving—“apparently a textbook on the subject of knitting.”

  “That’s lovely.” She reached for the bag.

  He held it out of reach.

  She lifted a brow, extended her arm a bit farther to grab it.


  He backed up a step.

  She huffed, going from touched by their relationship of this man helping out his sister with nary a thought, to annoyed. At this man. Because despite her best efforts, she liked him. And he was tormenting her, keeping her in his presence longer when she couldn’t afford to want a relationship with him. Clenching her teeth together, she barely managed to stop herself from stomping her foot. “Did you need something?”

  “No.” A slight smirk on that gorgeous mouth.

  Any whiff of attraction disappeared. The man was infuriating, staring down at her like he was in on a joke and she was the butt of it.

  “Give me the bag,” she gritted.

  “No.”

  Now she did stomp her foot, luckily not too loudly since her heels were low and light, but the motion and the noise were loud or obvious enough for his eyes to flick down . . . then slowly trace back up.

  Heat.

  Okay, so maybe that attraction hadn’t disappeared.

  “You always wear heels?”

  She was short and curvy. The heels elongated where she needed lengthening and added height so people didn’t tower over her. They made her feel strong and powerful.

  So, yes, she always wore the heels.

  Except when a role called for something different or she was hiking or on the beach.

  But walking around town, shopping until her heart was content?

  Yes, her feet were happy in their heels.

  “What’s it to you?” she muttered.

  He shrugged, leaned against the counter, her bag held captive in his arms. “I’m just curious, is all.”

  “Yes, I wear heels. Most of the time, anyway,” she settled on saying.

  His lips quirked. “I see.”

  Confusion drew her brows together. “What do you see?”

  “Thank you for the birthday present.”

  “I—um—” She scrambled to adjust to the change in conversational topic. “Uh—you’re welcome.”

  He shifted, his hip going to the corner of the counter, one hand still holding her bag, while the other slipped into his back pocket, lifting his shirt slightly, exposing a sliver of delicious-looking skin. And suddenly she wanted him.

  Badly.

  Holy hell.

  This wasn’t good.

  “Soph,” he murmured.

  Her eyes drifted up slowly, tracing the lines of his flat stomach, the way his T-shirt went a little tight at his pecs, highlighting his natural strength rather than the super tight, look-at-me-I’m-so-strong-type the gym rats in L.A. often wore. There was something incredibly intoxicating about the natural muscle, made from the labor of one’s work, rather than the carefully crafted ones she had so often seen.

  “Yeah?” she asked, when she finally managed to make it past the way the cotton clung to his biceps, stretched taut over his shoulders.

  “It was my favorite.”

  Befuddled, her brows drew together. “What?”

  “The tea,” he said. “It’s my favorite.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I wrote the note . . . I . . . um . . . it’s my favorite.”

  Fingers brushing back a lock of her hair. “I said what I meant.”

  Her frown deepened. “I don’t know what you meant.”

  “I meant, it’s my favorite, too.”

  She blinked. It was? That was . . . odd.

  “Oh,” she murmured.

  “Yes,” he said. “Oh.”

  Silence for a heartbeat, then he handed her the bag, thrusting it at her without warning so she scrambled to take hold of it, and their hands brushed, tangled—

  Sparks alighting her skin.

  Heat sliding between her thighs.

  Desire pooling in her stomach.

  She wanted this man.

  Wanted him like she had perhaps never wanted another. No, not perhaps. She’d never felt this . . . need for another person. It was deeper than just sex—something she’d had plenty of over the years. Something she’d had too much of probably before she’d been able to untangle the way her past had played into that promiscuity, before she’d begun to respect herself enough for it to only be for her, instead of a desperation to erase the demons of her memories.

  This was a different sort of longing. It was intense desire, but more. It was wanting to be near this man, to fall deep into his eyes and never come out.

  And she hardly knew him.

  Alarm bells blared.

  “I . . . um . . . I should go.” She nodded to the door.

  He smiled gently. “Bye, Sophie.”

  Clutching the bag to her chest, she turned for the exit, wanting to run, wanting to stay, wanting to—

  “I’ll see you at class,” he called.

  She froze, glanced back.

  He winked and smiled, slow and hot. “Turns out, I need to learn how to make a scarf, too.”

  “I—” She broke off. God, why were words so hard with this man? She was an actress, usually had no shortage of words. But he just . . . made them all poof away.

  He just . . . made her want—

  Something she couldn’t.

  So she didn’t bother with the words, with continuing her attempts in summoning some up.

  Instead, she fled, the bell tinkling behind her.

  Seven

  Sisters. Le Sigh

  Rob

  “What was that about?” Misty asked after she had taken care of the trio of permed ladies and come back to him at the counter.

  “What do you mean?” he prevaricated, even while knowing exactly what she was talking about.

  He didn’t willingly engage in conversation with women—or at least, not with attractive women who might be construed as someone he might be interested in. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He’d tried a few dates, but none had gone well. He hadn’t truly dated anyone besides Carmella. They’d gotten together in middle school, had been best friends before that. So, Rob had never needed to be charming or to flirt with another woman, never kissed, let alone slept with anyone besides her. So while the dates with the others (read: two women) hadn’t exactly been a disaster (although close), he’d decided he wasn’t in any position or mental shape to pursue that.

  Or to put the poor woman who agreed to a date with a mess like him through that.

  Rob had decided to wait until he had his shit more together.

  Except, it had been two years, and he’d only just recently packed up his wife’s hairbrush.

  “I mean you—Hey! What are you doing?” Misty asked, probably finally noticing that he was making an addition to her purple binder. One he’d bought for her, along with the custom dividers and templates for signup forms, partly because he knew his planner obsessed sister would enjoy it, but also because he’d thought it might give her the push to finally pursue this dream of hers—to own her own shop.

  It was a gift that he had been beyond pleased to see her using when she’d found the courage and had opened her store, just six months before Carmella’s death.

  Courage that shamed him now.

  Because he’d been living under a cloud of fear for too long—keeping everyone at a careful distance, hanging on to the past, even while determinedly wearing a mask of I’m perfectly fine.

  What better way to stave off those who’d pull him into the land of the living than to cheerfully push his family and friends away?

  Except Finn had seen through him. Along with Shannon.

  They hadn’t invited him to eat or come over and watch a game or to BBQ on the beach so much as had insisted he come along, and with Rylie in their ranks, they’d had a clever ally. He hadn’t been able to say no, and he supposed that some part of him—a corner peeling back on the strip of duct tape holding the pieces of his heart together—had wanted to get close to people again.

  Thus, games and meals and the occasional beach BBQs.

  Thus, the overindulgence at Carmella’s grave.

  Thus, the abject misery over the reality that his wif
e was never coming back.

  Thus . . . Sophie.

  Who had made the tape rip clean away, causing the pieces to fall apart, to thud resoundingly in his chest, the fragments reverberating with a weight they shouldn’t have been able to carry. Only this time, Rob had found a determination to stitch himself together, to shed that weight.

  Because of cursing and a box of tea.

  Because of a voice in his head whispering encouragement.

  “Rob,” Misty exclaimed, trying to snatch the binder. “I asked, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “I’m signing up for a class,” he told her, brushing her hands away and filling out the form for a class titled—he shuddered—Princess Knitting 1. He signed his name at the waiver on the bottom with a flourish, then pulled out his credit card and rang himself up.

  “I suppose I’ll have to rename the class now,” she grumbled.

  He winked. “I’m fine with being a princess,” he said. “So long as you can teach me how to knit a crown, too.”

  “I can.” Her chin lifted. “But maybe instead of teaching you, I’ll knit one for you and make you wear it during class.”

  He laughed.

  She laughed then she hugged him, her tone going sober, her arms squeezing tight. “I’m glad you’re back. I’ve missed you.”

  He frowned. “I’ve been right here.”

  Her eyes, a mirror of his own, drifted up to meet his, sadness tingeing the edges. “No, Robbie, no, you haven’t.” Then before he could allow the guilt swelling through him to bubble over into an apology, she spun around, picked up a basket, and headed to the wall of yarn.

  “What are you doing?”

  She glanced back, mouth quirking. “If you’re taking the class, you’re going to need supplies.”

  Since that was true, he waved a hand, “Carry on then.”

  A finger tapped against her chin. “I think you’d look lovely in a bright pink scarf.”

  “A true man is comfortable in every color.” He sneakily flipped back a page in the binder as she turned to study the wall of yarn. “Pink away.”

  She snorted, pulled out a roll of something that looked to be smattered with silver sparkles and a plethora of bright pink colors, considered it for a moment, then put it in the basket.