Dumpster Fire (Life Sucks Book 3)

by Elise Faber

  Fine by him.

  Misty pondering his torture meant that he could get the information he wanted.

  By the time she’d finished, the slip of paper with Sophie’s phone number was in his pocket, and he had stowed the binder away. Misty plunked the basket full of pink knitting needles and yarn and something that looked like plastic safety pins—also pink—on the counter, laying them out so he could see they matched perfectly with the pink bag she’d included, along with tiny pink scissors he questioned could actually fit on his fingers, a pink measuring tape, and what he thought he’d her call tapestry needles. They were about the length of his pinky finger—so scarily large—but shining steel instead of pink.

  The one nod to his masculinity.

  Or a threat to it, he thought with a smile, imagining his sister wielding those needles with precise concentration.

  “Just necessary supplies,” she said.

  “I don’t remember Sophie having this much,” he pointed out as she began ringing him up.

  A shrug. “Sophie wasn’t in my binder, sneaking information about other clients.”

  Heat smothered his cheeks. “Not sure what you’re talking about, Dew Drop.”

  “Hmm,” she said, rapidly scanning the bunch, then in a quick move that he hadn’t expected and thus, couldn’t dodge, she reached into his pocket, snagged his wallet . . . and the piece of paper he’d stashed there. “Still not sure you know what I’m talking about?” she asked, holding it up.

  He snatched both back, dug out his credit card, and handed it to her. “Yup,” he muttered, shoving Sophie’s number back into his wallet.

  “Do you even know who that is?”

  “She’s . . .” He shrugged. “Sophie.”

  “No, big bro, she’s Sophie Jackson.” A beat, her eyes lifting when the name clearly didn’t ring a bell. “The actress.”

  He shrugged, brow lifted. That wasn’t a surprise, considering she knew Finn.

  Misty sighed. “Sophie Jackson. The big-time actress with the number one film. The one who starred opposite of Finn and got all the awards.”

  He kept his brows lifted.

  He hadn’t seen the film, and he and Finn didn’t discuss Finn’s work. There were always other things to talk about—Shannon’s students, the gossip in town, Rylie’s copious knowledge of all things Pokémon.

  “Ugh,” Misty sighed. “You’re hopeless.”

  “I think we established that already.”

  With another sigh, she ran his card for a truly exorbitant amount—even based on the volume of pink she was shoving into a paper bag—but he signed the slip without complaint, took the sack when she thrust it at him. Then he just nodded when she scowled and snapped out, “Tomorrow. Six P.M. sharp.”

  “Thanks, sis.” He leaned over the counter to press a kiss to her forehead. “I owe you one.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Yes, you do.”

  “Well, if I’m in the hole already,” he began. “I wanted to ask—”

  “Nope.” Her lips made a popping sound on the p. “The answer is no. N. O. No.”

  “Dew Drop,” he began. “It’s—”

  For as sweet and softhearted as she presented herself to the outside world, Misty sure could give him an evil eye.

  “It’s not happening.”

  But he knew how to make her cave. Actually, it was easy really. All he needed to do was give her the look. The sad, puppy dog look that had once managed to get her to sacrifice her favorite Barbie to the clutches of his evil army men as a child and the expression he knew would get her to agree now. Because he knew the power of the sad puppy dog look and thus, he only used it judiciously.

  He also knew it was going to work because the favor wasn’t for him.

  “Don’t try to guilt me into this, mister,” she began, crossing her arms over her chest, tossing her blond ponytail over her shoulder.

  He made the sad puppy dog expression sadder . . . and puppier.

  She groaned, spun away.

  And victory was in the bag.

  Resisting the urge to fist-pump, Rob knew that he owed it to his sister to lay his cards on the table. “Look, I’ve had a hard time of it,” he said simply. “I know you’ve seen that. I know everyone has seen that. But I’m not blind, either. I know I’ve made it hard for you, too, and I’m sorry for that.” A sigh, his voice gentling. “I just . . . I had a vision of this life with Carmella, and it’s like I only got a glimpse of how wonderful it was going to be and . . .” He blinked, throat suddenly tight.

  Misty rotated back to face him, her eyes the ones that were sad now—and not with his brand of fake hang-dog mien, but with real sadness. She covered his hand with hers. “Then suddenly it was gone,” she said softly.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I know you and Carmella loved each other very much.” She squeezed his hand lightly. “I miss her quite desperately. She was part of my life for so long that it feels like a void was left behind when she died, one that won’t ever be filled.” A sniff. “What I’m trying to say is that I understand how your grief would be so much more intense than my own.”

  He nodded, swallowed hard, and forced out, “Yeah.”

  She forced a smile. “So, you have absolutely nothing to apologize for. You’re a good man, who hit a really rough patch. That’s bound to cause some whiplash.”

  “I felt like I was in a fucking fog for these last years, like quicksand was sucking me down and I couldn’t escape.”

  “It’s okay, Rob.”

  “It’s not okay,” he said. “Yes, I lost Carmella, but the truth is that I should have been there for you instead of being stuck in this pattern of grief.” He thrust a hand through his hair. “No, that’s not true. I wasn’t stuck. I didn’t want to escape. I just wanted to be miserable. To not truly live if Carmella wasn’t here.”

  Her throat worked, a tear sliding down her cheek. “Oh, Rob.”

  He wiped it away. “But . . .” God, how to even begin to explain this? How could he explain that he felt like the clouds had cleared after a long storm, the darkness slipping away, the sun shining brighter. He’d finally found the urge to live his life.

  Not to forget. Never to forget.

  Rather, to hold her close, but to also . . . maybe to have that potential of more again.

  Probably, he should be terrified of caring about someone again.

  Instead, he just wanted to feel again.

  And he had started to feel again.

  “Sophie bought me tea,” he whispered.

  “What?” Her eyes went wide. “How did she know—?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “But she showed up yesterday and gave me a birthday present.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “But we don’t celebrate your birthday, not since—” She broke off.

  He heard the words anyway. They didn’t celebrate his birthday any longer. Not since Carmella had died on her way home from work, his favorite ice cream cake on the floor of the passenger seat, a wrapped gift in the back seat.

  Rob had discovered the melted mass when he’d had to sign off on the car being totaled, along with the present, which was still wrapped, still sitting on a shelf in his closet.

  “I know, Dew Drop,” he said, blinking that away. “But I accepted the gift anyway. I should pretend I was just being polite, but the truth is I felt something when I saw her then. No, the truth is that I feel something when I’m with her, when I’m talking with her and . . . I wanted it and . . .”

  Misty waited while he organized his thoughts.

  “And when I opened it, inside was tea. My tea.”

  Her lips parted, a breath sliding out. “What do you mean your tea?”

  “I mean the pomegranate blend Shelby makes in town.” A beat. “Along with a note saying she hoped I enjoyed it, since it was her favorite.”

  She leaned back against the counter, eyes cautious. “That’s . . . a strange coincidence.”

  “I know,” he
agreed. “But that combined with my drunk ass nearly getting run over by her car and then puking and passing out in front of her, and her knowing Finn and calling him for help to get me home, and I realized that I was stuck in this—”

  “Wait, what?” Misty asked. “She almost ran you over and—”

  Shit. That hadn’t been a detail he’d planned on sharing. But his thoughts were swirling, his mind filled with . . . so much color and so many thoughts, and his mouth had run away with him—

  Because the most important part was the piece he hadn’t yet mentioned.

  “I packed up Carmella’s things.”

  Misty’s inhale was sharp.

  “It sounds fucking stupid, but it’s like the moment I tore off that wrapping paper and saw what was inside, I realized everything I had been missing out on.”

  “Rob,” she whispered.

  “I’m sure this newfound lightness will shrink away at some point, that I’ll regress back into being a moody asshole,” he said.

  “I hope not.” Her hand covered his again. “I want you to be happy.”

  “I want that, too. Finally,” he added. “I think I finally want that, too.” He shrugged. “I think it’s because Soph saw something in me.” He laughed. “She was with me for hardly any time at all, and yet she managed to see beneath the surface, and I—I guess I just want to continue holding on to that feeling of someone seeing me as something more than this man who was broken.” A beat. “Even if nothing more comes of it.”

  She sniffed again, another tear escaping.

  He wiped it away. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

  A light punch to his arm. “Sure, you did,” she said, or rather deliberately grumbled, making the wound inside his heart heal more, that light feeling that had begun with Sophie continue to expand. “You knew I’d become a watering pot the moment you brought out the sad puppy dog look.”

  “I’ll neither confirm nor deny.” He grinned. “I love you, Dew Drop.”

  “I’d love you more if you stopped using that nickname.”

  He tugged a strand of her hair. “Never gonna happen.”

  “Ugh. Such is the burden of younger sisters everywhere.” Her chin came up. “Okay, bro. Lay it on me, what’s this big favor you need of me?”

  “Well,” he said, “if you’re really sure you’re up for it.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Rob,” she warned.

  “I was just wondering . . .”

  Eight

  Defunct Tote Bag Straps

  Soph

  She’d spent her day at the beach, her toes in the sand—and not in the water that was too chilly for her taste this time of year.

  But the breeze had been fresh, the sun peeking out behind the clouds at regular intervals, and she’d enjoyed being able to step off her front porch, to plunk her ass into the sand, and then to lose herself in her favorite book.

  Which, for her entire life, had always been the novel she was currently reading, and today was no different.

  She’d devoured the historical romance then had lain back in the sand and sighed.

  Over the happy ending—that only ever happened in books and on the silver screen.

  But still, she loved the escapism and had especially loved the way the couple had found their way back to each other in the end. So much so, that she’d replayed the scene over and over in her head, mentally blocking out what it would look like if it were filmed, who she would cast as the hero to play opposite her.

  Because, of course, she’d be the heroine.

  Grand gestures were the most fun when they happened to her.

  Even if they were just fiction.

  Smiling, she rubbed a finger down her slightly sunburned nose, knowing that she’d spent too long lazily sprawled on the sand—lazily because she hadn’t bothered with a beach towel or blanket or umbrella and certainly hadn’t rustled up the energy to go back into her rented cottage for sunscreen. Nope. She’d been content with all of that laziness, and still was, even knowing that she hadn’t gotten all of the sand out of her hair, despite the long shower she’d taken before class.

  Class!

  She was strangely excited for this small-town knitting class.

  It wasn’t like she hadn’t taken her fair share of courses throughout the years, even ones in little shops like Tangled, though most of them had been in preparation for some role or another.

  This was just for her.

  Although she supposed it would probably find its way on screen at some point or another.

  One of her characters could jab a bad guy with a needle. Or maybe, she thought, pulling into the small parking lot behind the shop, she’d just play a girl who liked to knit.

  That was a possibility.

  Although one that was less appealing than a fierce ninja badass.

  Snorting, she began to turn into an empty spot, only to have her throat seize and her heart pound when she had to slam on the brakes in a hurry.

  She screeched to a stop, nearly hitting . . . Rob.

  For a second time.

  He was crouched next to a truck, shielded from view, the driver’s door shut, and his body curled up as he reached under his truck to grab—

  A knitting needle.

  Which he held up triumphantly, flashing her a smile through her windshield.

  She cursed, waved back, then waited for him to move before slowly—and exceedingly more carefully—pulling into the spot.

  Then she took her time gathering her supplies, which she’d stowed in her favorite tote bag—a canvas number emblazoned with Book Nerds Unite. Old and stained and with a strap she’d reattached more times than she could count, it was something Soph couldn’t give up. It had been the first thing she’d bought with her own money, the first time she’d saved up, the first time she’d realized she could get something she wanted all on her own.

  And the first time she’d known that she was going to survive.

  All because of a stupid bag.

  Yet, the strip of canvas meant more to her than any designer purse she’d purchased in the following years.

  After double-checking to make sure her wallet was inside, she slung her tote over her shoulder and took a deep breath before tugging at the handle and popping open her door.

  She didn’t jump at Rob’s voice.

  Probably because some part of her had assumed he was going to wait for her.

  Or maybe because part of her had wanted him to be waiting for her.

  “Hey, Soph.”

  Heated velvet skating over her skin, alighting along her nerves, raising the hairs on her arms, gooseflesh on her nape. Her thighs clenched together, and she was acutely aware of him standing just a few feet away, positioned at the rear of her car.

  “Hi,” she murmured, feeling oddly shy.

  For God’s sake, she’d been the one to drive over to his house, to give him the present. Why should she now be feeling reserved?

  Except . . . something had changed between them.

  He saw her as though . . . he saw her.

  Like a man who’d seen a woman he wanted.

  No longer was he the sad-eyed widower. Instead, he was all man, big and strong and staring at her with scorching predator-like focus.

  That intensity made her want to run, to hide, to bury everything deeper.

  Because he was no longer safe.

  She could see that as easily as she was able to bring life to her characters on screen.

  But she was an actress for a reason, could pull the shroud of falseness around her, hold it tight like a shield. She could disarm and charm even the grossest, grabbiest producer, slipping out from scenarios with nary an ill-gotten touch and their egos intact. Because Sophie had plenty of experience doing the same thing.

  Avoid being cornered.

  Avoid being put into a situation that would bring her harm.

  Avoid being a victim.

  And when she couldn’t avoid all of that, she used her skills at decepti
on to neutralize the threat.

  Then she ran.

  “It’s lovely to see you again,” she said, closing the door of the rental and locking it. “I was so happy to stumble upon your sister’s store yesterday, it’s rather . . .” She paused for a moment because she wasn’t the type of woman to use a word like lovely—at least in this context—let alone a second time in as many sentences. She blamed historical romances for making her language old-fashioned, though she wouldn’t be giving them up in her lifetime. “. . . adorable,” she finished.

  His lips twitched. “Yes.”

  “Misty and the shop both are,” she said, nibbling the inside of her mouth and pondering how to get by him when he was taking up so much space at the back of her car.

  She could slip by him. But that would bring her body very close to his.

  She could retreat, round the hood of her car. But that would look a little ridiculous and like she was avoiding him.

  Of course, she was avoiding him.

  But she just wanted to pretend she wasn’t.

  Her foot slid on the parking lot’s surface, shifting to step back, her heel making a soft scuffing noise that drew his gaze. It flicked down to her suede navy pumps before it worked its way back up to her face.

  Soph swallowed.

  There was no way around it. She’d round the front of the car and go inside, accept that he would know she was disquieted and—

  “We should get to class,” he said, turning to the side and retreating several paces, giving her plenty of room for her to slide between the cars and him, to not really even come close. “My sister is sweet and adorable, as you said. However, she does not appreciate late students,” he added with a smile that was hot enough to melt some of the ice that had frozen her in place.

  She shook off her nerves, nodded, and walked forward. “You’re right.”

  A grin as she passed him. “Don’t keep telling me that. I’ll get a big head.”

  Now, it was her turn for her gaze to drop, to slide slowly south, to where she wondered if he had a big head there, too. Then just as quickly, she shook herself, readjusted the strap on her bag and hurried across the parking lot.