From Scratch (12 page)

“The payback you’re in for—” I stop. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Wes miming an explosion. Annabelle fidgets beside me. Tim nudges Nick’s side, signaling discreetly at something over my shoulder.

Like a five-tier wedding cake toppling over, I watch it happen in slow motion: Margaret Ann Floozy Stokes sauntering into view, hips swaying and red hair cascading over her shoulders, greeting Nick with a long, sensual kiss.

I down my second Loopy Ladybug.

THIRTEEN

MY BUZZ FIZZLES,
dull dread filling its place.

Margaret pulls back and gives Nick a long, seductive look. My throat constricts, and there’s a pinching in my chest. She makes the rounds, greeting everyone with an air kiss. I can feel the pressure of Nick’s gaze on me like a hot touch, but I refuse to meet his eyes.

“Oh, Lillie, you’re still here,” the floozy says when she reaches me. “How wonderful.”

Sure it is.

“Mags,” Nick says, a warning.

She glances at him, then refocuses her attention on me. With a spiteful smile, she says, “Some people can be such hemorrhoids, don’t you think, Lillie? They never seem to go away.”

Oh, this harpy.

“Is that the reason you walk the way you do?” I say, flashing a grin that rivals hers. “I assumed it was because of the silver spoon stuck up your ass, but a quick trip to the pharmacy for Preparation H can cure that for you.”

Margaret narrows her eyes. “Charming as always.”

“Likewise,” I say, my voice so chipper it hurts my ears.

Nick scrubs his hands over his face. Annabelle snickers. Wes whistles, a nervous habit, while members of the band murmur to each other about an upcoming radio interview and their tour schedule.

Appearing unfazed by the tension swirling around the table, Margaret steals a chair from a nearby group of women dressed in identical T-shirts and wedges it beside Nick. She settles into the seat, crossing her legs so that her pencil skirt rides up, and possessively loops an arm around his.

“So, Lillie,” she says, as if we’re friends. “What have you been doing these past five years? I hear you graduated from Northwestern with an MBA. Is that true?”

Be cordial,
I remind myself. “That’s correct. With a dual concentration in finance and strategy,” I say. I envision strangling whoever is sharing personal details of my life with her.

Nick studies me, turning a beer bottle slowly in his hand. Annabelle and Wes are tellingly silent, and I wonder which one of them I’ll be murdering first.

“I imagine that was quite an accomplishment for you,” the harpy continues.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.

“Nothing, really,” she says, tracing a manicured nail up and down Nick’s arm. “Just that you’ve spent the majority of your life in a diner, never challenging yourself. I would think that living in a new city while tackling the demands of graduate school would be a large mental hurdle for you to overcome.”

“Margaret, that’s enough,” Nick snaps. He shrugs her off and rakes his fingers through his hair.

For a second I gape at her, hating that her words have burrowed under my skin, but quickly recover. Squaring my shoulders, I say, “I’m sure it was no more difficult than when you completed the Texas dip without landing on your face at your debutante ball.”

Margaret glowers at me from across the table.

Wes slaps his knee and says, “Who needs a drink? I could sure go for a stiff one right about now.” He stands, looking at Annabelle for a lingering moment before stalking off to the bar.

“I should help him,” Nick says, then he’s gone, too, following after him.

At the other end of the table, the band is lost in a conversation of their own, abandoning Annabelle and me with the floozy. As I turn toward Annabelle, Margaret calls my name and leans forward so her cleavage is on full display. “There’s one last thing,” she says. “You’ll never get what it is that you came back here for.”

“Excuse me?” I say.

“Allow me to be direct, so that you don’t misunderstand. You had your time with Nick, but we’re together now.” Her voice is low and restrained, her tone steely. “He’s moved on. Forgotten you. I suggest you remember that.”

“Whoa, Margaret, that’s—” Annabelle starts.

I hold up a hand, quieting her. Because it’s
my
turn to talk, and I’ve had enough of Margaret Ann Floozy Stokes and her underhanded comments.

Rising from my chair, I match Margaret’s hard stare. “Listen, you self-righteous, Botox-crazed, armpit-licking hag,” I say, balling my hands into fists. “You’re obviously threatened by me. But I have news for you. I’m
engaged
to someone else. His name is Drew Harrington, and he’s amazing. So the next time you feel the need to fling your insecurities in my face, perhaps you should remember that.”

I drop back into my seat and inhale a breath. Annabelle kicks my shin and gives me a loaded look that says we need to talk later. Margaret opens her mouth to respond, but she’s cut off by a microphone squealing.

“All right, folks. It’s trivia time,” the emcee says from the stage set up near the bar. He has a stack of cards in one hand and a lager in the other. Servers deliver a bell to each table.

Nick and Wes return with another round of drinks. Passing a Shiner Bock to me and a glass of red wine to Margaret, Nick glimpses between us and frowns. Margaret is shooting daggers at me, her jaw clenched. I imagine she’s accustomed to having the final word. Too bad.

“The rules are simple,” the emcee continues. “I’ll read a question. The first person or team to ring the bell and answer correctly earns a point. Fifteen points wins the game. Anyone using a cell phone to cheat will be disqualified. Now y’all will be happy to know that Nick Preston is in attendance tonight. Let’s find out if he can remain victorious for another week.”

A collective groan erupts around the room. Nick waves, a smug expression on his face.

“It’s going to be such a shame when I destroy your streak, Preston,” I say.

Nick crosses his arms and raises an eyebrow. “Those are some big words coming from someone who hasn’t played in an eternity.”

“Wait and see,” I say. He’s right, of course. College was the last time I participated in trivia night, but I won’t admit that to Nick. I once considered taking Drew to a bar that hosts various games, but our relationship doesn’t operate like that; it doesn’t feed off competition.

Nick dangles a scorecard in front of my face. “It’s not too late for you to back out. Save yourself the embarrassment.”

“You scared?” I say, swiping it from him and writing my name at the top.

He cocks his head and smirks at me. “Do I need to remind you of the Wall of Champions?”

“Just how serious are you two about this sort of thing?” Jason pipes up from the other end of the table.

“Very,” Wes and Annabelle say at the same time. They both laugh before trailing off into silence.

Margaret only glares at me.

The emcee announces the game is officially beginning, and I sit up straighter. “Question number one,” he says. “What was Oscar the Grouch’s original color before Jim Henson decided on green?”

Blue? No. Red?

Crap. I’m rustier than I thought.

“By all means, ladies first.” Nick gestures to the bell. His eyes are full of challenge, and my stomach tightens. He knows I’m clueless about the answer. I could try to fake it, but that would only give him more ammunition if I’m wrong.

Nick reaches for the bell but someone at another table beats him to it. “Orange,” the person declares, which the emcee deems correct.

“You just cost me a point,” Nick says.

I shrug. “Every point you lose is still a point for me.”

The emcee calls out, “Famous singer-songwriter Carly Simon’s father cofounded which company?”

Nick rings the bell so fast I don’t have time to process the question. “Simon & Schuster,” he proclaims when prompted for the answer. More groaning fills the room.

“So much for destroying my winning streak, Turner,” he says, and puts a mark on his scorecard, that lopsided grin spreading across his face. “Sure you still want to keep going?”

Snatching away his beer, I take several long sips and say, “Worry about yourself. You and your fragile ego have enough to contend with.”

“Like what? Your oh-so-impressive knowledge of Backstreet Boys songs?” Nick seizes the bottle hovering inches away from my mouth and polishes it off.

Annabelle snorts. Wes chats with the band, none of them even attempting to play. Margaret mutters something about Nick and me behaving like playground enemies.

The emcee’s voice booms over the noise. “What happens to a jellyfish left in the sun too long?”

I steal the bell away from Nick and shake it. “They’ll evaporate,” I yell louder than necessary. Score one point for me. “What were you droning on about again, Preston?” I say with a smug smile of my own.

“Lucky guess.”

“Keep lying to yourself.”

Huffing in exasperation, Margaret slings her purse over her shoulder and marches toward the door. Nick doesn’t seem to notice her departure, his attention laser-focused on the game.

The next two questions stump us, but then we’re back on track in a cutthroat battle with each other. Nick earns the next three points, but I jump in, replying, “Forty,” when he falters on “What number has all its letters in alphabetical order?” Then I nail the answer on the only planet in our solar system that rotates clockwise (Venus).

The game continues on like a Ping-Pong match—Nick scores a point, then I score one right back. Occasionally, someone else slides in with a correct answer, but still no one comes close to catching us.

As our taunts grow heated, Wes takes on the role of sportscaster. “The mood is tense here at the Tipsy Teakettle as these two rivals vie for trivia dominance.” Annabelle remains firmly on my side, while the band watches from the sidelines, offering neutral high fives and nods of support. It’s not long before Nick and I are tied with fourteen points, one answer away from winning.

We’re both on our feet and grabbing the bell when the emcee calls out, “What is the only U.S. state whose name is a single syllable?”

“Drop it,” I say, tightening my grip on the handle.

“Not a chance, Turner.”

“You know I had it first.”

Nick places a palm on the table and leans forward, his eyes blazing. “Bullshit.”

I mimic his stance. “You just can’t admit when you’re wrong.”

“Oh, that’s rich coming from you,” he says, his voice dripping with innuendo.

“Hey, guys, take it down a level,” Wes says, placing a hand on both our shoulders. “It’s only a game.” We ignore him, staring at each other from across the table in a silent standoff, both unwilling to concede.

There’s a clanging sound on the other side of the bar, followed by someone shouting, “Maine.”

We release our hold on the bell, and it’s as if the atmosphere between us has shifted.

“All right, folks. This next one may end the game,” the emcee announces. “What is the only essential vitamin not found in the white potato?”

The question breaks something open inside me. A memory rushes in of the time Nick and I received that exact question years ago, here at the Tipsy Teakettle, on a night much like this one. Only back then we’d played as a team. I remember how we huddled together, ticking off various nutrients as choices, when suddenly I recalled a fact I had researched about the starchy root vegetable for my newspaper column. That night had been the beginning of our streak as trivia champions.

My heart pushes painfully against my chest. We had loved each other beyond reason. How could we let ourselves stray so far from that? How could we start fighting against each other instead of for each other?

I peer at Nick, wondering if he’s remembering the same things. He makes no move for the bell in the center of the table, even though I’m certain he knows the answer. His eyes are steady on mine, imploring, as if he’s waiting for something. When he remains motionless, I pick up the bell and ring it.

“Vitamin A,” I declare, though it sounds hollow.

“We have a new winner!” the emcee hollers into the microphone in an awful Bob Barker impersonation. Cheers and applause pierce my ears. Annabelle hugs me. Wes claps me on the back. The band does . . . something. I drown it all out.

Nick let me win.

I look at him. There’s a stillness to him, but his gaze flickers with an emotion so fierce and raw a knot forms in my stomach.

I need air, some space from . . . all this.

Pushing through the crowd, I step outside. A light drizzle falls from the night sky, shrouding the area in a cool mist. The colors of the Tipsy Teakettle’s neon sign reflect onto the slick asphalt, bleeding together like food coloring in frosting.

When I get to my truck, I rest my forehead against the door and practice inhaling and exhaling.

“Lillie.”

My breath catches at the way Nick says my name—fast and certain and hoarse—the way he used to, the moment before he’d claim me as his. I turn to face him. He crosses the pavement and traps me between him and the truck. I can feel the cool metal through my shirt. He stares at me, consuming me with those blue eyes. My body is coiled as tight as an electrical wire.

Then he tugs me flush against him, and his mouth is on mine, hungry, desperate. It’s as if a charge has been set off inside me; my feet nearly come off the pavement. The kiss is deep, so strong, and I gasp.
Oh, I missed this.
My whole body is humming, telling me this is right.

He runs his hands along my sides, down the back of my thighs, lifting me slightly, destroying every rational thought in my mind. Everywhere he touches is fire.