From Scratch (13 page)

Nick groans, his teeth nipping at my jaw, my neck, the exposed skin along my collarbone.

I dip my fingers under his shirt, sliding over his hard lines and corded muscles, even more defined than before. His skin is hot and so smooth. Some part of my brain knows this is stupid, irresponsible, but I can’t stop.

A moan escapes me as he wraps my legs around his waist and presses me into the truck. “Fuck, you feel good.” His voice is so low I have to strain to hear it, a hoarse whisper in my ear.

As I register his words, sobering reality washes over me. I jerk back and disentangle out of his grasp, nearly tripping as I step away from him and reach for the door handle. “We shouldn’t be doing this,” I say, my chest heaving.

He catches my elbow. “Lillie, wait.”

“I need to go.”

“No. You don’t get to run away from me this time.”

Shaking my head, I say, “That kiss was
a mistake,
Nick. Something that never should have happened.”

For a moment, he stands there, studying me. Silence stretches between us, the sounds of traffic and the wind filling the void. Finally he drops my arm.

“I still jog the trail around Montgomery Park every morning, break of dawn,” he says. “It’d be nice to have a partner sometime.” Then he retreats back into the Tipsy Teakettle, and I’m all alone.

It feels too familiar.

FOURTEEN

LATE THE NEXT
morning, I squint my eyes open, bleary from sleep, to see a figure hovering over me. I scream and fall backward out of bed, landing with a thud on the hardwood floor, my limbs tangled up in the sheets. My heart drums loudly in my chest. I know I should be racing to dial the police, but my head is hazy—probably from one too many drinks—so instead all I can do is curl up into a ball and hope the intruder disappears.

“Are the theatrics necessary, dear?”

Brushing hair out of my mouth, I look up to find Sullivan Grace peering down at me, arms crossed.

“Ms. Hasell!” I scramble to my feet only to realize I’m standing in the middle of my childhood room dressed in nothing but a tank top and lace underwear. Snatching a pillow off the bed, I use it to shield myself. “You scared me.”

“Yes, well, that much is obvious.” Eyeing me up and down, Sullivan Grace clears her throat and says, “Now, please make yourself presentable and meet me downstairs. We need to have a chat.” Then she’s gone, the door clicking shut behind her.

How did she even get in here? A horrible, disgusting thought enters my mind:
What if my father gave Sullivan Grace a key to the house because she spends the night often?
I groan, burying my face into the pillow.

Twenty minutes later I stroll into the kitchen, where Sullivan Grace sits at the table, preparing a cup of Earl Grey tea as though she’s at a royal palace. She adds a dash of milk, stirring in small arches back and forth, never allowing the teaspoon to touch the sides or rim of the cup. She removes the spoon and gently places it on the saucer. Her lips purse when she notices me, no doubt judging my simple dress and damp hair. What does she expect after barging in on me like that? She didn’t exactly give me much time or warning. I’m sure any moment now she’ll flatter me with one of her backhanded compliments.

Sure enough, lifting the teacup to her mouth, she takes a small sip and says, “Lillie, I have always admired secure women like yourself who can flutter about town without giving a second thought to their appearance. Such a lovely trait.”
Bless my heart.

Ignoring her, I open the fridge and reach for the eggs, but stop short when I recognize the baking dish crowding the top shelf, one of many that should contain my mother’s peach cobbler but instead is filled with the deconstructed strudel I created yesterday. I wonder why my father brought it home.

“I guess someone discovered my version of today’s Blue Plate Special,” I say, glancing over my shoulder at Sullivan Grace.

“Have a seat, dear,” she says, tapping a chair like she’s patting out dough for scones.

I roll my eyes, grab a yogurt, and kick the fridge door closed before dropping into the spot next to her.

“So, how angry is he?” I say, peeling back the foil lid, careful not to tear it. I mold it into a U-shape, creating a makeshift spoon. It’s easier than dirtying a utensil. Plus it’s economical. And maybe there’s a teeny-tiny part of me that wants to goad Sullivan Grace with my poor table manners.

“What were you thinking, Lillie?” she says, adjusting the Rolex adorning her slender wrist. “Jackson is beside himself. I haven’t seen him this upset since—” She cuts herself off, the words she didn’t say—
since your mother left
—floating between us.

Stifling a grin, I imagine my father huffing around the diner, the vein popping out of his forehead, hollering about how I’m grounded to a month of potato-peeling duty for this stunt. “I don’t understand why this is such a big deal. It’s still a dessert with peaches in it,” I say, then scoop some yogurt into my mouth.

Sullivan Grace presses her lips in a thin line and tugs at her pearl necklace as she watches me slurp down my breakfast. Even when she’s angry, she’s still a picture of poise and grace. “That isn’t what this is about, dear. You know how particular Jackson is about his Blue Plate Specials. You can’t change something that important without discussing it with him first. The regulars plan their week around those dishes. Several patrons even walked out this morning when they discovered there wasn’t any cobbler.”

“Did anyone even taste the strudel? People may like it better,” I ask, licking off a strawberry chunk stuck to the foil spoon.

Sighing, Sullivan Grace shakes her head, her expertly blown-out hair swishing with the movement. “I understand you have some . . . reservations about the diner and the Upper Crust,” she says, crossing her legs at the ankle, “but I think it would be in everyone’s best interest to resolve those lingering issues as soon as possible. Your disrespectful behavior simply won’t suit. All this added stress is bad for Jackson’s well-being.”

My chest tightens. “I would never intentionally hurt my father or do anything that would threaten his health.
Never.
I’m aware that he’s getting older, that he’s sick,” I say, recalling the harsh sound of his cough, his run-down appearance, the limp in his step. “But you know what my mother did, how she just tossed aside her family as if we were nothing. Why would you or my father want me to compete with her peach cobbler recipe? How could you both be so cruel as to expect that? Because it doesn’t make sense to me.” There it is—the crux of the issue. What I desperately need explained.

I cut my gaze away, out the kitchen window. At the house across the street a little girl is learning how to ride a bicycle. Straddling the rear wheel, an older man with white hair and bushy eyebrows slowly guides her forward until she gains enough momentum to pedal on her own.

When I look back at Sullivan Grace, her eyes have softened. A sad kind of smile flits across her face. She squeezes my hand, and to my surprise, there’s a tenderness in her touch I’ve never felt before. A lump forms in my throat.

“You really haven’t figured it out yet have you, dear?” Her voice is sincere but also cautious. “I thought by now you’d realize this isn’t about Elizabeth. It’s about
you,
your life, the choices you’re making. Jackson only wants what’s best for you, and it’s time you accept—”

She’s interrupted by my cell phone vibrating on the table between us. Thomas Brandon’s name flashes across the screen. Crap. With all the insanity that happened yesterday I didn’t send him the sales forecasts and market analyses I promised.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Hasell, but I need to take this call. It’s important.” Swiping the phone off the table, I rush out of the kitchen. “Hello, Mr. Brandon,” I say, the stairs moaning under my feet as I climb them two at a time.

“My inbox is still empty,” he barks, once again jumping over basic pleasantries.

Always one to state the obvious.

“Yes, I know. I apologize,” I say, stealing into my room and booting up my laptop. “There were several circumstances beyond my control that prevented me from submitting the information you requested in a timely fashion. You’ll have everything by close of business today.”

“I’ll be frank. Your recent mishaps are not instilling much confidence,” he says in his normal no-nonsense voice. “I’m rather concerned about your dedication to this project, and if you’re treating it with the seriousness that it deserves.”

Irritation floods through me. After everything I’ve sacrificed for this job—the long hours and late nights I’ve spent at the office, the weekends and holidays I’ve given up—the least he could do is grant me an iota of leeway. I’m well aware I haven’t been putting forth the effort required to successfully execute the Kingsbury Enterprises account, but it’s not as if I’ve been purposely slacking. Since arriving in Dallas everything has been all twisted around. Sure, I could have returned to my father’s house after leaving the diner yesterday to complete the items for the product launch instead of attending trivia night, but I think I’m allowed a break every once in a while, a night off to hang out with friends I haven’t seen in five years.

“I assure you, Mr. Brandon, that isn’t the case,” I say in my most professional tone. “The Kingsbury Enterprises account is my number-one priority.”

Except, even as the words leave my mouth, I know they’re a lie. Already my mind is spinning with thoughts of my father and his surgery, Sullivan Grace and the Upper Crust, Nick and all our history and . . . well, Nick—really, what the heck was that kiss at the Tipsy Teakettle? I shiver as I remember his hoarse voice in my ear:
Fuck, you feel good.
I shake my head. We’d been caught up in the moment and the memories. That’s all.

“You’re one of my top performers, Lillie, which is the only reason I’m not ripping you off this project right now. If something like this happens again, you’re done and Ben will take over. I’ve told you what’s at stake for you and the firm. You’ve been warned.” Thomas Brandon says this in a way I assume is meant to sound threatening, but rather, reminds me of everything I’ve been striving toward, everything I have to lose. “Now in addition to the items you owe me, I need you to prepare a presentation outlining the various branding strategies we’ve developed.”

I spout off a string of “Yes, sir” and “I understand” and “I’ll get it all to you right away,” as I tell myself that I’ve worked too hard to jeopardize my career now. Yet after the call ends and I start on the various tasks, the usual thrill and drive I feel when tackling a project are strangely absent.

It doesn’t bother me as much as it should.

“BABY GIRL, WHAT’S
this I hear about you makin’ a mess of my pretty office?” My father pokes his head around the doorway, eyes wide as they bounce around the tiny room.

Papers litter the floor. Crowding a corner are cardboard boxes overflowing with three-ring binders that have seen better days, ripped file folders, and grimy office supplies. The rusted, olive-green filing cabinets that used to flank the matching desk have been emptied and thrown in the Dumpster. Standing in their place are the replacements I purchased at Office Depot this afternoon after I sent off the items I owed to Thomas Brandon, along with everything needed to finally organize the diner’s files. I’ve delayed it long enough.

“I’m not making a mess of anything,” I say, crawling over to a dry-foods catalog and flinging it onto a pile. “I’m categorizing.”

“What’s the purpose of all them dots?” he says, pointing to the stickers beside my feet.

“I’m developing a color-coded filing system for you,” I say. “Yellow dots are for daily sales figures. Green dots are for purchase orders. Red dots are for employee payroll information. Black dots are for distributor and supplier invoices. Blue dots—”

“Now hold your horses, baby girl,” my father says, stepping into the office. “There ain’t nothing wrong with my old system.”

Blowing strands of hair out of my face, I sit back on my heels and stare incredulously at him.

“Everything was how I liked it before. How am I ever goin’ to find—”

He breaks into another coughing fit, as loud and wet as before, his whole body hunched over. I rush to his side, the spark of worry now a full-fledged flame. He grabs on to me, using my weight to keep his balance, until finally he draws in a ragged breath and the hacking stops.

I wrap an arm around his waist to hold him up. “Dad, that sounds like it’s not getting any better.”

“It’s okay. I’m fine now,” he says, his voice raspy and weak. My father pats my shoulder and straightens his back. “Some episodes are worse than others. This was a bad one.”

“How long have you had that cough?”

He twists his mustache, and wrinkles line his forehead. “I dunno. About five months, I guess.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

My father scratches his jaw and says, “It’s only become bothersome recently. Plus I knew you’d be coming home for the surgery. No need to worry your pretty little head unnecessarily. I promise I’ll discuss it with Doc, ask if he can adjust my meds again.”

I study him, noticing he seems more rested today, despite the cough. Still, I don’t want to take any chances. “Maybe you should visit the emergency clinic before it shifts into something more serious. There’s one not far from here.”

“I ain’t goin’ there,” he says. “The people at those places don’t know their ass from their elbows. I’m waiting for my appointment on Halloween and that’s that. Now, as I was saying before, how am I ever goin’ to find anything with you messing up my organization?”

I sigh. Always so stubborn.

“How about this,” I say, clearing some space on the floor. “Why don’t you let Ernie deal with the dinner crowd and join me instead? That way after I’m back in Chicago you’ll know where everything is.”

I expect him to tell me no, that his bum knee can’t handle the strain and I’m crazy for even contemplating something other than managing the diner. To my surprise, my father unties the apron, cracks his knuckles, and says, “All righty then. Show me what that one-hundred-thousand-dollar MBA bought you.”

“That’s it? No complaints about my job or Chicago?” It’s weird. I thought I’d be happy about him not challenging me. Maybe it’s that I’ve waited so long for him to accept my life in Chicago, show genuine interest, that now his acquiescence feels underwhelming.

“Baby girl, when are you gonna learn that sometimes it’s easier to placate you than listen to your nagging.” He pinches my nose as if I’m four years old, inviting him to be a guest at my cupcake party.