La Vie en Rose {Life in Pink} (3 page)

Staying? Had he said he’d stay? Definitely didn’t remember agreeing to that. “Um...no problem.”

If he wasn’t making a clean escape that didn’t mean he was on the soggy hug shift. Something had to give. Her arms tightened and he panicked.

He could be a friend, but not this kind. He’d keep her company, but crying made him uncomfortable. She’d have to toughen up if she wanted him to stay. And he needed to eat. “What do you say to ordering some food?”

“I’m not hungry.”

Damn women and their ridiculous bird appetites. This was exactly why his sister was a cool chick. She’d throw down a T-bone steak and chase it with a tray of garbage fries. She never played the
I’m not hungry
game. And for a girl who wasn’t hungry, Emma sure ate the shit out of his ice cream.

“How about a milkshake?”

“No, thanks. Just order something for yourself. Don’t worry about me.”

Was this one of those things where a girl said she wasn’t hungry then ate all the guy’s food? Because he wasn’t down with that. It was the first meal of his ‘day’, coming off nightshift. He wanted to eat and wasn’t in the mood to share. He’d order her whatever she wanted, so long as he had enough to fill his own belly.

“What about a pizza?”

“No, thank you. I’ll just have a can of soup if I get hungry.”

It was useless. Fishing his phone out of his pocket he speed dialed the pub around the corner.

“Hair of the Dog.”

“Hey, is this Jasmine?”

“In the flesh. Who’s this?”

“It’s Riley.”

“Oh, hey, Riley. When are we gonna go out again? I had fun last time.”

He chuckled. Yeah, she did.

“That reminds me. I think I lost an earring at your place. You didn’t see it lying around, did you? It’s gold with a topaz stone.”

“No, but I’ll keep an eye out.”

“Thanks, hon. What can I get’chya?”

“I need a porchetta, heavy on the
au jus
, an order of Old Bay fries, and—” he glanced at Emma who was still hugging him like she was choking a pillow. “You sure you don’t want anything?”

She shook her head, her messy hair snagging on his five o’clock shadow.

“And put aside a six pack of Brawler for me.”

“You got it. I’ll see you in twenty.”

He ended the call. “Uh, Em...my arm’s falling asleep.” His stomach was also starting to sweat, which was weird.

“Sorry.” She eased back and sort of crumpled into the sofa, pulling the wedding dress over her chest like a blanket.

“What do you say we put the dress away for a while? It’s getting all wrinkled.”

A derisive laugh puffed past her lips. “Like that matters. Do you know that this gown is a Martina Liana? It was the wedding gown I dreamt of since I was sixteen. It’s
the
gown. And now it’s ruined. Tainted.”

“Maybe if you stopped wrinkling it and dripping on it—”

“It’s not ruined because of tears! It’s ruined because it’ll always remind me of him and I’ll never have the chance to wear it. I’ll have to get married in some other stupid gown that isn’t perfect and I’ll look fat and ugly. Not to mention I’m out three thousand dollars!”

He clearly wasn’t getting the dress from her. “When I go pick up the food do you want me to grab you something? Beer? A bottle of wine?”
A tranquilizer?
He remembered she liked some sort of pink drink. Maybe if he gave her enough she’d relax and let go of the dress.

“I can’t drink.”

He paused. “Why not?”
Please don’t be pregnant. Please don’t be pregnant.
If she was knocked up with that guy’s trust fund progeny, he was definitely calling Rarity. Talk about being underqualified to deal with a situation.

“Because if I drink I’ll call him and I can’t do that.”

Huge relief. “Well, in that case I could just take your phone.”

She sniffled. “I don’t know.”

“Tell me what you drink and I’ll pick up the stuff when I get the food.” Soggy Emma was getting old. His only solution was giving her copious amounts of alcohol and hoping for the best. She needed to dry out, cheer up, and maybe pass out for a day or seven.

“Really?”

“Yeah. Why not?”

She shrugged. “We never drink together.”

“There’s a first for everything. Besides, it’s not like you and Rarity haven’t hung out at the inn while I’m working. That’s sort of the same.”

“I guess.” She shrugged. “I like Malibu bay breezes.”

He tried not to gag. That sounded about right. “Delicious.” Standing, he grabbed his keys. “You have my number if you think of anything else. Can I trust you not to call Grayson?”

“Yeah.” She snuggled into the dress.

Step two was peeling that satin nightmare away from her. “I’ll be back.”

By the time Riley got the mixers and booze to make Emma’s drink, his food was cooling. Starved, he raced up the steps to the loft. Those Old Bay fries were getting seriously violated the second he opened the door. And that porchetta—

Oh shit. Not good.

Emma lay on the couch, much like he’d left her, only now she was
in
the dress. “Uh... you changed.”

She shrugged. “At least I got to wear it. Believe it or not,” she quietly wept, “it sort of makes me feel better.”

“Better is good.” He shut the door and cursed his sister again. “I’m not real sure about your sanity at the moment, but better is definitely good.”

He dropped his bags on the coffee table. Time for part two of his plan. “Hand over the phone and I’ll make you a drink.” With all that lace, fluff, and bad hair, she had a dumpster version of Glenda the Good Witch going on.

Taking the phone was silly, but, according to Rarity, he was supposed to be on guard. Still, if she asked for it back he’d hand it over.

Grabbing a cup he mixed the drink. It might not be to his taste, but as a bartender in the Upper West End it was his business to know every froufrou concoction to ever exist, so he made her a good one, lime rind twist and all.

“These fries are delicious.”

Riley stilled.
Mother of God.
Pivoting, he mentally prepared for what he might see.
She better not be eating my food. I asked four times if she wanted food. I swear, if she’s—God fucking damn it!

He forced a smile. “Oh... you found my fries. They are good. That’s why
I
ordered them, because
I
wanted them. Remember when I asked if you wanted anything?” His shoulders drooped. She wasn’t listening.

She hummed with appreciation and sucked the seasoning off her fingers. “Wow. What else did you get?”

How about a can of soup?
“A sandwich.” Clenching his teeth he continued to smile. “Want half?”
You better say no.

“I don’t know. I feel bad eating your food.”

He hated girls. Seriously hated them. Sighing, he turned, and mumbled, “I’ll get a knife.”

Carrying two plates, a knife, and her cocktail back to the living room, he shoved her dress out of the way. The skirt was everywhere, like a frothy nightmare.

He divided the food, not caring that it was a seventy-thirty split, heavy on his end. By the time he cracked open a bottle of Brawler and bit into a fry it was cold.

“So it’s just going to be us this week,” she announced, letting a good amount of the
au jus
drip from the sandwich. She was ruining it. If she couldn’t properly respect the sandwich she shouldn’t eat it.

Looking away before he lost his temper, he responded. “It’s not like Rarity hasn’t gone away on a shoot before.” His sister wasn’t a homebody. She often slept at Lexi’s and frequently traveled for work.

“Yeah, but I took a leave of absence from my job, so I’ll actually be home when you’re home. Usually we keep opposite schedules.”

Dread knifed down his spine and he tried not to panic. He couldn’t be the designated tissue dispenser all week. If this weepy shit carried on much longer he’d drive to Saratoga and haul his sister’s ass home, high paying horse auction or not. “Cool.”

Chances were he’d be sleeping when she’d be awake and vice-versa.  Maybe he could grab an extra shift or two at the bar, nothing against Emma, but bonding was not on his agenda.

She nudged him with her shoulder, the netted material of her gown rustling loudly. “We might actually be more than roommates by the time the week’s over.”

His mouth stilled mid-bite. “What?”

“We might end up friends.” She smiled, with those big eyes as trusting as an unseeing doe with a rifle aimed at its six. “Don’t look so shocked, Riley. You and I both know we aren’t close. I mean, we live together, but you’re my friend’s brother and I’m your sister’s friend. That’s where our connection ends. I really don’t know anything about you.”

Why did girls talk so much? He finished the last fraction of his sandwich, still hungry and searching for a distraction.

His fingers peeled at the label of his beer. “What do you want to know?” Why did they have to know anything about each other? As long as she knew he was going to make his portion of the rent their relationship should be complete. No other details necessary.

“I don’t know. What made you want to be a bartender?”

“I’m good at making drinks.” He’d give her a few impersonal facts and she’d likely move on.

“What about the people?” she asked, a fanciful smile curling her lips. “I bet you meet some fascinating people bartending at the inn.”

“Not really.”

“Do you have any funny regulars, like a guy who hates going home to his wife or a know-it-all social misfit everyone finds annoying?”

“It’s the West Inn, Emma, not
Cheers
.”

“Oh.” Her posture sort of deflated. Maybe she was looking for a distraction from her own problems.

He could humor her. “How about you? What made you want to be...” Shit. “What do you do again?”

“I’m a personal assistant at Phibbs & Grayson.”

“Grayson as in Becket Grayson?”

“Yeah. I should have never taken that job. Now I’ll have to see Becket’s dad every day. I’m so humiliated.”

“Is he your boss?” That would suck.

“No, Donald Phibbs is my boss, but he’s Mr. Grayson’s partner so we see each other often. That’s why I took a few weeks off. I’m too embarrassed to face them right now. I’m a laughingstock.”

Wiping his fingers clean, he tossed the napkin onto his plate. “Hey, what do you have to be embarrassed about? Becket’s the one who did something wrong.”

“It’s demeaning. He cheated on me. That tells the world I wasn’t satisfying his needs, that some girl named
Goldie
is better than me.”

“No, it says you’re better than him. He probably knew it all along. Maybe this Goldie chick is more in his league. He did you a favor, Emma.”

Her chest lifted and light reflected in the tiny pearls sewn into her dress in neat little rows. “Thanks. That helps.”

Snatching her drink, she slouched back on the couch and latched onto the straw like a baby calf to an udder. He grabbed his beer and joined her, digesting in the welcomed silence.

“Did anyone ever cheat on you, Riley?”

Even silence had a shelf life.

“I’ve never dated anyone long enough to give them the opportunity.”

The rattle of ice being siphoned up a straw accompanied her slurping. “You’ve never been in love?”

“No.”

“That’s sad,” she said, matter-of-factly.

“Not really. I’m fine with it. I mean, look at you. You were in love and now you’re sitting in a wrinkled wedding dress with Bride of Frankenstein hair and tearstains on your face. I don’t see the appeal.”

“It’s a gown, not a dress.”

“Whatever.” He sipped his beer.

She rustled around and gathered her puffy
gown
as she stood, swishing to the kitchen. He silently observed as she mixed another drink, not commenting when she annihilated the recipe, adding way too much rum.

“I would have made a good wife,” she enunciated the statement with a swish of her glass.

“And someday you will.”

“That’s right,” she decided, her enthusiastic agreement taking him by surprise. “Some guy will be lucky to have me.” She sipped her pale drink, never removing the straw from her lips as she spoke.

“Damn straight.”

“Because I’m fun and honest and nice and I can bake the fuck out of a batch of cupcakes!”

“You’re a modern day Betty Stewart,” he agreed.

“Yes—” She frowned. “Who?”

“The lady who calls everything a good thing.”
Betty Stewart? Martha Crocker? Aunt Jemima?
It was on the tip of his tongue.

She snorted. “You mean Martha Stewart.”

“Whatever.” Like it mattered. She got the point.

“Well you’re damn right!”

He jerked back as her voice abruptly got louder. She swished in a cloud of crinkled ivory across the room, one hand holding her drink, the other choking the bottle of rum.

“And let me tell you something else, Riley Lockhart.”

“I’m listening.” This was turning into quite a show. Apparently Emma couldn’t hold her liquor.

She kicked the trash off the coffee table and climbed on top, her bare feet perfectly proportioned to her miniature size. “I
never
cheated. Once there was this guy who asked me out and I said, ‘No way, José! I have a boyfriend.’ Well, I should have said yes—that’s what I should’ve done.”

“Should’ve.”

Finishing her drink, she unscrewed the cap of the rum and dumped more over the ice. It was coconut rum so it couldn’t be that strong, but Emma was rapidly getting wasted.

“Well, let me tell you a bit of news, mister.” Her fist holding the bottle lifted. “As God is my witness, I’ll live through this and when it’s all over, I
will
have sex again!”

Her recovery, though drunk, was to be admired. “You go, Hester Prynne.”

She wagged a finger, her eyes droopy. “I was doing Scarlet O’Hara.”

“Right.”

“And next time, I’m going to do it with the lights on and maybe even topless.”

He frowned. What kind of sex was she having before?

“I just have to find a sexable guy. Oooh! Or maybe a girl! Wouldn’t that be fun to make Becket think he turned me gay. If Rarity wasn’t with Lexi I’d totally have sex with her.”