Mom sticks a hand in front of my face, waving around until my eyes catch on the obnoxious gemstone glued to her knuckle.
“Gracie, I need you to pay attention. It feels like I’m shopping alone.”
“Sorry, mom.” I swallow hard and force myself to focus. “That looks good.”
“Doesn’t it?” She giggles and cups her face so the gem catches the light. It’s bright enough to blind someone.
“You wear it beautifully, ma’am.” The clerk arrives with a tray held between gloved fingers. With practiced ease, she doles out steaming cups of tea.
“Oh thank you.” Mom grins as if she’s never been paid a compliment before.
The clerk folds her hands together, almost drooling. “Will you be taking that one home?”
“Yes, please.” Mom shoos her away. “Send it to my address, darling. And pay with this.” She hands over a black card.
“Yes, right away, Mrs. Cross.”
Once the clerk is gone, eyes probably rolling like slot machines with dollar signs, I lean toward my mother.
“Isn’t this too much?”
“Too much? Darling, there’s no such thing.” Mom sips daintily from the cup. The moment the liquid touches her tongue, she curses. “Ow, that’s hot.”
Her grimace is exaggerated. Almost cartoonish.
In an instant, her genteel act fades away.
I see the woman who spent every day waiting tables at a rundown diner, ketchup stains on her obnoxiously pink uniform, hair frizzy and unkept, wrinkles carving into dark brown skin that looked far more weathered than it should have.
That struggling single mother is gone. Hidden, really, beneath hair that’s fried to a straight crisp, professionally applied makeup and an outfit chosen by the best stylist in the city.
But the harried waitress lives on.
No amount of Jarod Cross’s money can erase her.
I chew on my bottom lip. “I just think—”
“That’s your problem, Gracie. You think too much. You’d have a much more enjoyable life if you slowed down and smelled the roses.”
“These roses are worth,” I lift one of the price tags on the jewels beautifully arranged before us, “ten thousand dollars.”
The words are too outrageous to be said aloud.
I finish in a whisper, “I’d rather not.”
Mom laughs and blows on the cup before she drinks the tea again. This time, she takes a dainty sip, pinky out and eyebrows arched, looking like she was born for this world.
That’s the thing about her. Mom never finished high school, but she learns fast. It doesn’t surprise me that she’s managed to mimic the rich after being a wealthy person for less than a year.
Mom sets the cup back down and it makes a clinking sound. Turning to me, she flutters a hand down her tweed jacket. “You know what you need?”
I groan because I already suspect where this conversation is going.
“A man.” Mom wiggles her eyebrows.
I close my eyes. At once, a pair of dangerous blue orbs pierce the darkness.
“A handsome one,” mom adds.
I see a body molded like a priceless sculpture.
“One who makes your heart thump.”
The desire I try so hard to keep at bay seeps into every vein.
Zane freaking Cross.
I can still feel him on me, powerful, corded muscles flexing against my arms. Tattooed fingers kneading against the soft flesh of my hip. Blue eyes darkening with lust even as he scoffed at my attempt to put distance between us.
I hate him.
And yet, I’m thinking about him in front of my mother.
“You need a strong, capable man. Preferably a lawyer or a doctor,” mom says.
In my mind, I see Zane’s calloused hands gripping his drumsticks and twirling it around.
“Someone older than you. Obviously. That’s the only way your interests will align.”
I see Zane grinning over me, tall and imposing. Aggravatingly charming even with a smile tinged in danger.
Mom gives me a teasing nudge in the side. “Lord knows, you’re an old soul. No one your age will think reading books on a Friday night instead of going dancing is fun.” She rolls her eyes. “So you need a nice older man who isn’t about that fast life.”
Everything mom is saying is the opposite of Zane.
He’s not the man I should be looking for.
Thinking about.
Locking classroom doors with.
I know this.
The problem is I had to shuffle around school, giving lectures in discomfort while ruing the fact that I don’t carry spare panties in my purse.
Which is something I should probably do if Zane corners me again.
Not that he will.
Not that I’ll allow it.
“You should be focusing on your own marriage. Not trying to arrange mine,” I mumble, picking up my cup. My skin is a light brown and it’s not possible for me to blush, but I feel uneasy anyway. As if mom can see the thoughts I’m having about my step-brother.
“You’re too picky,” mom says, pretending not to have heard me. “That boy with the sports car? What was his name again? He was so nice.”
“Harry Winston the Third?” I roll my eyes.
The pretentious corporate heir picked me up from school a few months ago, driving a loud, obnoxious convertible.
I pasted a smile on my face and hopped in the car for my mother’s sake, but the date did not get better after that dramatic entrance. He had no personality outside of being rich and I was bored to death.
“What happened to him?”
“He liked the sound of his own voice a little too much,” I murmur.
“Your standards are too high, Gracie. You need to lower them a little.”
The clerk returns, saving me from mom’s lecture. She hands the card back to my mother. “Here you go, ma’am.”
“Thank you.” Mom rises gracefully and slips a hundred dollar bill from her purse. She hands it to the clerk. “That’s for being so helpful.”
The woman grins. “Thank you.”
We’re about to leave when a trio of ladies enter the VIP section.
The one in the middle is slim and has blonde hair teased into an elaborate bee-hive. Her face has the look of someone who overindulges in Botox. Unnaturally plump lips. Stiff cheekbones. A forehead that can’t scrunch even if she sneezes.
“Cynthia!” Mom cries in a warm welcome.
Cynthia does not return her greeting. Her eyes narrow in distaste. “Yes?”
“It’s me.” Mom seems a little taken aback. She taps her chest. “Jarod Cross’s wife.”
My eyes shift to my mother, sharpening. I’ve noticed that she never introduces herself by name anymore. Every time we’re out, she calls herself ‘Mrs. Cross’ or ‘Jarod Cross’s wife’.
“Oh, yes.” Cynthia’s voice is dry. She does not look impressed.
Mom waits expectantly. Whatever she was waiting for doesn’t happen because Cynthia walks away without another word.
“Are you shopping?” Mom follows them. Her voice borders on desperate. “You should have told me. I would have joined you.” Breezy laughter escapes her lips. “It’s more fun to shop together. Maybe we can come here together next time.”
Cynthia stops in her tracks and sends a frigid look over her shoulder. “Thank you for the offer, but I’m afraid our tastes,” her eyes drip over mom, “don’t align.”
My eyebrows furrow as Cynthia and her minions strut away.
Hurt crystals over mom’s face, but she shakes it away with a smile. “Gracie, why don’t we get some ice cream before going home?”
“Mom.”
“I’m feeling parched. I think that tea was too hot,” mom says, walking ahead of me.
“Mom.”
“Let’s go all out today. A chocolate sundae with sprinkles.”
I grab her arm. “Mom.”
She veers to a stop.
“Why did you let her talk to you that way?”
“Oh, that’s just how Cynthia is.”
Irritation burns in my heart. I don’t always agree with mom’s decisions—this sudden marriage to Jarod Cross being a great example—but she doesn’t deserve to be treated like dirt.
Having people look down on her was an expected part of her waitressing job, but I think she was more respected back then.
At the very least, it seemed she respected herself more.
“You should have told her off,” I hiss.
“They’re Jarod’s friends.”
I frown. “You’re doing all this for Jarod?”
“No, I just…” She squeezes the band of her purse. “Gracie, let’s not talk about this anymore.”
I stay where I am, staring into mom’s back.
She stops and glances over her shoulder. “Coming?”
“Mom, are you happy?”
She blinks in shock. “Of course I’m happy—”
“Are you happy with him?”
She snaps her mouth shut.
“We live in that big house all alone. Jarod Cross is barely home and even when he is, he barely talks to either of us.”
“Jarod is a busy man, darling. I knew that before I agreed to marry him.”
“But mom—”
“Relax.” She rubs her hand down my shoulder. “Gracie, I know you’re worried about me, but you don’t have to be. Everything isn’t some grand conspiracy. You have to learn to live in the moment.”
I stiffen, seeing the flash of pity in her eyes. “What does that mean?”
“I know you’re upset about what happened to Sloane—”
“Don’t.” I pull away from her. “Don’t go there, mom.”
“Darling, all I’m saying is that you’ve been stuck in the past for too long. I remember Sloane being a bright, happy young lady. She was the type who’d grab life by the horns. She wouldn’t want you to carry this burden all the time.”
“You don’t know what Sloane would have wanted,” I spit.
“Maybe I don’t.” Mom arches a brow. “But do you?”
I grit my teeth, my heart flaying in pain. It feels like someone’s prying at my ribs with a crowbar.
Glancing down, I murmur, “I forgot I have an appointment. I’ll see you at home, mom.”
“Where are you going?”
Fighting back the stinging tears, I run to the bathroom and crash into a stall.
My breath comes in hard, fast spurts.
The room starts spinning.
I hang my head and catch my breath.
In the silence, I feel my phone buzz.
My entire body stiffens when I read the message.
Jinx: Horses, footmen and beautiful dresses turn to ash at midnight. I wonder what will burn when your time runs out? Tick-tock, Miss J. Trade a secret for a secret.
