“You can’t,” Hazel said. “You’re bullshitting me.”
“Come to dinner and find out.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you. Give me one good reason why I should.”
I shut the door and rolled down the window. “I gave you several last night.” The grin was engineered to piss her off.
“Fuck you.”
“I told you, gorgeous, I don’t repeat my mistakes. I’ll see you tonight.”
“You’re such a—!”
I started the car and drove off, allowing myself one glimpse of her in the rearview mirror. Hazel stood on the curb, her hands balled into fists as she stared me down. My job was done—I’d put physical distance between us and established our meeting for later.
Meeting. Not date.
10
Hazel
“Do you need anything else?” I asked, tucking the blanket around my father’s legs. “I can get you another glass of water or…”
“Relax, Nut,” my father croaked, settling back in his recliner. “I’m fine.”
He’d had an appointment with his doctor today. More tests, the results of which we’d only get back later in the week, and that would freak me out until we knew the truth. Had the cancer progressed? Regressed? Did my father need to start chemo?
I squeezed my eyes shut and huffed out a breath.
Dad’s hand found mine and he squeezed. “You’ve got to relax, Nut. Everything’s going to be fine.”
But how would everything be fine? We had no money apart from the tips and basic hourly rate I earned at the Pieslice. Looking for a job in a management position had proved near impossible. I’d been laughed out the door several times. Not enough experience. Not enough work history. Apparently, spending time working for family hadn’t padded out my resume sufficiently.
The cash Dad had gotten from selling McCutcheon’s had already been eaten up by overdue hospital bills.
The only hope I had was getting a loan from the bank. Even then, some of that money would have to go toward Dad’s health, and after that… would I even have enough to get the café back?
Mr. Piddlywump meowed near my ankle, and I straightened, forcing a smile. “It’s a Saturday,” I said. “What do you want to do this evening? Movie night? I can make popcorn.”
“Not that hungry,” he said, offering me a weak smile. “And you should be out, having fun. Where’s Kara?”
“I have no idea,” I replied. “She didn’t tell me where she was going tonight.” Frustration welled up inside me. My sister hadn’t come to visit us in weeks. She knew Dad was ill, but she was so wrapped up in doing what felt good for her that she didn’t seem to care.
“Well,” Dad said, his brow wrinkling, “that’s to be expected. She’s young and out having fun. As you should be.”
“Don’t be silly. There’s nowhere I’d rather be than here.” I headed for the kitchen to fix some popcorn—I’d eat it while we watched on of Dad’s favorite movies, and hopefully, I’d be able to convince him to snack.
Piddlywump meowed after me, brushing against my ankles, insistent as always. I picked him up and gave him some kisses.
“At least you’re hungry,” I muttered and set him down. I dished up wet food for him, and the appreciative purrs put a smile on my face. “Spoiled kitty.”
Piddlywump chomped down noisily, and I set about getting out a pot for the—
The doorbell buzzed.
“I’ll get it!” I called, because Dad had a penchant for trying to do everything himself. It made him feel purposeful, but it wasn’t good for his health, especially not when he was so constantly tired and worn out. “Don’t move, Dad, I’ll get it!”
“All right, all right, I wasn’t moving.”
I hurried down the hall to the front door and opened it.
Damien stood on the step, dapper in a suit, one hand grasping the sleeve of his suit jacket. My breath disappeared.
“W-wha—?”
“Evening,” he said and studied me from head-to-toe.
I looked down at my baggy T-shirt and yoga pants, pulse thumping away.
“Are you wearing that?” he asked. “It’s quarter to eight. You still have some time to change.”
“Quarter to…?” My brain clicked into gear. “You’re not serious. You really think I’m going out with you?”
“I did say I’d pick you up at eight,” Damien replied, evenly. “If you don’t have anything to wear, I’d be more than happy to provide you with something.”
“You’re insane. Look, I told you, I’m not going to dinner with you.”
“And I told you, I’d pick you up at eight.”
I glared at him, heat traveling through my extremities. I wasn’t sure if it was anger or arousal at this point, nor did I care. “Leave,” I said. “You can’t just turn up on my doorstep and demand that I—”
“Who’s that, Nut?” My father’s voice approached, and he appeared in the hallway in his striped PJs. He brushed a hand over his balding crown, squinting past me at Damien. “My, my, it can’t be. Is that Damien Woods?”
Jesus H. Christ. Here we go.
“The very same,” Damien said, stepping past me, a broad smile parting his lips. “Mr. McCutcheon. It’s good to see you again.”
My father and my sworn enemy shook hands. OK, so maybe he wasn’t a “sworn enemy” or anything cheesy like that, but he did know just how to piss me off.
“It’s good to see you too, Mr. Woods.”
“Please, call me Damien. How are you? I heard you sold the café.”
Seriously? You’re going to bring that up?
“I did indeed,” my dad said, laughing. “It was about time. The place was nothing but a time and money suck, unfortunately. And as for how I’m doing, well, I’m right as rain.”
My father had always liked Damien, though I’d never understood why. He’d never enjoyed Damien’s father’s company, and it wasn’t like they’d ever spent any real time together apart from the few times Damien had come into the café to make jokes at my expense. Damien and his gang of followers had enjoyed coming around and having me serve them.
Douchebags.
“Dad and I were just about to watch a movie,” I said. “With popcorn.” I couldn’t make myself any
