“He gave me roses. There were candles on the table. Curtains. Can you believe that? Curtains, JJ. And rose petals. The violinist?”
My brow lifted.
“Oh yeah,” she said before I could utter a sound. “Rose. Petals.”
Another hot sip that burned, burned, burned.
“Then he was so intense and . . . he ordered for me in French . . . and he insisted I was safe. I mean, elk chop? C’mon! I’m clearly a pasta girl! But, of course, I probably wasn’t safe. Or maybe I was and we just weren’t suited? I don’t know, he was angry at the end.”
“He what?”
She waved a hand. “He didn’t touch me. But . . . that freaking walking violin was distracting me and . . . it was . . . so weird. I’ve read that date a hundred times. I used to love alpha-billionaire novels—”
What was she talking about?
“But now?”
She threw her hands in the air.
I paused, my mug halfway to my lips. The silence told me she wanted me to say something, but I could barely keep up with her fragmented thoughts.
“Can I get this straight?” I asked.
She gestured with a wave of her hand again.
“So he was handsome?”
Emphatic nod.
“He gave you flowers.”
Another nod.
“He picked a romantic setting. There was a violin playing in the background?”
Another nod, this one more tentative. She chewed on her bottom lip.
“And you hated it?” I asked.
“Yes.”
This didn’t add up. If a guy like that couldn’t pull off romance, the rest of us lowly suckers were clearly doomed.
“Why?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
She said it with such desperation, such soulful despair, that I couldn’t stop myself from setting aside my coffee and closing the distance between us. She stood there, bottom lip between her teeth, and watched me approach.
I stopped a foot away. “Why are you so sad?” I whispered.
“Because that should have been the most romantic date of my life. It was classic, storybook romance. Straight out of one of my favorite novels.”
“And you didn’t like it.”
She nodded, then ran a hand over her eyes and collapsed into the chair behind her. “It’s . . . frustrating. I’ve had two very romantic experiences recently, and neither of them felt the way they were supposed to.” She faltered for a moment before adding quietly, “They were just too real to be romantic at the time. It’s disorienting.”
“Please tell me that one of them wasn’t seeing your cabin free of mice for the first time?”
Her lips twitched. “That wasn’t it.”
“Good.”
A hint of her usual lightness reassured me. Somehow, I suppressed the urge to ask what her other romantic experience was. Instead, I crouched in front of her. The feeling of her skin on mine when I put a hand under her chin sent a little shiver through me.
“It was just one date, Lizbeth. You don’t have to give up on romance because of one date.”
“Says you?”
“Says me.”
A half smile teased her lips. “I’m not giving up on romance. I’m just frustrated that it hasn’t felt the way I wanted it to. But maybe that’s just reality.”
“That’s fair.”
“When I lived with my dad, romance books were the only things that felt safe. He’d be drunk. I’d hear him breaking things. Threatening to hurt Ellie. Screaming Mama’s name. Sometimes he’d come after us. Sometimes he’d go after Ellie, but I’d get in his way. The only thing that really took me away from him was my books.”
“Where you felt safe,” I whispered.
She nodded.
Well, that totally sucked. Love wasn’t just some breezy distraction for her. Romance had actually saved her life. The revelation of life with her father was new to me. It explained so much.
When I imagined a bruise coloring her porcelain cheeks, I forced myself to take a deep breath. I needed to climb. Rise above this rage and get it out in a safe way so she didn’t see it in me.
This was about her.
A hint of color pinked her cheeks, and she chuckled self-consciously. “Sorry. This is . . . I’m sorry. I just couldn’t stop thinking about it and . . . had to let you know that maybe you’re right.” She drew in a deep breath and met my gaze. “I fully concede a point to you in our debate, JJ.”
With that, she withdrew. Her warmth and smell drifted past me before the back door closed. I balled my hands into fists and let out a long, steady breath.
That was one point I’d give back all day long.
19 Lizbeth
A very pale version of myself peered back at me from my compact mirror. Did it mean something that I didn’t try to hide my pale eyelashes in front of JJ? Normally, I stressed about wearing makeup. With the Bailey boys, it didn’t seem to matter.
With a long breath, I shut the compact and slumped against my bed. Sleep had been elusive last night as I’d tangled with the idea that perhaps JJ was right. Maybe romance was a false protective wall. I didn’t entertain the thought for long, but it lingered in the back of my mind.
Instead, I’d turned to two of my favorite romance books, slipped into their familiar words, and felt better for it after.
Now, I replayed the startled way he’d watched me. His gentle touch. There was no burn of his skin on mine when he’d taken my chin in his hands. Nothing but the burn of ugly reality. It was comforting, though. Just his olive eyes settled my prickling heart. He’d listened. Watched me with compassion and surprise.
He was the last person in the world I should have told about Dad, though no stress accompanied the thought that he knew part of my secret life.
Only part of it.
A flash of a memory skipped through my mind. Mama applying bright-red lipstick while she leaned over the sink, inspecting her pores in the mirror. She wore a skintight black dress and strappy heels, and her hair was still in curlers. She laughed while Ellie played on the floor at her feet.
“Don’t settle, baby girl.” Mama stared me right in the eye. “Hold onto those dreams
