“Since last night.” Settling the bowl, on the stand, she lowered the whisk into the ganache, ready to whip it until it was light and creamy. “I dreamed today was all a cruel joke my family put him up to, and he cancelled at the last minute.”
“You can’t even get away from them when you sleep.” Brooke shook her head. “As much as they live in your head, you should start charging rent. I say block the mofos and save us both the headache.”
Jo chuckled. That was why she’d left the phone on in her room. Her family had driven her crazy all week.
She thought of Walt’s texts from last Friday. They had been all about shaming her for not answering and having to cover his ass with Lydia. Saturday morning while she’d shopped for the library literacy benefit dress, they’d turned to concern, Lydia’s version sharp and transactional. All of which, if Jo had to guess, had instigated Chase’s visit and was still prompted by the same driving force.
Lydia: You should be ashamed of yourself. Your father has been beside himself with worry.
Other than staying out of trouble with his wife, the only thing her father worried about was where he’d find his next beer and piece of ass.
Lydia: You might not care about him, but the least you could do is answer a simple text.
Lydia: We’re trying to plan a wedding. I need to know if you’re coming or not.
After Chase’s visit, they’d turned downright nasty. Nothing new there.
Lydia: So, you got fired. I knew you were wasting the money that should have been Walt’s on that cooking school. Little good it did.
Lydia: I hope you don’t think we’re going to support you.
As if they ever had.
Lydia: Georgia is our priority now.
It had always been about Chelsea. Not that she would ever ask them for help or expect anything to change. The only reason they’d taken Jo in after her grandma died was to keep up appearances. Well, that and the insurance money. But thank God, Grandma had locked that up tight.
Lydia: Poor Chase is heartbroken.
By the time Avery dropped Jo off the night of the gala, after their impromptu dinner at Taqueria #11, where she’d been torn between enjoying his witty banter—he really was funny—and fear of another paparazzi invasion, Lydia’s tone had changed somewhat.
Lydia: Well, no wonder you dumped Chase. You’ve caught a big fish. I didn’t think you had it in you.
Lydia: The least you can do is bring him to the wedding, for your sister’s sake.
Half-sister. And what was she smoking?
Georgia: I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye, but we’re adults now. I’d love to see you at my wedding.
Georgia: Please feel free to bring your new boyfriend. What’s his name? Avery?
The girl was about as subtle as a cattle truck full of bawling cows that reeked of bullshit. Even if her situationship with Avery was real, she’d never invite him.
Jo finally had enough and texted Walt.
Jo: Sorry to make you worry. Everything is fine. See you at the wedding.
That was it. It would have to be. She was exhausted.
After reading through the texts that should have been supportive and concerned, she’d answered Brooke’s text, theonlyone to ask if she was okay. Brooke had called immediately, and Jo spent the next half hour lamenting the tougher moments of the night and celebrating the good ones, like her decision to follow Avery’s advice and go freelance now rather than continuing to search for a job.
Because of that, a better kitchen was called for, so Monday morning apartment hunting had become a priority. Most were out of her price range. One had possibilities but no vacancies. Still, she’d been added to a waiting list.
She snorted. She might get a call sometime next year.
Tuesday afternoon, Avery had texted a request for her to join him at a last-minute business dinner, which had been dull. Avery spent most of it in deliberation with executives from two companies Jo had never heard of. The wives of the major players were a bit condescending, but she held her own. Afterward, Avery seemed amped to be somewhere else—probably meeting his friends at Pulse—when he walked her to her car, so they’d parted quickly. A few minutes later, her phone chirped, and she was ten thousand dollars richer.
The rest of the week had flown by as she prepared a menu of pastries that would, hopefully, influence Avery’s family to recommend her to friends, as well as impress Kate Sullivan. Jo’d selected wedding favorites—mille-feuille, choux buns stuffed with chocolate ganache and sprinkled with powdered sugar, brown butter macarons with a buttercream filling, and of course, raspberry-vanilla petit fours.
