I blink. Then blink again because there’s no way he just said what I think he said. I must have misheard him. “I’m sorry, did you just say you don’t eatsugar?” He doesn’t respond, only glares at me in a way I’m (unfortunately) starting to become accustomed to, and I look to Parker for confirmation. “Did he just say he doesn’t eatsugar?”
Parker nods slowly, though his eyes keep flicking to Landon like he’s afraid he’s going to get in trouble. It’s not that I don’t believe he doesn’t eat sugar. I mean, to look likethatyou obviously have to maintain a very strict diet and exercise regimen. It’s more that I can’t understand why anyone would do that to themselves. No wonder he’s so grumpy.
“Come on,” Landon says to Parker, his tone clipped. “I’ll grab your check.”
Parker nods and hurries to follow him out of the room, glancing back at me at the last second. I half-expect him to saythank you, orsee ya, oranythingreally, but he must be even more shy than I thought because he says nothing.
I sigh and start scooping the cookies onto a plate before covering everything with tinfoil and setting the plate aside. I hear the front door shut, and seconds later, Landon steps back into the kitchen, stopping just inside the doorway, posture rigid and shoulders stiff.
I turn and lean back against the counter, staring at the man before me. He’s closer now, and I see that the bruise by his eye has completely faded away, nothing but smooth, even skin left in its place. The scratch on his cheek is only noticeable if you go looking for it, and it takes everything in me not to pry into how he got the injury. “Are you sure you don’t want a cookie?” I ask instead, and I swear, I deserve a medal for my self-control. “Maybe you can make an exception? Just this once?”
“Where’s Melanie?” he asks, though it comes out more like a demand. He really needs to work on his soft skills.
I shrug. “The house was empty when I got home.”
Landon’s jaw works as he studies me, so I study him right back. I can’t help but notice how put-together he looks. Crisp button-down tucked into the waist of his navy slacks. Polished, leather dress shoes and a pair of gold Aviator Ray-Bans hanging from his shirt collar. It’s so opposite from my bare feet, ripped jeans, and shrunken Green Haven High t-shirt, and I wonder if he ever actually relaxes in his own home. When I try to picture him in some plaid pajama bottoms, I nearly laugh out loud and have to cover it with a cough.
What does he do for a living? How does he manage to afford this house and this lifestyle? Yet more questions I may never get the answers to.
“Parker’s off limits,” he says coolly, pulling me from my thoughts.
I stare at him, confused. “Off limits? What does that mean?”
“You’re clearly a girl who knows how to get what she wants. A home. A family. Attention.” He gives me a knowing look, eyes flickering to the sliver of skin exposed at my midriff. I frown, fighting the urge to tug at the hemline of my shirt. I wasn’t trying to be flashy or anything. It just shrunk in the wash. “Don’t pull that shit with Parker. Kid’s fragile enough as it is.”
It takes a second for his meaning to sink in, and when it does, I’m horrified by what he’s implying. “Oh my god, he’s fourteen! I gave him a cookie, not a blowjob.”
His eyes narrow. “Let’s keep it that way.”
My face grows hot, and my fingertips start to tingle the way they do when I’m upset. Sure, I’ve had a lot of experience with jerks over the years, but I can’t believe Mel’sboyfriendjust said that to me. And after I offered him a cookie no less! Before I say something I might regret, I push away from the counter, stalk past him, and abruptly exit the kitchen.
He’s an asshole! Mel’s boyfriend is a complete and total asshole!
I’m not one for writing people off, but I have no idea how she even puts up with this guy, who appears to have zero redeeming qualities besides his bank account and his jawline. Maybe Mel realizes that, too, which is why they’ve barely been in the same room together since I moved in.
Flopping face down on the bed, I try to understand what I did to warrant such treatment. I can’t stand the idea of someone hating me. I just…can’t. As an overly sensitive person, the idea makes my stomach ache.
I know I can win him over, though. I just need time. And sugar-free cookies, apparently. I just need to figure out how to speak his language, which would be a lot easier if only I had some sort of dickhead-to-do-gooder translator at my disposal.
Sadly, I don’t think they make them.
Taking a deep, centering breath, I shift my focus completely. I haven’t spoken to Dad in a few days, so I give him a call to tell him about my miraculous new gig at The Golden Palm. He’s excited for me, and I decide not to ruin it by mentioning Mel’s boyfriend or his standoffish behavior. I omit a few other things as well—Mel’s lukewarm welcome, my unfortunate car trouble, and her upcoming trip out of town. There’s no need to upset him over such minor problems, especially when everything’s going well otherwise.
Once we hang up, I spend the next few hours watching Netflix and browsing some cooking sites for interesting recipes. The sun’s just begun to set when I hear a knock on my door.
“Yeah?” I call, pausing my show.
Mel peeks her head in. “Got a sec?”
I nod, sitting up and closing the laptop.
She has a glass of red wine in hand, but she looks different tonight. Her feet are bare, her hair’s a bit messier than normal, and she seems…relaxed. More like the Mel I remember growing up and less like a jet-setting socialite with an asshole boyfriend.
She perches on the edge of the bed, her feet sinking into the plush rug. Her toenails are painted a muted gray, the opposite of my bright pink polish, and the contrast pretty much sums up our differences.
“Just reminding you that I’m leaving tomorrow morning,” she says. “I’ll be gone for a week. Landon will be around, but you should probably just stay out of his way.”
I try not to frown, thinking of our earlier confrontation. “Is he still downstairs?”
