Weird. But there was a gooey, warm feeling in her stomach as he beamed at her and backed through the swinging kitchen doors. The bartender gave her a look, raised his eyebrows, and said nothing.
Later, Winnie would realize that was Mitchell’s M.O. She’d realize the bartender’s look and silence meant so you’re the next one and also, he’s my boss so I can’t say anything and maybe you’re an idiot if you fall for this.
She had fallen. Hard.
He thought she was funny, one of the few to catch her dry sense of humor. Loved hearing about her family. Looked at her like she was beautiful, even though she wasn’t. Lark and Addison were beautiful, Harlow nearly as gorgeous as they were. Robbie made women walk into signposts. But with Mitchell’s deep brown eyes gazing at hers, his expression slightly dumbstruck, she suddenly wondered if maybe she was beautiful, too. His smile made it feel like she’d been living in a cold, wet country and he’d just dropped her off in the Caribbean. The first time they kissed, so much feeling had washed over Winnie she almost swooned, her legs weak, head swimming. Her. Winnie Smith, the boring one. She’d had sex before—a guy at Cape Cod Community College, where she’d taken a few classes. That had only happened because he was nice enough, and she figured it was time to get the virginity stuff over with.
But my God, sex with Mitchell…who was making those squeaking noises? Who was wrapping her limbs around a man, desperate to get a little closer? Who was kissing like she was about to die and he was the cure? Winnie Smith, that’s who. With Mitchell, she was as bright and delightful as a daffodil. She was sexy and sensuous, moaning as he fed her a bite of food, shivering if he touched her hair. She was someone she barely recognized, and she liked this version of herself.
Right until she hated herself. But for six months, she had been utterly, completely, desperately in love. And look where that got her.
The night after her Ice House speech, just to ascertain that she really had blown up her business, Winnie had asked Addie to show her the texts about her, since Addie knew every mother on the Outer Cape.
“You don’t want to see that, hon,” Addie said.
“Show me.”
Wincing, Addie handed over her phone. The Mommy Mafia had been unsparing.
Okay, Tanner has never kept it in his pants, but are we really supposed to think she had zero idea he was married? Also, and this is mean, but her??? The mousy little Smith sister?
She “didn’t know.” Yeah, right. Hello, the internet was invented for a reason. Plus Blakelee posts his picture like every 10 minutes. Or at least she did.
I just wonder if W has gone after anyone else. I mean, she has access to a LOT of families, know what I mean?
And then…
Did you hear about her tirade about how stupid we all are? Okay, then! Guess I’ll hire someone who actually cares about my baby’s gender reveal.
She was unhinged at the Ice House the other night! She needs a therapist. Also, hello? We were your bread and butter, Simple Celebrations. Sorry you hate us.
Her company’s Google and Yelp reviews, once boasting a 4.9 rating, were down to 2.8. Phrases floated in front of Winnie’s eyes, making her stomach cramp.
Do NOT hire this company.
Unethical. Slimy owner. Dishonest.
Makes fun of clients.
Not what she appears.
She’d handed Addie’s phone back to her without comment, went into her nieces’ bedroom, read them a story about a duck, then went home and Googled “countries that accept Americans for permanent residence.” Unfortunately, she didn’t have enough money to pick up and leave, not without having a useful job, like nurse or engineer.
Well. She had a new job now, and she was actually relieved that Lorenzo Santini appeared to be about as emotional as a coffee table. It would be a very welcome change. His homes were far enough away from the Mommy Mafia that she’d have some peace—the Outer Cape felt like a different world from the mid-Cape and Boston.
She’d been standing in front of the open fridge too long. With a sigh, she pulled out the bottle of white wine, got a glass and went out to the little cement patio outside the house.
Not what she appears.
The thing was, Winnie was exactly how she appeared. She accepted that she was a background person, the forgettable Smith sister, the boring one. But she’d made that work for her. A behind-the-scenes person was exactly what you’d want for an event planner. Organized, clever, friendly but not fawning, cool under pressure, and someone who always delivered a great event beyond our expectations. That’s what her reviews used to say.
Meanwhile, Mitchell’s restaurant didn’t mention his sliminess, his lack of morals. No wonder he used a different name professionally.
Her phone dinged with a text from Rosie to her and Harlow.
Want to hang out, my lovelies? Mocktail for me, real thing for you?
I’m pretty whipped. Interview in Boston. It went well, but it’s early bedtime for me.
