Spinning on my heel, I leave the break room with Kade hot on my tail. Giving him a good sway of my ass to make him feel what I’m feeling.
“Presley,” he growls, crowding in behind me.
When we push through the swinging door, a burst of light and noise greet us. And standing there in the doorway to the diner is the very last person I expect to see here.
My mom.
There’s one way to kill the buzz.
“What are you doing here?”
Kade stills behind me. There is clearly no love lost between the two of them after all these years.
“Am I not able to see my daughter?”
“I’m working.”
I look around, not wanting to draw anyone’s attention to this conversation. Being that it’s a small town—Pinecrest is exceptionally nosey—all eyes are on the two of us.
She huffs, sliding her designer handbag off her shoulder and sitting in the corner booth. The one right behind Serena. No doubt her ears are primed to hear all the tea.
“Then I will be a paying customer.”
“Do you want me to stay?” Kade whispers in my ear.
Turning to face him, I can see how nervous he is. Again, something that isn’t unusual when it came to my parents. They never liked him in high school. The boy from the wrong side of town wasn’t good enough for their daughter.
“Yes.”
“I’ll wait at the counter for you.”
Tension comes off him in waves. I hate that one of the people I love most in the world feels like this around the people that are supposed to be there for me.
But they are only there for themselves.
“What can I get you?” I sigh, staring my mother down.
“A cup of coffee. Black. You know I don’t like cream and sugar.”
“I know.”
She tells me this like I might have forgotten how she takes her coffee. I walk behind the counter, grabbing a white ceramic mug and pouring her a cup of black brew.
I peek a glance back at Kade, and Rylee is serving him a milkshake. I smile, knowing it doesn’t have strawberries in it.
Dropping down across from my mom, I push her mug toward her and watch as she concentrates on me.
I used to do everything in my power to make sure my mother loved me. No matter what I did, it was never goodenough. Even when Paul was in the picture, I wasn’t doing enough to be a doting wife.
“Why are you here?”
“Is that any way to greet your mother?” she spits. “I raised you better than that, Presley.”
I count to five in my head. It’s the only way I won’t snap at her.
Then I do it again.
One, two, three, four, five.
