Page 13 of Legs

She slung her massive purse over the back of her chair with a sigh. Her blond hair was sprayed into a solid block, her painted-on eyebrows and pink lipstick likely to melt in the heat. “I wouldn’t have been late, but the cleaning lady came today. Last time she made my bed, she put the pillows backward, so I had to show her again how I like it. I swear, I should just do it myself.”

Lydia Kates majored in melodrama. “Why don’t you?”

She raised one eyebrow, a skill I could never master. “You know how busy I am with the Healing Hearts luncheon. I’m not Superwoman. I’ve had to spend time with Alyssa, too. Things have been tough for her at home.”

I could mention five to ten hours of volunteering a week shouldn’t limit her from making beds and mopping the floor, but I’d pushed her to get involved. Helping raise money for the heart disease that took my father’s life had been her first step to regaining hers, and she’d met women like Alyssa through the foundation. Other women who’d suffered loss. I’d never belittle the effort.

“And did I tell you,” she went on, “that your aunt Sarah’s sister-in-law, Dahlia, just got diagnosed with liver cancer? Not even fifty, and The Cancer? If life were fair, those reality stars with their skimpy clothes and sex videos would get The Cancer, not poor Dahlia.”

I winced as others glanced our way, judgment in their pinched faces. My mother only had one volume—loud nasal—and on a scale from one to Mel Gibson, the woman’s inappropriateness hovered at Charlie Sheen. “I wouldn’t go wishing cancer on people, Ma.”

“Anyway,” she said, talking over me, “I’ve just been a wreck and need to drop off some soup this week, so I’ll make extra. You’re looking thin, Rachel. Have you been cooking? I bet you’re eating nothing but takeout.”

The waiter arrived in time to save me the agony of listening to her concerns—your arms are too thin, your skin looks pale, are you sleeping all right? She’d tutted around my brother and me growing up, but this anxiety, this worry someone would get sick or hurt or worse, had developed since we lost my dad. I always let her fuss. Unless she took a page from Ainsley and commented on my boring clothes. I’d take “plain Jane” any day over wearing my mother’s fuchsia blazer, complete with shoulder pads and a brooch the size of my face.

Our waiter smiled, clueless to his approaching doom. “Ready to order?”

He proceeded to write a novel on his order pad, ensuring my mother got her dressing on the side, roasted red peppers instead of red onion, green olives instead of black, no salt or feta, and an addition of chicken—poached, not seared—in her salad.

I smiled and said, “The regular Greek is fine for me.”

“Modifications are not a problem.” He gave me a wink. “I aim to please.”

Normally his blatant flirting would be cute. His strong nose and sharp cheekbones made him easy on the eyes, but attraction eluded me. I couldn’t help thinking of the tattooed back and sexy behind I’d left naked in bed two mornings ago. My mind may have been a blank where that night was concerned, but it was as though my body had perfect recall, my pulse revving for another glimpse of him. I shook the unpleasant thought away and ordered a glass of Riesling.

My no drinking motto lasted a whole two days.

My mother took the moment to latch onto the other thing I’d have preferred to avoid like the plague. “Have you spoken with your boss about a raise? You’ve put in three months, and no one works harder than my girl. If he doesn’t give you a raise soon, you’ll have to demand one.”

Time for the lies. “Three months isn’t that long, Ma.”

“Nonsense. Three months is long enough for him to know you’re a star.”

“I think you’re biased.”

“It’s God’s honest truth, Rachel. Any competent boss would see it.”

“That’s not how the business works.”

“Of course it is. You just need to stand up for what you deserve. Prove you’re not a wallflower.”

Pretty sure I’d proven that with my butt shot. “Enough, Ma. I’m not demanding a raise.” But her faith in me warmed my heart.

She lifted her chin, squinting in her all-seeing way, and that warmth seeped out. The woman knew something was up. The time I’d told her I was staying at Lexi Wallcott’s, my eyelid had twitched so incessantly my mother followed me to the house party and dragged me out by my ear.

My lying skills were up there with my ability to moonwalk.

I unfolded my napkin and smoothed it on my lap. I rearranged my cutlery next, avoiding my mother’s gaze. The flirty waiter brought me my wine, and I took a lengthy sip. I didn’t stop to smell the bouquet or swirl my glass, didn’t pick apart the nuances. But as the liquid slid down my throat, an image flashed, sharp and short: Bad Boy’s body against mine as he licked wine from my lips. Heat spiked between my thighs, the sensation potent and lingering. I could almost taste him, almost feel his fingers digging into my hips.

“Did you get fired?”

I plunked my glass down so hard, liquid sprayed my face. My mother didn’t miss a darn thing. I dabbed my nose with my napkin, planning my reply, but part of me wanted to savor that fleeting glimpse of my one-night stand. Flustered, I excused myself to the bathroom.

Where I washed my hands three times.

I could keep up my ruse, attempting to lie about my job, but there was no point. I’d played job roulette, and I lost. And maybe this was my destiny. Maybe my wish, the blackout, and Reckless Rachel had all happened for a reason. Inexplicable twists of fate occurred all the time. Just like my father’s final voice message.

Our last physical conversation had been a fight over Gabe, an encounter I hated to relive. But Dad had left me a message afterward. The day he passed away, he called to apologize. To say he loved me, only wanted what was best for me. Two hours later, he fell on his treadmill, his heart too weak to keep him with us. He’d treated my brother to a surprise lunch that day, had sent my mother flowers. He’d almost said his goodbyes as though he knew his time was up.