“Well,”—she adjusts her hair out from under her purse strap—“thanks for the ride. Should I Venmo you some money for gas?” Wow. She really thinks I’m an A-hole.
I shake my head and stuff my hands in my pockets. “Not necessary. Glad to help out.”
She’s fidgeting, awkward, and won’t make eye contact with me. Oh, right. She thinks I don’t like her. Is she waiting for me to apologize for the look in the car? I should…but I don’t because I’m afraid it would undo all the work I’ve done to keep her at bay.
“Okay. Well, I’ll see you two tomorrow, then.” Her tone is clipped, and I’m 99.9% sure she wishes I was dead.
“Right. Yeah. Sounds good.”
I wish she would smile at me. I just want one for the road. She looks over my shoulder toward Sam’s window, and then her face lights up with a smile that melts my insides. She looks back to me, and her smile drops. No smiles for you, big jerk. And then she and Charlie disappear around the house.
When I’m back in the truck and buckling up, Sam says, “She saw you make that face, you know.”
I sigh. “I know.”
“Why didn’t you want her to come to dinner?”
At least a hundred answers fly through my mind, but I can’t tell my ten-year-old daughter any of them. “Because…I didn’t want her to feel uncomfortable having to eat with us.”
“I think she would have liked to come.”
I flip my turn signal and move into traffic, pretending not to be overly curious about Sam’s statement. “Oh yeah? Why do you think that?”
“Because she peeks at you as much as you peek at her.”
Never mind the fact that statement makes me sound like a massive creeper…
I look at Sam in the rearview mirror and see her satisfied smirk. “We’re just friends, kiddo. There’s nothing else between Evie and me.”
“Well then, you should have made her come with us. Friends eat dinner together.”
The problem is, I don’t want to be friends with Evie. I want to take her on a date, and run my hands through her long hair, and find out if her lips feel as soft as they look.
Chapter Nine
EVIE
I’m sitting at the venue Jo and I booked for the fundraiser benefit, waiting for the caterer to meet me so we can go over the menu, when my phone buzzes.
JO: You need to go shopping.
EVIE: Because you hate my clothes?
JO: Because you need a new dress for the benefit. Something short and black.
EVIE: I was thinking I would wear my silver one again.
JO: Exactly. That dress has seen better days. You need to go shopping. Let’s go Friday.
Ugh. I hate that Jo is right. That silver dress is the last connection I’ve had with my old life. I’m pretty sure when Mama bought me that dress, it cost more than all of my current wardrobe piled together. But just because it was expensive back then, doesn’t mean it still looks expensive now—unless peplum dresses that have shrunk a few too many sizes in the dryer have suddenly come back in style.
EVIE: Fine. You win. I’ll buy a new dress. But it has to be from somewhere that I can use a 20% off coupon.
JO: No way, missy. You haven’t let me buy you anything all year. This is my treat.
That’s true, too. Jo is always trying to buy me things, but I don’t let her. I can’t exactly be a pioneer, forging my own path in life, if I’m constantly letting someone go in front of me and whack down all the weeds. I have to do it. I have to get my hands dirty.
But since this night is really important for our company, and I have invited quite an impressive list of people that I’m hoping will give us loads of money, I decide to give in this once and let her spoil me.
EVIE: If I let you buy me a dress, does that mean I have to let you pick it too? Because anytime you dress me up, I end up looking less like a lady and more like a lady of the night.
JO: *Pretty Woman gif*
EVIE: Does that mean yes?
JO: *Another Pretty Woman gif*
EVIE: You’re hopeless.
JO: And you’re more prudish than my Grandma Sue.
EVIE: I love you.
JO: I love you too.
I hear the door to the venue open, and I look up with a smile on my face. My smile immediately falls at the sight of my caterer walking beside my mama, as buddy-buddy as I’ve ever seen two people. They are laughing about something, and Mama gives the caterer a playful smack across the arm. “Monica, you’re so bad. I had no idea that you were capable of being so conniving.”
The woman beams at Mama. “That’s only because you’ve never harassed my servers and then tried to get out of paying me for my services.”
What in the name of Sam Hill is my mama doing here with my caterer?
I stand up with an angry scowl on my face. “Mama, what are you doing here?”
“Now, is that any way to greet your mother?” She’s smiling like she does when she’s trying to fool everyone around us into thinking we’re a happy, do-anything-for-each-other family. We’re not. And honestly, I’m so done pretending.
I cross my arms. “How do you two know each other?”
Poor Monica sees my face and starts looking worried. She takes a small step back to let my mother take the lead. “Did you not know? I’ve been using Monica’s catering company for years. She provides the most delicious food for all of the Powder Society’s functions.”
I want to groan. Of course I picked the one caterer in town that was tied to Melony Jones.
“I think it’s safe to say that I did not know that.” Or else I would not have used her. “But how did you know we were meeting today?”
Mama smiles a syrupy sweet smile to Monica over her shoulder. “Will you give us a minute, Mon?” Mon! Bleh. Excuse me while I go fire my caterer immediately.
Monica leaves my mama and me alone together. I spot the fire alarm only a few feet away, and I consider pulling it.
“Now, Evelyn Grace, can you please try, for one moment, to not treat me like some sort of almighty tormenter in front of my caterer?”
“My caterer! She’s my caterer today! I’m just trying to figure out what the heck you’re doing here.” I’m as close as cat's breath to purposely spilling my coffee all over my mama’s pink linen dress.
She sticks her nose in the air a little higher. “If you must know, Monica and I were together yesterday, discussing the menu for an upcoming Powder Society meeting, and she mentioned that she was meeting with a client today by the name of Jones and wondered if I was related to an Evie.” Oh, yeah…Monica’s got to go. “I told her you were my daughter, and she mentioned your fundraiser. Imagine my embarrassment when I had to pretend like I knew what she was talking about! My own daughter not inviting me to a fundraiser she is hosting!” She’s shaking her head, and honestly, that pity card she’s trying to fly in front of my face is looking pretty flimsy these days.
“Mama, you have made it perfectly clear that you do not support my decision to work for Southern Service Paws. So, excuse me if I didn’t think it would interest you to be invited.”