Frayed Silk(20)

Jared: You will come on Tuesday, right? You’re not going to try any avoidance shit?



I had thought about it, but really, I need to face him at some point. And besides, we agreed on just friends.



Me: Nope, it’s Saturday, and yes, I’ll be there. Don’t worry.



Jared: I miss you … friend.



I almost groan with frustration.

Jesus, I have no idea what I’m doing. But I have a feeling this “friends” thing isn’t going to work out.



Me: Jared …



Jared: Right, I get it. But it’s true. You’re kind of addictive, Blondie.



Me: I’ll see you Tuesday.



I put my phone away and rush to finish grabbing the groceries. Fiona is coming over this morning, and I stupidly forgot until I’d already raced out the door. I speed walk to the checkout and figure if I’ve forgotten anything, it’ll wait until I go back out on Monday.

Once home, I unload the car and quickly race to put it all away. I then clean up the living room, bathroom, and wash the breakfast dishes in the sink. I fix my hair and paint some lip gloss on. I’m just finishing up with some mascara when the doorbell rings. I cap it, chuck it in my makeup bag, put it in the cupboard, and head downstairs.

“Hey.” I pull the door open to a smiling Fiona.

“Good morning. Here.” She passes me some muffins. “Got them from that new bakery down the road because who has time to actually bake, right?” She laughs at herself, and I force one out too as I close the door behind her.

“Oh, God …” She breathes, running a hand along the gilded banister of our staircase. “Now I remember why I never like coming here. I always get severe house envy, you lucky bitch.”

If there’s one thing I appreciate about Fiona, it’s her brutal honesty; even if it sometimes makes you feel a little uncomfortable.

“Shut up, your house is amazing,” I say as I move past her into the kitchen and switch on the coffee machine. Her house is basically a mini mansion, marble flooring and sweeping staircases leading up to the eight bedrooms upstairs. It screams old money, but it’s classically beautiful. Kind of like she is.

“You’re right; it’s fabulous. But you know what that saying is.” She takes a seat at the island while I make our coffee.

“Milk and sugar, right?”

She nods. “Please, one.”

“Always wanting what you can’t have … that saying?” I ask.

“Uh-huh. Where are the children?”

I finish making her coffee and pass it over before turning back to finish my own. “Swim practice. Leo usually likes to take them if he’s not working,” I tell her.

Once done, I grab my coffee and place the muffins on a plate, taking both over to the island and sitting down across from her.

She raises a brow. “That’s right. You said he was a big swimmer in college?”

I nod, taking a small sip from my mug. “Yeah, he was captain of the swim team. Still swims at least a few times a week, too.”

She grins behind her mug, her green eyes flashing mischievously. “Ah, so that’s why he always looks so damn good. How old is he now anyway?”

He does look good. If anything, he’s even more attractive now than he was all those years ago when we first met. “He just turned thirty-four.”

It was a quiet birthday, and I cringe just thinking about the way I threw myself at him that night. He stiffened as soon as I pressed my bare breasts into his back. I haven’t tried since. That was two months ago.

“Shit, he’ll probably turn fifty and still look as good. My Dylan is getting quite the gut on him.” She smiles. “But then again, we do have a fucking great cook. Maybe if I fired her and he was forced to fend for himself, he’d lose a few pounds.” She shrugs.

I laugh because she’s insane. “Or he’d just ask you to cook for him.” I raise a brow pointedly at her over my mug.

She gets wide-eyed at that. “Oh God, no. It’s been so long. I don’t know if I’d even remember how.” She takes a sip from her mug, leaving a perfect lipstick smudge around the rim as she lowers it. “One time, Wendy, our cook, had the flu, and we couldn’t get a replacement in for two nights. Two nights. Dylan and I whipped up some grilled cheese and soup, but it took us half an hour to get the settings right on the damn fancy stove that we just had to have.” She rolls her eyes. “Breakfast I can do, but dinner? Never again. I have a spare chef on speed dial now.”

I burst out laughing, not knowing if she’s joking or being serious. But I know she’s probably telling the truth for the most part.

“I cook all the time,” I admit, shoving a piece of muffin into my mouth.

Her brows rise. “Every night?”

I swallow before answering. “Sure. Unless we order in, which we usually do every week or two.”

“You like to cook?” she asks, bewildered.

Shaking my head, I say, “I don’t hate it, but no, I don’t love it. I do like to eat, though, and after growing up having very little, it feels like a waste of money to pay someone to do something that I can do.”

She cackles. “Oh, shit. Next, you’ll be telling me that you clean your own house, too.”