Beauty and the Baller(28)

He nods.

“My mom used to clean their houses on the side, and that’s how I met Andrew and Paisley as a kid, and I was drawn into their little circle. Mama insisted on putting me in pageants, right there with Paisley. Maybe it was because she wanted things for me that she had growing up—I don’t know, but she’d scrimp and save to buy my dresses or sew them herself. Sometimes I wore Paisley’s hand-me-downs.”

“Two friends slash rivals in a Texas pageant.”

I smirk. “Yep. Our senior year, it was me and her against everyone else in the pageant; then when it came down to just me and her, and I won the crown . . . she changed.” My nose scrunches. “But I wouldn’t see it for what it was until later.”

“She wanted your tiara.” He tears the last bit of his pastry and gives me half.

“Thanks. She wanted everything I had, no matter what. She took Andrew—”

“Then he was a fool,” he says. “Sorry to interrupt this episode of As Blue Belle Turns. Please continue.”

Our chests brushing, I take his Bobcats ball cap off and put it on my head. “My payment for the rest of the story. It’s a bad hair day.”

He huffs. “You marched into my party, your cat attacked a guest, then you told me off in front of everyone. You’ve eaten my pastry and taken my favorite hat, yet you’re chicken to face your high school nemesis?”

“You wanna see Melinda?”

“Well played.”

“Right. So back to the saga. We made it to our sophomore year at UT, and I kept expecting an engagement from Andrew, but he grew distant. I’d text him, and he’d reply hours later.” I frown at the swell of emotion that digs into my chest, the hurt that never goes away.

Ronan tenses. “Hey. You don’t have to explain if it’s painful. I was just trying to . . .”

“No, I started this. Maybe it’s good to talk. I loved him. Madly. He’d been my sole focus for four years.” I take a breath. “A lot of weekends, I came home to help Mama with Sabine, and I missed a lot of his games, but that Sunday I came back early. I had a key to his place and went over to surprise him. I walked in the kitchen, and on the table were candles and leftovers from a dinner. It was chicken breasts stuffed with mozzarella and spinach, and there’s only one girl who loved to cook that . . . Paisley. I stood in the kitchen for a long time, taking in the food, my head processing. Then I heard them. I eased open his door, and they were having sex . . .” This is definitely TMI, but I can’t stop. Maybe it’s the images in my head. Their feet tangling on the bed, their soft whispers. “I—I didn’t stop them. I just sat down outside his bedroom and listened. I needed to hear it all, to really let it sink in . . .” I pause. “Have you ever been betrayed like that?”

He shakes his head.

“You’re lucky. I still can’t eat chicken—which is stupid. Do you know how much chicken food there is in the world? Chicken parm, lemon-pepper chicken, fried chicken.” I count them off on my fingers. “Paisley ran out crying. Andrew said it was only that one time, that it was a stupid mistake, that he’d only ever slept with me and he had a weak moment, wondering what it would be like with someone else, and she’d been chasing him. He begged me for a month to take him back. Got down on his knees outside my window at the sorority house. Followed me to class. Called me repeatedly. Called Mama for help.” My lips twist. “Then Paisley came to me and said she was pregnant.” A long breath comes from my chest. “Andrew’s parents got involved and insisted he marry her if he wanted their money. I left and went to NYU.”

There’s a beat of silence as he stares at me. “Now you’re living in the same town with them.”

I lift up my hands. “You see my problem. I swore I’d never live here, yet . . .”

“Right,” he says rather distractedly, a calculating gleam growing in his eyes as he shifts around. “Melinda is here with Paisley, and both of us need to make a statement. No more hiding. I have an idea. It’s a little risky and might require some faith in me, but I have a good feeling . . .”

He takes my elbow and tugs me out of the stacks.

“What are you doing?” I exclaim.

“You want payback, right? For what Paisley did?”

“Mama always said ‘Never wrestle with a pig. You’ll get dirty, and the pig likes it.’ I don’t know where she heard it—”

“Bernard Shaw. Famous playwright.”

“Look at you and your brain.”

“I enjoy reading.”

I gaze around at the store. “Noted.”

He pushes a hand through his messy-pretty hair. I sigh at it and reach up and touch it.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing. Fixing your hair.”

“Why?”

“I considered a job as a beautician when I couldn’t get a job after college.”

He stares at me.

I shrug. “I like hair. I can do a french braid, a fishtail, a triple fishtail, a lace braid.” I pause. “Huh. I see where Sabine gets it.”

His lips twitch. “Let’s focus. I want to put this Melinda thing to rest. I don’t have time to mess with her machinations. It’s war.”

“War sounds rather ominous,” I say warily. “What about the pig thing? Do we want to lower ourselves to their level?”