Good Girl Complex(Avalon Bay #1)(88)

“You’re not selling my set, right?” I ask anxiously.

“The one you never paid for?” He winks, coming up to me covered in the sawdust that clings to everything in here.

“Things got a little hectic. But you’re right, I owe you a check.”

“Forget it. I can’t take your money.” He shrugs adorably. “Those pieces were always yours whether you bought them or not. Once you laid hands on them, it would have felt wrong to let them go anywhere else.”

My heart somersaults in my chest. “First of all, that’s one of the sweetest things you’ve ever said. And second of all, you can totally take my money. That’s the thing about money. It works everywhere.”

“Spoken like a true clone.”

For that, I smack him with my polishing rag.

“Hands, Cabot.”

“Yeah, I’ll show you hands, Hartley.”

“Oh yeah?” With a smirk, he tugs me toward him, his mouth covering mine in a possessive kiss.

His tongue is just slicking over mine when an unfamiliar female voice chirps from the open garage door.

“Knock, knock!”





CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE


COOPER

I freeze at the sound of that voice behind me. My blood stings ice cold. I hope as I grudgingly turn around that the sound was a vivid hallucination.

No such luck.

At the entrance, Shelley Hartley stands waving at me.

Goddamn it.

I don’t how long it’s been since the last time she blew into town. Months. A year, maybe. The image of her in my mind is distorted and constantly shifting. She looks the same, I guess. Bad blonde dye job. Too much makeup. Dressed like a woman half her age who wandered into a Jimmy Buffet concert and never left. It’s the smile, though, as she waltzes into the workshop, that gets my back up. She hasn’t earned it.

My brain is reeling. Someone’s pulled the pin and handed me a live grenade, and I’ve got seconds to figure out how not to let it blow up in my face.

“Hey, baby,” she says, throwing her arms around me. The stench of gin, cigarettes, and lilac-scented perfume brings hot bile rising to the back of my throat. Few smells send me so violently back to childhood. “Momma missed you.”

Yeah, I bet.

It takes her about six seconds to catch her eyes on Mac and the diamond bracelet she wears that belonged to her great-grandmother. Shelley all but shoves me out of the way to grab Mac’s wrist under the pretense of a handshake.

“Who’s this pretty girl?” she asks me, beaming.

“Mackenzie. My girlfriend,” I tell her flatly. Mac flicks her eyes to me in confusion. “Mac, this is Shelley. My mom.”

“Oh.” Mac blinks, recovering quickly. “It’s, ah, nice to meet you.”

“Well, come on and help me inside,” Shelley says, still holding onto Mac. “I’ve got groceries for dinner. Hope everyone’s hungry.”

There’s no car in the driveway. Just a bunch of paper bags sitting on the front porch steps. No telling how she got here or what dreadful wind blew her back into town. She was probably kicked out by another pathetic sap who she drained for every last dime. Or she ran out on him in the middle of the night before he discovered she’d robbed him blind. I know this for certain: It won’t end well. Shelley is a walking catastrophe. She leaves only ruin in her wake, most of it laid at the feet of her sons. I learned a long time ago that nothing with her is ever as it seems. If she’s breathing, she’s lying. If she’s smiling at you, guard your wallet.

“Evan, baby, Momma’s home,” she calls when we get inside.

He comes out of the kitchen at the sound of her voice. His face blanches at realizing, as I did, it isn’t a trick of his imagination. He stands dead still, almost as if expecting her to evaporate. Indecision plays behind his eyes, wondering if it’s safe, or if he’ll get bitten.

Story of our lives.

“Come here.” Shelley coaxes him with open arms. “Gimme a hug.”

Tentative at first, keeping one eye on me for an explanation I don’t have, he embraces her. Unlike me, he actually returns the hug.

Disapproval flares inside me. Evan’s got an endless supply of forgiveness for this woman that I will never understand. He’s never wanted to see the truth. He expects that every time our mom walks back through our door, she’s here to stay, that this time we’ll be a family, despite the years of disappointment and hurt she’s put us through.

“What’s going on?” he asks.

“Dinner.” She picks up a couple of the grocery bags and hands them off to him. “Lasagna. Your favorite.”

Mac offers to help because she’s too polite for her own damn good. I want to tell her not to bother. She doesn’t have to impress anyone. Instead, I bite my tongue and stick close by, because there’s no way I’m leaving Mac alone with that woman. Shelley’d probably shave Mac’s head for the price her hair would fetch with a black-market wig maker.

Later, when Shelley and Evan are in the kitchen, I take the opportunity to pull Mac aside under the pretense of setting the table.

“Do me a favor,” I say. “Don’t talk about your family when she asks.”

Her forehead wrinkles. “What do you mean? Why not?”