Neat (Becker Brothers, #2)(60)

I mumbled, not really able to speak with him doing my lipstick, and he rolled his eyes.

“Yes, okay, except for your father. BUT, he won’t. Because you’re holding up your part of the deal. So, just relax, and try to find a way to not hate the world long enough that you can enjoy this?” He gave me a pointed look, and a smile, but my stomach was sinking as he turned away.

My father wouldn’t take it away, what I’d worked for, as long as I held up my end of the deal.

But he would, if he knew about me and Logan.

I realized, very distantly, that the bigger reason why I was feeling agitated and shaky was because of last night more so than tonight. It was because I’d fled from the first man to ever confess he saw me for who I was, to confess he liked what he saw, to confess that he was into me — and more than just casually, like we’d agreed upon.

I’d ran out of there so fast you would have thought someone told me the studio was on fire.

But how could I not run? How could I not feel every nerve in my body warning of danger with Logan Becker that close to me, telling me in not so many words that he wanted more? It was impossible. His family would disown him, which would absolutely crush him. Everyone in that town knew how tightly bound that family was, and I couldn’t stand to be the one to ruin that.

My family wouldn’t just disown me, they’d make my life a living hell in this town until I had no choice but to leave it. And my studio? It would be gone before it even had the chance to get started. Everything I’d worked for, everything I’d sacrificed up until this point — my dignity, my pride, my weekdays, my fucking sanity — it would all be for nothing.

My father would rip it all away in a heartbeat.

I thought when I saw Logan at work today, we would be back to normal. I thought it’d be jokes and laughs and sneaking makeout sessions in his office.

But it was more like prison.

I’d barely seen him, and when I had, it’d been awkward, forced conversation — with both of us avoiding what he’d said last night while holding me in his arms.

I closed my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose as a headache started, and Chris hurried over to me, framing my arms again. “Hey, are you okay?”

I let my hand fall to my thigh with a slap, sighing. “I’m nervous.”

Chris narrowed his eyes. He didn’t believe me, and if anything, now he knew there was something more on my mind than just the fact that I was in a dress and heels.

To his credit — bless him — he didn’t push.

“It’s normal to be nervous,” he said, and his eyes searched mine, his hands rubbing my arms encouragingly. “But, ready or not, in about fifteen minutes, those doors are opening.” He paused, mumbling the next words with a flick of his imaginary hair. “Of course, not with a blast of glitter, like there would have been had I been the one to throw this shindig, but still.”

I tried to smile.

“Your family is downstairs waiting,” he continued with a sympathetic smile. “I think it’s time we join them.”

I nodded, numbly, in lieu of an answer, and let my best friend guide me downstairs to where my father, mother, brother, uncle, aunt, and cousins waited.

It was all a blur from there.

The studio that Logan and I had brought to life shone like a new penny under the string lights Mom had installed. They hung from the rafters above, giving the shop a hip, industrial look. There was a jazz band playing softly in the corner of the room, right next to where the bar was. Servers waited at the ready, silver platters loaded with hors d’oeuvres in their hands. Each section of the studio was pristine — tidied, cleaned, decorated, and ready to be shown off. Tables near the front entrance held class and event schedules for the next few months, along with a pamphlet about me, my education, the shop and how it came to be.

If it were up to me, I would have just opened the doors. I would have just hosted the first class tonight, and maybe gotten drunk on a six pack by myself later tonight when it was all over with.

Still, I tried to find it in me to be thankful, to recognize that this was how my parents showed their love. They didn’t know much when it came to parenting, but they did know how to throw a party.

Mom already had a glass of champagne in her hand when she scurried over to me, eyes watering as she took in my appearance. She went on and on about how beautiful I looked (though how I would have looked better had I taken the nose ring out), how stunning the shop was, how proud she was of me. Dad chimed in with his own prideful speech, saying he knew I had it in me. They both kissed my cheek, and my brother gave me a stiff hug, and my uncles and aunts and all the cousins bearing the Scooter surname shook my hand and congratulated me.

And all the while, I stood there, numbly smiling, responding to their questions in a way that felt like it was someone else speaking entirely. Someone handed me a glass of champagne — Chris, I presumed — and my father gave a speech. Some people laughed during that speech. Some people cheered. Mom dabbed at the tears leaking from her eyes.

Then, glasses clinked, bubbly was sipped, and the doors opened.

The first thing I felt was a suffocating kind of overwhelmed. My parents’ friends were all the first to pile in, each of them pulling me into a hug or shaking my hand and marveling at how pretty I looked and how nice the studio was before they wandered off to find champagne and talk business with my dad. It felt like everyone was there — the mayor and his wife, all of Mom’s stuck-up debutante friends, all the officers and board members from the distillery, the police chief and his wife, though he was smart enough to stay away from me. It made my stomach churn that he was there at all, but I knew my father, and if there was a chance to invite his high-roller friends and remind them how powerful he was, he’d take it.