The Rake (Boston Belles #4)(109)

Wellesley was not known for its shopping malls and cultural landmarks.

Or for anything, really, other than being close to Boston.

But what depressed me the most was that I didn’t even want to snort lines of coke with rock stars in public restrooms or sing “Like a Virgin” in a karaoke bar while my friends toppled over with gusto, because I was anything but. I wanted lame, weird things. Like snuggling next to Devon on his freaking eight-thousand-dollar couch (of course I Google shopped it. What am I, an amateur?).

I wanted to watch his boring, four-hour long documentaries about sustainable plastic bags and killer slugs.

I was curled into myself on the guestroom bed when my dad knocked on my door. Mom was out—she was now a part of the Ladies Who Lunch committee. The irony, of course, was that the ladies didn’t lunch at all. They munched on dressing-free salads and discussed grave topics, like The Dukans or the Zone diet.

Guessed he wanted to see if we were still on talking terms.

Were we?

“Belly-Belle,” he sing-songed. “I’m off to go fishing. How ’bout you join your old man? Can’t go wrong with fresh air and sweetened iced tea.”

“Pass,” I murmured into my pillow.

“Oh c’mon, kiddo.” I admired his ability to pretend yesterday didn’t happen and at the same time suck up to me because of yesterday.

“I’m busy today.”

“You don’t look busy to me.”

“You know nothing about my life, Dad.”

“I know everything about your life, Belly-Belle. I know about your club, about your dates, about your friends, about your fears. I know, for instance, that you are miserable right now, and it can’t just be about me. You went a lifetime pretending it didn’t happen. Something’s eatin’ you up. Let me help.”

Thing was he couldn’t help.

No one could help the lost cause that was Emmabelle Penrose.

The vixen who didn’t care so much about sex after all, but about intimacy. I wanted to know what it felt like to belong to someone. But not just anyone. To a devilish, blue-eyed rake.

“Ugh, why are you so obsessed with me,” I moaned, forcing myself off the bed and dragging my feet along the floor. I wrestled into a pair of daisy dukes, leaving them unbuttoned because of Baby Whitehall, and threw on a baggy, ruffled white top. I didn’t look ready for fishing anything that wasn’t compliments about my killer legs, but here we were.

The drive to Lake Waban passed in silence, punctuated by Dad asking questions about Devon, work, and Persy. I answered with the enthusiasm of a woman facing death row—and just as much liveliness. Once we arrived, he rented a boat, hurled all of his fishing gear into it, and rowed to the middle of the lake.

On the boat, I complained about my early maternity leave from Madame Mayhem. Dad told me that work was a distraction from life and that life wasn’t a distraction from work, and that I had my priorities all wrong. It sounded like a botched inspirational quote by John Lennon, but he was trying so hard I didn’t scold him for it.

“And besides, we need to meet this Devon guy.” Dad flipped his ball cap backward, trying to make me laugh, to no avail.

“Why?” I scrunched my nose. “We’re not together.”

“You will be.” Dad spun the fishing reel, tugging at it while something in the water flipped about, trying to escape.

I huffed, watching as he pulled the fish out—a silver-scaled, helpless looking thing. Dad grabbed a fillet knife, cutting the fish’s throat and letting it bleed into the water. The fish stopped flapping, succumbing to its destiny. Dad swathed the fish in a plastic wrap and threw it into an ice-filled container.

“How do you know?” I asked.

He raised his eyebrows. “To fish?”

“No, that Devon and I will end up together.” I shifted uncomfortably on the other side of the boat.

“Oh. I just do.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Of course it is, honey.” He smiled at me lovingly, handing me over the fillet knife and a pack of alcohol wipes to clean it. “And it’s a good one too.”

About an hour into our fishing session, we bumped into one of Dad’s new friends from town. Literally. Our boat kissed his while he accidentally drifted in our direction. Dad immediately reached for me, making sure I didn’t slip or get hurt. Then he laughed, his eyes lighting up.

“Hey, Bryan.”

“John! I thought I’d seen you out here.”

“Weather’s too nice to pass up. Have you met my daughter?” The pride in Dad’s voice was tangible, sending frissons of pleasure down my spine.

“Can’t say I have. Ma’am.” Bryan tipped his straw hat down.

There was an introduction, followed by thirty minutes of fishing talk. I yawned, glancing around us. I understood that some people enjoyed nature and its peacefulness. Personally, I couldn’t live anywhere where the air wasn’t polluted and the crime wasn’t at least a little bit out of control.

I decided to finally turn my phone on and check my messages. I hadn’t done that in days, though I used my parents’ landline to call Persy, Ash, and Sailor.

I scrolled through my phone when a message popped on my screen. It was fresh from twenty minutes ago.

Devon: Where are you?