Arm Candy (Real Love #2)(40)

I couldn’t look into Davis’s kind gray eyes and turn him down. He’s so warm and careful with me, it hurts. I’m not used to being handled with that much care.

My past turmoil—arguing parents and my dad bailing on my graduation—plays in the back of my mind like the world’s tiniest violin, knowing my father faces his final days.

Knowing I swapped years with him for what now amounts to days.

Over breakfast—Davis makes Belgian waffles and espresso (though he adds hot water to mine, since it’s way too strong)—I decide to come out with it and thank him. It’s the least he deserves.

“These are incredible.” I point at the perfectly golden, fluffy waffles with my fork.

He’s wiping down the waffle iron. “It’s just waffles, Grace. Not like I made you a quiche.”

“It’s not just waffles.”

He dries his hands and sits at the table next to me. “I know.”

“Can you really make quiche?”

“I can.”

“Wow.”

“I’m a man of many talents. None of my skills should surprise you.” He pours maple syrup into the squares of his waffle.

We eat in silence. I’m comfortable with him. Here. Not talking. Eating waffles. Even though we haven’t been dating long. The urge to duck and run hits me square in the chest, and a little harder than it usually does. I’m no psychiatrist, but I’m assuming my dad returning to surprise me might have something to do with the twitch to flee.

I spread more butter on my waffle. I refuse to allow fear to take me away from Davis. He hasn’t asked anything of me, and I haven’t asked anything of him. We can exist in this pleasant friends-with-benefits pocket for a good long while.

Probably.

“What time’s work?” Davis asks, knowing that Saturday is a busy day for me.

“Ten.” I eye the clock. It’s eight thirty. Early for breakfast for me, but I didn’t want to be rude. Davis was up clattering around at six thirty (I checked the time on my phone when I heard him).

I stand to join him at the sink, where he washes his plate, and he takes mine from me. I smile at his attire—slacks and a button-down. He looks sure and strong, relaxed in a Davis way.

I’m in my bar clothes from last night. If I leave now, I’ll have enough time for a quick shower at home before changing for work.

“I should get going.” I don’t want to, though. I’d rather stay here with him.

“Call me if you need me, okay?” He ducks his head and kisses me.

“You mean if my big, burly dad comes in and gives me horrible, life-altering news?” I offer a sad smile Davis doesn’t return.

“Yes. That’s what I mean.”

“Thanks for letting me cry on your shoulder.” I woke feeling embarrassed about it. “I guess…I needed a friend.”

“Anytime, tough girl.”

That’s nice. Legitimately, completely nice.

I put another kiss on the center of his lips, gather my things, and leave his house.

—

I don’t have to work another twelve-hour shift today, so by four o’clock I’m en route to pay a visit to my mother.

I’m owed an explanation if she knew about this. And if she didn’t, she’s owed the consideration of my breaking the news in person.

At least she didn’t ask me to meet her at Buchanan and Roe, her firm, like she usually does. My mother is a divorce lawyer and makes a living of severing relationships and divvying up belongings, pets, and children.

For not the first time, I wonder which of my parents I take after. The idea of being a woman with ice in her veins like my mother doesn’t appeal, but neither does my father’s duck-and-run free-spiritedness. Maybe I’m like neither of them.

Since my mother is always incredibly busy (and makes a point of telling me how incredibly busy she is), I meet her at a Starbucks near the courthouse. As I reach for the handle of the coffee shop door and pull, she bursts out of it, a white-with-green-logo cup in each hand.

“You’re late.” She thrusts one of the cups at me. “I ordered for you. Nonfat latte, and none of that sugary syrup. As a girl your age knows, we can’t afford to drink the extra calories.”

I hate that I look down at my hips with disdain after she says that.

“Let’s grab one of these seats.” Dawn Buchanan leads the way and I follow. We sit at a small patio table for two. It’s a fairly warm October day, but still too breezy for me. I hunch, wishing my leather jacket had a lining. Suddenly I’m glad for my bland nonfat coffee. I sip the hot liquid and try to warm up.

“What’s new, Jellybean?” Lawyer Mom smiles. My mother has short, dark hair with thick blond highlights. Her makeup is just so, her suit expensive, the heels on her shoes high and spindly. The nickname is a nice reminder that my mom isn’t one note. She’s the woman who bought me a car for graduation. She’s the woman who held me when I cried after I found out my boyfriend of two years was moving to Spain. Yes, that Spain. She’s the woman who made horrible, dry pancakes every Sunday.

The point is, she tried.

“Work is great.” A generic answer is always the safest, and quite frankly, I don’t want to talk about Dad just yet.

“That’s lovely. Are you dating anyone?”