Arm Candy (Real Love #2)(62)

“Davis and I are serious. I think. I’ve concluded that I’ve never been serious with anyone. Not like this.”

I frown in thought before telling her the rest of it.

“He offered me his house key,” I whisper.

“Oh.” She purses her lips. “That is serious. We need to sit down and talk.”

My mother takes the shopping basket from my hands, swipes in two more tins of hot cocoa, and starts for the cash register.

Back at her house, she pours steamed milk into four mugs and stirs in each powdered concoction. She arranges them on a tray, tops them with marshmallows, and brings them to me.

I’m curled on her couch like a croissant. Talk about conversations you don’t want to have. And yet I’m here, because I need to talk about it. I can’t talk to Rox and I don’t know Jackie well enough, and Grandma Rose would totally rat me out. Her loyalty lies with Davis.

I have no choice, really.

“It’s soon,” I tell my mother. “I’ve only been seeing him a few months.”

“I only saw your father a few months.” Her face darkens as the room fills with what we aren’t saying.

“He and I have lunch next week,” I tell her. “He wants to repair our relationship before…before.”

My mother bats her eyes and offers a watery smile. “Good. That’s good, honey.”

A beat of uncomfortable silence passes, then another before she takes control of the conversation again. “So. Davis?”

“Davis. Well, we’ve got a great thing going.” I opt for bluntness. “Great sex. Overnights. We laugh. We have fun. He takes care of me.”

“I suppose you don’t want to hear ‘So did your father and I.’?”

“No thanks,” I give her a soft smile.

“Grace, Grace, Grace.” She sits with me and hands one of the mugs over. I sip. It’s the peppermint cocoa and pretty damn delicious. “Davis is a stock analyst, right?”

“Yes. The best in his company.”

“He’s an overachiever.”

“Completely. He’s dedicated. A hard worker,” I say, proud.

“And he had a false start down the aisle.”

I probably shouldn’t have shared that with her. I’ve had a few bouts of weakness where Davis is concerned.

“Does he truly care about you? Or are you his next challenge?”

I stop blowing on my hot beverage and face my mother, whose expression is stony and serious.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that Davis may not want you; he may simply be conquering his next challenge. He failed to take a woman down the aisle. Maybe he wants to see how far he can go with you.”

“That’s a horrible thing to say.” My heart clutches. I don’t believe Davis is using me as an experiment. Then I think of the women he used to date. Were they experiments?

I close my eyes. I will not let my mother burrow into my psyche.

“I’d rather you know now than find out in your own divorce proceedings.” Dawn Buchanan sets her mug down and stands from the couch.

“That’s…pessimistic.”

“It’s realistic, Grace.”

“Divorce isn’t inevitable, Mom.” I’m on my feet and pulling on my coat before I can talk myself out of it. “I’m more to Davis than a goal to check off his bucket list.”

“And what is he to you?”

I frown.

“Because if he’s serious about you and you’re not serious about him, that’s not fair either. Do you know what love is, Grace? Do you know how to love him the way he loves you?”

I wonder if I’m visibly deflating. I am on the inside.

I told Davis I loved him. I meant it.

Didn’t I?

“Don’t toy with him,” my mother warns. “Especially if he’s serious. You know firsthand how bad a marriage can look when two people aren’t on the same page.”

“Thanks to you.” I grab my purse and start for the door.

“Remember what I said!” she calls as I leave her house.

I drive home, thinking that my mother is both certifiable and possibly right.

Davis has been good to me. I’ve been cagey. Squirrelly. Everything he does—every thoughtful, selfless thing—causes me to twitch with alarm.

In the shower I scrub my hair and push my visit with my mother to the back of my mind. I remember the bet I made with Davis and the way he leaped at the idea of taking me out. The way he offered me his “packages” and how I didn’t accept.

The champagne night.

Meeting his grandmother.

The hotel where he said he loved me.

I rinse my hair and stand under the spray, hot water cocooning me.

My mother is right.

Davis is being honest. It’s time for me to be honest.

I climb out of the shower, wrap myself in a towel, and, dripping, go to my cellphone where it sits on my bed.

Hands shaking, I draw a deep breath. I punch a button and make the outgoing call I should’ve made a long time ago.

“Gracie Lou,” Davis answers.

“What are you doing?” My voice shakes, but I clear my throat and try again. “Are you busy?”