The Hot Mess and the Heartthrob(18)

“I understand you talked Levi out of buying yodeling pickles for my grandchildren.”

Oh, good. Mom’s been talking to Giselle too.

I’m totally screwed here. No way around it.

I hit the button to start the coffee maker, realize I forgot to put a mug under the spigot, and miss hearing whatever Ingrid replies with as I fling open my cabinet and grab the first mug I can find.

It’s not until the coffee’s dripping into it that I realize I grabbed a mug that has two cartoon boobs on it and the phrase have you squished me today?

Where the hell did that come from?

I dig deeper into my cabinet and realize all of my mugs are either mugs about me, or mugs that my buddies must’ve dropped off as jokes. I’m waffling between a mug that just has my name on it, rather than a mug with my face on it, and a mug announcing that I don’t spew profanities, I enunciate them like a fucking lady, when I realize the original mug is overflowing.

“Fuck!” I yank the first mug out of the way, slosh hot coffee all over my hand, and toss it toward the sink while I shove the fucking lady mug under the stream.

“Levi?” Mom calls.

“Yes, you can eat more of my cookies,” I reply. I thrust my hand under cold running water and try to reach for the towel hanging off my oven handle to mop up the coffee, which is now dripping off the counter and onto my bamboo floor, but I can’t reach because my arms are four inches too short.

I need Beck-length arms.

“Oh, honey,” Mom sighs behind me.

“This is how I always make coffee.”

“Maybe you should cancel your plans on Tuesday.”

“I’m not canceling Tuesday.” It’s not just me in the studio. I’m doing a collaboration with Waverly Sweet, who’s basically the only pop sensation in the world bigger than I am, and her schedule is possibly worse than mine and Ingrid’s combined. “If this doesn’t happen Tuesday, it’ll be March before we can coordinate again.”

“Always so busy.” She tosses me the towel on the oven handle, then pulls a fresh towel out of a drawer and gets to work sopping up the coffee that my soaked towel can’t get. “Go on. Go sit and talk to your friend. I’ll finish up.”

“I can make a cup of coffee.”

“Maybe in a few days. I’ll go with you on Tuesday.”

“Mom—”

“It’s nice to have my baby be the one who needs me again for once.” She hip-checks me. “Go on. Don’t leave poor Ingrid alone. Do you know how starved single mothers get for adult company?”

I don’t, honestly, but the guilt trip is working, both about what Mom’s life must’ve been like thirty years ago when she was in Ingrid’s shoes, and what it must be like today. I thought she was always chatting with the other moms in the neighborhood when she wasn’t working or running Tripp and me to our various activities, but I was also a self-centered brat who wouldn’t have taken the time to pay attention to what she was actually doing.

My objections to her dating now have nothing to do with me being a self-centered brat, though, and everything to do with the unscrupulous assholes who might take advantage of a lonely, inexperienced woman with two very rich sons.

I shut off the water, wipe my hand, which isn’t going to melt off, and Mom hands me the mug that’s only three-quarters full. “Try not to trip.”

No use scowling at her.

Not when she’s actually letting me talk to Ingrid for half a minute alone. Hopefully.

When I get back to the living room, my guest is standing at the wall of windows beyond the blue-and-gray sitting area that suddenly feels pretentious and not as warm and welcoming as I’ve always thought it was.

I have throw pillows and blankets and pictures of my family in here, but I also know my rug alone probably costs more than what her bookstore brings in during an entire month, and don’t ask about the artsy-fartsy chandelier that I like to stare at when I get stuck writing a song.

Ingrid’s not looking at my décor though. She’s peering out at the city and the soft mountains beyond, which are wearing a darker fog as the late afternoon sun dips low in the sky.

“Coffee?” Shit. I forgot to ask if she wanted anything in it.

She jerks her head like she’s been caught eating more cookies, then smiles softly at me. “Thank you.”

“I can get cream or milk or sugar—”

“Black is fine.” Her gaze flits over my face, and she grimaces again. “I can’t believe Zoe’s head hit you that hard. She doesn’t have a mark on her.”

“It’s makeup. Photo shoot later where my PR people are gonna tell it like I was the one who climbed the shelves to capture a squirrel in distress.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

I grin. “I’m better when I want to be.”

“Again with the terrible liar.”

She’s wearing her own makeup today, along with ankle boots, tight jeans, a thick, dark gray cable-knit sweater that might or might not be masking ketchup and spilled milk, but the earrings, necklace, and subtle scent of something sweet but not overpowering suggests she would’ve changed if that were the case.

“I’m glad you stopped by.”

Her cheeks go pink. “I got Giselle’s number the other day so I could check on you, and she said you could use some cheering up and that I should come over. I feel awful—”