Lizzie Blake's Best Mistake (A Brush with Love, #2)(75)
“That’s not true,” Rake argued. “You’re clever and creative and clearly have excellent business sense, seeing how much you’ve grown the bakery. So why are you so mean to yourself?”
“Mean?” Lizzie’s mouth twisted. “I’m not mean to myself. I love myself. I love my body and my looks, and I’ve never doubted any of that stuff. I have tons of confidence.”
“Appreciating your own physical beauty isn’t the only component of being nice to yourself, Birdy. You should appreciate your mind too.” He said it gently, in a way that didn’t mean to poke but just gently lift a veil.
Irritation blazed through her.
“Why don’t you rein it in, Dr. Phil. It’s not like you actually know me.”
A painful stab of hurt rocketed through Rake’s stomach. “Sorry,” he said quietly, turning to look out the window. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
They sat in a loaded silence for a few miles, before Lizzie finally spoke. “A therapist suggested I try it.”
Rake turned his attention back to her, arching an eyebrow.
“Baking, I mean,” she continued. “When I was younger, my mom had me in and out of psychiatrists’ offices. She was always taking me to a new one. I think a big reason is that they would tell her I wasn’t actually that bad. They’d tell her that, more than anything, I was just a spirited person who happened to have ADHD.” Lizzie frowned for a second. “But to my mom, it was abnormal for a child to be so loud and hyper and obnoxious. Especially a girl. I honestly think for a long time she didn’t even believe it was possible for a girl to have ADHD. By the time I was sixteen, I’d started really leaning into the wild child role she’d cast me in,” she continued, a small smile tugging at her lips.
“I was drinking and smoking and wearing tiny-ass skirts. I was on Adderall and it helped in school, but there are some facets of a personality that medicine just can’t change. And my mom didn’t like that.
“So she took me to this psychiatrist and all but demanded I be put on something stronger. The doctor told her I was taking the most suitable dosage she was comfortable prescribing to a minor, but she suggested I find a productive and creative hobby. She suggested baking,” Lizzie said, glancing at him to reward him with that gorgeous smile.
“In perfect Claire Blake form, my mom thought the woman was an idiot, but for some reason, the idea stuck with me. So I looked into it and signed myself up for some baking classes at the community center and fell in love with it. I fell out of it for a while, but once I came back from my globe-trotting years, I threw myself into it. Took classes and courses and turned it into my job.” Lizzie adjusted her rearview mirror as she spoke. “I like making things that make people happy, and using my hands. It’s like getting to play all day. Freeing and fun and one of the few things in this world I can lose myself in in a good way.”
“I’m glad you found your calling,” Rake said, reaching across the console to give her knee a friendly squeeze. “And I’m very proud of how hard you work. How well you’re doing at Bernadette’s. It can’t be easy to come up with all of those ideas.”
Lizzie’s head whipped over to look at him, a bizarre mask of fear covering her face.
“What’s wrong?” Rake asked, alarm rising in his chest.
Lizzie continued to stare at him, and Rake glanced quickly at the road. That seemed to break her out of her trance.
“No one’s ever said that to me before,” she said quietly, focusing her eyes out the windshield.
“Said what?”
“That I work hard. That they’re … proud of me,” she said, her voice a rough whisper.
Rake opened his mouth to say something, but words failed him. That seemed so wrong to him.
Lizzie deserved all the praise in the world. She did so much that warranted pride every single day. The woman was a force of nature, a vibrant living flame that lit up everything she touched.
Rake couldn’t process that the people who raised her could look at their incredible creation and not burst with pride. Not say the words every day.
“Well, I am,” Rake said at last, looking out the windshield. “Proud of you. Incredibly proud.”
Lizzie nodded but didn’t say anything for the rest of the drive.
Chapter 38
RAKE couldn’t name anything that was glaringly off about the Blake residence as he looked around the family room—pristine furniture and spotless china surrounding him—but there was something undeniably cold about it. Sterile. Like walking through a well-preserved museum of an idyllic upper-middle-class residence, but certainly not a home.
Claire had opened the door upon their arrival, giving Lizzie a rather stiff hug and Rake a brief handshake before retreating into the kitchen to check on dinner. Rake had been introduced to Lizzie’s father, Douglas, who was a portly man who oozed self-importance, before he strode off to his study to take an important business call.
Rake looked over at Lizzie as she stood in the corner, waves of uncomfortable energy radiating off her. It seemed impossible that a firebolt of a person like her could ever have grown up in such a dull, contained space.
Perfectly placed frames lined the walls, almost all of them holding an image of the man Rake assumed was Lizzie’s brother, Ryan. Rake could only find two pictures of Lizzie: One was of her in her graduation gown and cap, her red hair spilling out from beneath, thick black liner rimming her eyes, a certain mischievousness to her smile. The second was a family photo, everyone dressed in black pants and a white top. Douglas, her father, was seated in a leather chair, Claire resting her hands on his shoulder as she stood behind him, both with perfect smiles. Ryan looked young, maybe eight, his hair gelled and combed, a reserved smile on his own lips as he stood next to his dad.