Love Handles (Oakland Hills #1)(72)
Bev tried to tip her sister out of the sofa but gave up, plopping down at the other end. She stretched out her legs and used Kate's lap as a footrest. “I'm trying to keep Fite from going out of business.” She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. “Thanks for your support.”
Kate made a rude noise. “I'm here, aren't I? He hasn't broken in once since I got here.”
Bev sighed. “He didn't even before you got here.”
“Face it, Bev. You're stupid when it comes to really built guys. He's got means and motive. It's the only explanation.”
“Aunt Ellen—”
“I'll let Mom explain why it isn't Ellen. You assumed it was her, which is one reason I can excuse you for falling for another Rand clone. He's even got the same beady little eyes. Like raisins.”
Rand was the last good-looking guy she swore off. But he was easy to forget, not like—she gritted her teeth. “He's nothing like Rand. Nothing.” Beady little eyes—hardly. Liam’s were like deep pools of melted chocolate. Pushing aside that image, she sat upright with a start. “What do you mean, you'll let Mom explain?”
“When she gets here.” Kate looked at her watch. “She left after the morning rush, so I'm guessing any minute we'll be seeing her sunny Botoxed face. And don't look like that. If I'd told you, imagine how stressed you would have been, and it wouldn't have done any good because she was totally coming, like it or not. Ever since Ellen called her last week she's been all freaking out about getting in touch with her youth and shit.”
Mouth dry, Bev slipped her feet off her sister's lap and stood up. “Since Ellen called?” she asked. “Any minute? And you didn't tell me?”
“Well, look at you freaking out. Totally my point.”
Bev sucked in a deep breath. At least she'd be too busy to think about Liam. “I have to clean the bathroom. No, the kitchen. You clean the bathroom and tell me everything Mom said about Ellen.” Bev took Kate's mug out of her hands and jerked her to her feet. “The Bon Ami is under the sink with the sponge.”
“I am so not getting between you and Mom and Ellen. If you want the gory details you can ask her when she gets here. Something about having a baby.” Kate pulled her blond hair up on top of her head and slipped the rubber band around her wrist down to make a floppy ponytail while she walked into the bathroom. “Get us each a beer, why don't you? And crank up the tunes.”
Baby? Bev followed Kate into the bathroom. “Who's having a baby?” Ellen was younger than Gail by a couple years, but was in her late forties. Still, stranger things had happened. “Ellen is having a baby?”
“Well, it's not me.” Kate squatted down below the sink for the cleaning supplies. “Seriously though, get me a beer. Nobody should have their head in a toilet when they're sober.”
Her mother would be there soon. She wasn't nice, but at least she was coherent. Giving up on Kate, she went into the kitchen, got her sister a beer—and after a second thought, one for herself—and tackled the pile of dishes in the sink.
While the water ran she sucked down two swallows of beer and squirted dish soap over the dishes. Where was her mother going to sleep? How the hell long was she going to stay? Kate came in, threw her empty bottle in the recycling can, and got another beer out of the fridge.
“I hear a car,” she said. “Just thought you should know.”
“This is good,” Bev said. “Having Mom and Ellen talking to each other is good. It's why I came up here in the first place.”
“Keep telling yourself that.” Kate washed her hands and opened a cupboard. “What's for dinner, anyway? Mom will want something when she gets here.”
“Yet another reason you should have told me. Jesus.” Bev looked at the bottle in her hand, imagined her mother's face when she learned there wasn't a gourmet meal waiting—let alone TiVo, Indonesian coffee beans, six-hundred-thread-count sheets, or Pilates machines—and decided to tackle the problem through the haze of fermented grains. She threw back her head and chugged the beer, reminding herself Gail Roche Lewis Torres wasn't a bad person—just a bad mother. To Gail, unconditional love was just lazy. To criticize was to care.
Sufficiently buzzed, Bev weaved through the house to the front door, stifled a giggle when she saw the misaligned couch, which made her think of Liam in his sleeping bag, who said he’d see her tonight, when her mother would be here.
She flung open the door, expecting a pretty fifty-year-old woman with Michelle Obama biceps, only to get the big, unpredictable hunk with chocolate eyes.
“Thank God!” She threw her arms around him and pressed her face against his chest. She inhaled his rich, manly smell. He hesitated for a second then put his arms around her and stroked her hair.
“Hi,” he said. His sweater felt like cashmere under her cheek. She squeezed him harder, and he chuckled. “Easy, easy. My ribs are cracking.”
Loosening her hold, she closed the front door to hide from her sister. The evening air was cold, but he was warm and had a way of touching her that soothed and excited her all at the same time. His mouth was so perfect, right there under his nose. She reached up and stroked his lower lip with her thumb, dipping it inside. “You have such cute teeth.”