The Fix (The Carolina Connections, #1)(26)
I did a half turn and pointed to her. “You just may have something there.” I smiled. She certainly did have something.
Chapter Ten
When in Doubt, Choose Burgers over Sushi
LANEY
Holy. Balls.
Nate Murphy has the power to make a woman forget her name. How does he do that? It’s like his scruffy jaw and his dimple are my kryptonite. One moment we were having a nice little conversation and the next I had my tongue down his throat and was pouring my drink all over him. This was actually fortuitous since, in addition to forgetting my name, I had forgotten that my five-year-old was twenty feet away! I had been ready to tear my clothes off and beg him to take me right there by the front door. What was wrong with me?
Oh God, and then he asked me out!
Squee!
But not squee.
Shit.
There was Gavin’s job and there was Rocco, and the last thing we needed was some guy who was only in town temporarily.
Ugh.
Not to mention it had been so long since my last date I’m pretty sure dinosaurs had still roamed the earth. I mean, a girl has needs and I’d been sort of satisfying them by myself for the most part. I’d dated a couple guys since Rocco was born, but nothing had stuck. And the fact I wasn’t all that disappointed about it just went to show that those relationships were way wrong. But with the way I was reacting to Nate right from the start, I was pretty sure this guy had heartbreak written all over his too handsome, too freaking perfect face. And arms. And ass. Jesus, I was starting to sound like Fiona with all my scattered thoughts. Get a grip, Laney.
I had to set this incredibly sexy and tempting topic aside and focus on something else. Another date, in fact—the playdate. I peeled myself off the back of the door and headed back to Rocco. But I penciled in a good old-fashioned phone gab with Fiona on my mental calendar. I may have also penciled in a good old-fashioned fantasy session with my vibrator, but I’ll never tell.
Charlotte’s house was just as I’d imagined it to be—warm, comfortable, and wholly Southern. There were fresh flowers and sweet tea and, most importantly, welcoming hugs and greetings all around. Rocco suctioned himself to my leg but gradually loosened up as he saw some of the other kids organizing a few games. He eschewed the round of tag in the backyard—which, unsurprisingly, involved plastic knives and guns—and instead wandered over to check out the X-box battle that was launching in the next room. However, he made sure to maintain an open line of sight to me the entire time. I considered it a small win anyway.
Once I got a moment alone with Charlotte, I told her (mostly) about my visit with Nate on Friday and the information he’d shared. I explained to the best of my ability the cause of his rude behavior and told her he wanted to apologize to her. When I asked for her permission to pass on her number to him she graciously accepted, as I knew she would. It seemed all was already forgiven in her eyes and she turned them to me speculatively.
“So, do I sense a little chemistry goin’ on here?”
“What? No, of course not!” I replied, totally unconvincing in my hasty denial.
She just smiled and raised her eyebrows. “Even if he was a class-A jerk, I’d have to be blind not to see the sparks lightin’ up the air around you two.” She was way too smug.
“Oh, shut up,” I told her, and she just giggled. Damn her cute little ass.
My job was done. I’d shared my pertinent information, my kid was slightly engaged with others his own age, and I had a glass of real Texas sweet tea. Ugh, why do people like this stuff?
“Remind me. Why are you always over here when you could be out enjoying a totally awesome nightlife of hot guys and no responsibility?”
Instead of the phone call, Fiona had elected to come by my house for our girl gab. Seriously, she could be out doing anything she wanted at any time. She had money to party or go on vacations or buy out the entire SkyMall catalog—hey, some of that stuff is cool—but she chose to spend the majority of her time with me and my dysfunctional little family. To say she came from money was like saying Ghirardelli double fudge brownies were kind of okay. The bitch was loaded. Luckily, she was completely missing the “bitch” gene. She held rotating jobs mostly out of boredom and, I suspect, to generate stories to share with me when we got together. That’s real friendship for you.
Truthfully, though, I don’t think Fiona knew what she wanted to do with her life so it was easier to just keep busy and keep postponing life decisions. With her family’s wealth, she didn’t need to work if she didn’t choose to.
In direct contrast to all the rich snob stereotypes, her parents were wonderful people who were in full support of any decisions Fiona made—and I mean any decisions. She could decide to move to some inner city to teach underprivileged kids, or tour Europe on a three-year luxury excursion, or tattoo her entire body and pose naked for a magazine spread. Nothing but love and acceptance would come her way. It was the simplest and most authentic relationship between parents and child I’d ever seen.
When Fiona was nine years old she’d received a death sentence in the form of an aggressive leukemia diagnosis. Through bottomless funds, prayers, and a wealth of medical miracles she had survived, and not only that, she’d thrived beyond basic remission and into adulthood as a healthy, happy, and wonderful person.