When We Fall (Take the Fall, #2)(37)

“Someone took care of that awhile back, so you have nothing to feel bad about,” she says. “Stop beating yourself up. Give Piper the benefit of the doubt. Quit worrying about her dad. Then come eat dinner at my house Sunday night.”

“I’ll ask Piper if she wants to.”

“She’ll say yes.” Rowan starts to walk back to her car, a sleek Camaro with a red racing stripe down the center. “See you later!”

With a smile, I watch her drive off.

“Stop beating yourself up. Give Piper the benefit of the doubt. Quit worrying about her dad,” I grumble.

If only life was that easy.





Piper


Since I am only part-time help at the women’s shelter, we’ve scheduled my time so that I’m working only a couple of hours each morning, with weekends off. There is always someone on call for late nights, but Ginger prefers this to be one of the ladies who have more experience than I do.

A very large part of me worries that I’m not cut out for this job. It’s only been two weeks, but each time my shift is over, I drive to a nearby park and cry in the privacy of my car. I feel so pathetic for crying. I should be strong and helpful.

Which is why I had to come home and change in anticipation of dinner with my parents. I have to look beyond critique, although Mother will surely find something to say about my appearance.

Gathering my hair into a low bun, I put in the last few pins and smooth down the front of my dress. It’s pretty yet not fancy and will be appropriate to wear for dinner this evening.

Plus, the black color is slimming and the cut of the dress would look good on all types of figures, so she’ll have to find something else to critique. I think I look good. I think Jase would love to see and be seen with me while I wore this dress.

Based on his reactions to what I wear each morning, he loves my clothes—even if they’re conservative and not as flashy as the clothes of the women he usually goes for. There’s nothing wrong with how they dress, but tight dresses and sequin tops look ridiculous on me. I’m aware it’s because I’ve dressed one way for so long, but old habits are hard to break and I actually like my clothes—especially my shoes. Never mattered how much I weighed to wear them.

Plus, I always hated that last scene in Grease, when Sandy and Danny stop being themselves to be like what they thought the other wanted. If they loved each other, then why couldn’t they accept each other as is? I can’t imagine telling Jase the only way I would be with him is if he were to start donning suits and get rid of his tattoos. Although, I have to admit that I would not be opposed in the least to see him in a tux that gave glimpses of his tattoos.

In fact, if he were to ever show up to a function dressed like that, I’d most likely pull him into the nearest dark corner and have my way with him.

Slipping on a pair of hot pink kitten heels, I check my appearance one last time and grab the matching purse before racing outside to my car to drive to Aristotle’s Closet for my appointment.

It takes me no time at all to get there, nor does it take very long to be waited on since I had to make an appointment with one of the buyers.

“Wow,” she says, pulling out the first item—a cashmere sweater that’s the prettiest color blue. I hate to sell it since it matches Jase’s eyes perfectly. She glances at the tag and her eyes widen before she looks at me again. “Is this real?”

“Yes, your website said that you were looking for high-quality items.”

“Do you want cash or store credit?”

“Cash, please.”

She looks me up and down, then smirks. “Give me a minute.”

I don’t like the look of that smirk, but I smile in return. “Take all the time you need.”

After about ten minutes, she does some fancy finger dancing over the handheld calculator and gives me the most ridiculous offer.

“I’m going to have to decline and ask for your manager.”

“Why—it’s obvious you don’t need the money,” the woman sneers.

“If I didn’t need or want the money, I wouldn’t have made an appointment with you”—I glance at her name tag—“Serena. Now, could I please speak with your manager?”

Serena grumbles but she does as I ask. A few minutes later, a woman wearing a manager’s tag and a smart-looking cardigan set with her initials monogrammed over the breast pocket comes to the counter. I feel like she’s my fashion twin.

“Hi, I’m Ebony. How can I help you?”

“I’m not happy with the quote I was given for these clothes, and I realize that a store credit is worth more than straight-out cash, but this seems a little low to me. Is there any way you could do better?”

Ebony sorts through the clothes while I admire the monogrammed headband she’s wearing to keep her curls out of her face, too. It’s the curse of every southern woman I know—we can’t help but put our initials on everything that will stay still long enough to let us.

“Your headband is lovely.”

“It’s from Carolina Pearls and Girls. Have you been there?”

“No. Where is it?” I ask, although I know I won’t be able to shop there anytime soon.

“In NoDa, off East Thirty-Sixth Street. My sister owns it. I work there on weekends to help her out and so she doesn’t have to hire a sitter.”