Penthouse Prince Page 11

  “Doggy!” Grier says loudly.

  “I know, love bug, it’s a dog,” I say. “What do you want, Gail?”

  Gail shakes her head. “I ate breakfast before my shift started, so I don’t need anything.”

  “I asked what you wanted, not needed,” I say with a smile. “I insist, get whatever you like. My treat.”

  “I can come back,” someone says.

  Keeping one eye on Grier, I look to find our waiter standing by. “I’m ready if you all are.”

  “Sure. I’ll have the . . .” Gail glances at the menu. “Basic egg-white combo and a coffee.”

  I say, “Coffee for me too, and the—”

  Grier glares at me. “Daddy, doggy!”

  Nodding to Grier, I quickly finish our order, ordering eggs for me and pancakes for my daughter.

  The waiter turns to Mom. “Coffee for you as well, ma’am?”

  “Oh, I wish I could, but coffee’s started giving me a stomachache lately. I’ll have iced tea, please, and the spinach eggs benedict.”

  He takes our menus and departs just as Grier hits the end of her patience with being ignored and releases an earsplitting howl of “Dooooggiiiiiieeeee!”

  The old man at the next table lets out a warm, gravelly laugh. “That’s a powerful set of pipes. Would your little princess like to meet Hamburger?” he asks me. “He’s very calm.”

  Giving up, I lift Grier out of her seat and set her down. “I think she might explode if she doesn’t.”

  She screams with glee and buries her chubby fingers deep in the dog’s plush coat. True to his owner’s word, the dog barely moves, except to lick her cheek—prompting another loud squeal.

  “Gentle, love bug, you’ve got to be gentle with animals,” I say. “How would you feel if someone pulled your hair?”

  Grier pauses to process this, then continues mauling the dog, only a little less fiercely. He doesn’t seem to mind, based on how his tail thumps a rapid beat on the concrete patio.

  Gail asks the old man, “So, Hamburger?”

  “My granddaughter named him. She’s thirteen now, but she was only . . . oh, about your little one’s age when he was born.”

  “How darling,” Mom coos.

  Hamburger is a good sport, but when the food arrives, Grier loses interest in tormenting him and toddles back to me. “Hungwy.”

  “Now seems like the right time to get going. It was nice meeting you all.” The old man touches his hat and leaves, the dog matching his sedate pace.

  “You too. Have a good day,” I reply as I lift Grier back into her high chair.

  “This looks wonderful.” Mom takes a large bite and her face breaks out in a wide smile. “And it tastes even better.”

  The conversation is as pleasant as the food and early summer weather. Lighthearted chatting about the TV shows we’ve seen lately, the cute or funny things Grier has done, the novel series Mom’s been working her way through. For a while, there’s no such thing as cancer or even my troubles with Corrigan.

  “So I’m really looking forward to finding out what’s going to happen between the duchess and that one knight,” Mom says, sipping her tea. “Oh, but would you listen to me, going on and on. How has your work been?”

  I shrug. “Pretty much the same as ever—crazy busy, but good. I’ve been riding hard on the New York guys, and things seem to be going fine up there. Some contractors are coming to work on the beach house starting tomorrow, and I think it’ll be ready to rent in less than a month. I’ve also been looking for a good place to buy downtown.”

  “Wonderful. And how’s Corrigan? Did you two ever make up?”

  I should have known this was coming. “Everything’s fine,” I say, not knowing or caring whether it’s a lie. Desperate for any way to steer the conversation in a different direction, I ask Grier, “You wanna tell Grandma about all the fun stuff you’ve done with Corrigan?”

  Lighting up, she says, “We do sketti and ice scweam and paint big picture lotsa messy paint and make a castle ’n dig sand and water so big on feet and . . .”

  She babbles on excitedly, her words coming faster and faster until even I, with all my practice at “Grier-ese,” can barely understand. Gail looks completely lost.

  When Grier finishes, Mom says slowly, “All right, I think I got the parts about food and art.”

  Laughing, I summarize. “The three of us have been to the beach a couple times, and she loved it.”

  Mom’s brow furrows in confusion. “Three? You’re paying Corrigan to look after Grier, but you’re also looking after Grier yourself?”

  Shit, I revealed too much. “That only happened once.” I’m aware that I sound ridiculously defensive, but I can’t turn it off. “And I think it was helpful to have an extra pair of hands there. The second time at the beach, we just ran into each other by chance.”

  “Oh, I’m not criticizing you—far from it. I’m pleased as punch to hear you’re enjoying quality time with your two girls,” Mom says, beaming.

  The hell? “What do you mean by that? Corrigan isn’t my girl.” No matter how much I wish that were the case. “She’s my employee.”

  Mom gives me a look. She has many looks, and I know most of them pretty well, but this one is complex. A contradictory mix of you’re such a fool sometimes, and you’re smart enough to figure out what you need to do here.

  I’m too tired to try to decode her meaning. If she has a point to make about Corrigan, she can say it. “What?” I ask tersely.

  “Nothing at all.” Mom takes a delicate bite of her eggs benedict.

  Nothing, my ass.

  Fortunately, before we can get into it further, my phone rings.

  “One sec,” I mumble as I pull it out of my pocket. “Let me check this . . .”

  The name on the screen definitely isn’t work-related.

  “Corrigan?”

  “Lex!” she shouts loud enough for the whole table to overhear. “I’m really sorry to call you out of nowhere but my car won’t start and I have to be at the dentist in forty-five minutes and I tried calling roadside assistance but my membership expired literally two days ago and Dak isn’t answering his phone, he’s probably still asleep or forgot to turn on his ringer again, and Sarah Jo’s gone to friggin’ Wyoming to visit her parents, so I didn’t know who else to—”

  I reflexively put my hand up, even though she can’t see it. “Hey, slow down, don’t worry about it. Send me your address, and I’ll be right over.”

  “Are you sure? I can call a tow truck.” At least she’s calmed down enough to pause for breath again.

  “I’m not going to make you pay an arm and a leg for towing when I’m right nearby. Seriously, it’s fine.”

  Standing, I look to Mom and Gail. “Sorry, I have to go help Corrigan real quick. Should I bring Grier or would it be okay to leave her here?”

  Mom shakes her head. “We’ve got her.”

  I nod, and press a kiss to the top Grier’s head. “Stay with Grandma.” I glance at my mom with appreciation. I’ll be back in . . .” I check the map link she sent me. “Twenty minutes. Here’s my credit card in case the waiter wants our payment.”

  Ignoring Mom’s renewed look, I jog out to the car, and a few minutes later, I pull into the parking lot of an apartment building that looks like it’s seen better days. I drive slowly around until I spot Corrigan standing next to a small silver hatchback with its hood standing open. I maneuver as close as I can, pop the latch on my own hood, and get out.

  Corrigan is wearing a pale blue sundress and strappy tan sandals. Her long bare legs are tanned, and her hair lifts in the breeze.

  Shielding her eyes from the sun with one hand, she turns and gives me a little wave and a nervous smile. “Thanks for coming.”

  “Of course. Should I take a look?” I tip my chin toward her car to keep myself from looking at her legs again.

  She nods. “It’s just a dead battery, I think.”

  “I have jumper cables.” Turning, I ope
n the trunk of my car and pull them out.

  “Sorry about dragging you out here on such short notice,” Corrigan says behind me.

  “It’s not a problem.”

  After I hook up our batteries and I start my car, I let it run for five minutes, during which I watch Corrigan waiting in her driver’s seat. Getting paranoid that I’m staring too much, I look away, look back, and repeat.

  Finally, I yell, “Try it now.”

  Corrigan’s engine struggles, then kicks over and growls. She sticks her head out the window to give a celebratory whoop. “It worked!”

  “Great. Now just sit tight and keep it running for at least half an hour. I’ll take these back.” I turn off my ignition and get out to unlink our cars.

  “Thank God. I didn’t know what I was going to do.” She flashes me a relieved smile that makes my stomach do gymnastics.

  The back of my neck feels hot and I rub it, feeling both pleased and awkward. “Seriously, it was nothing. Consider it payback for saving my ass with Grier while Mom was in the ER.” I finish and loop the cables over my arm.

  She shakes her head with a wry heh. “That time doesn’t count. You paid me actual money for that, so you don’t need to do me any favors.”

  I inhale deeply and take the leap. “Well, if you really feel indebted, maybe you could come over and hang out tonight? We’ll order a pizza, do some finger-painting with Grier . . .”

  Her face falls into a frown. “I can’t. I have my date.” Her tone is a little irritated, but it’s mixed with something else. Regret? But that’s probably wishful thinking.

  “Right,” I mutter.

  Of course. I knew that was happening. I haven’t been able to forget it for a minute since she told me.

  Some stupid, desperate part of me was hoping that the guy got food poisoning or something and canceled at the last minute. Or that she’d woken up one morning and thought, Actually, I changed my mind. I’m totally cool with that little ripping-my-high-school-heart-out incident now—let’s go on a date!

  Corrigan gives me a small, almost shy smile. “But thank you for rescuing me. I really appreciate it . . . and you.”

  “Anytime,” I say, and mean it.

  • • •

  “Sorry about that,” I say as I sit back down at our table. “I hope Grier didn’t make too much of a fuss.”

  Gail smiles. “No problem. She was a perfect angel.”

  In a tone that pretends to be innocent but is blatantly laden with meaning, Mom says, “Seems like you care a lot about that girl.”

  Downplaying it, I shrug. “She needed help, so I helped. It was just the decent thing to do. Stop reading so much into every random detail of what happens between me and Corrigan.”

  Mom coolly raises her eyebrows. “Yes, helping is decent, and I’m proud I raised a good boy who doesn’t think twice about it. But if it were anyone else, would you have immediately dropped everything and rushed over like you just did? Or would you have just paid for a repairman to go out and handle it?”

  Her words knock the wind out of me. I protest weakly, “Maybe I would’ve for a total stranger, but there’s a big difference between a stranger and what you’re insinuating. I’d do the same for Dak or any other friend.”

  But we both know Mom sees straight through me. Although her logic doesn’t hold up, her intuition is spot-on.

  There’s no arguing with her or with myself. I’m in so far over my head, it isn’t even funny.

  15

  * * *

  CORRIGAN

  Ouch!

  I drop my curling iron into the sink with a clatter, shaking out my hand to cool off the burn. When was the last time I did my hair, and why did I think I could pull off these loose waves without a tutorial? Those are two questions I may never have the answer to.

  One thing I do know for sure, though. Tonight is the night the pale yellow wedges I impulse-bought last summer come out of their hiding spot in the back of the closet. Why? Because for the first time in half an eternity, I have a date. And just because my day began with a zapped car battery and an emergency rescue mission from my ex-slash-boss doesn’t mean it can’t end on a higher note.

  I pick up the curling iron again, sectioning off a portion of hair and wrapping it around the barrel. But when I pull the iron away, it looks like someone tried to feed my hair through a jammed copy machine. Awesome.

  So much for looking like a ten tonight. I guess I’ll just have to pull out my straightener to get myself back on track. If only that track was heading toward Lex’s place for pizza night with Grier, not toward a mediocre Italian place with a guy I hardly know.

  Before my flat iron has warmed up to a usable temperature, my phone buzzes with a calendar reminder. Just thirty minutes until I’m supposed to be at the restaurant.

  I finish my hair and take another glance in the full-length mirror. The white sundress falls to my knees, and I straighten it over my hips. With a sweep of pink lip gloss and a final shot of hairspray, my confidence is renewed.

  I’m Corrigan freaking Stewart, and tonight, I’m throwing out my usual first-grade teacher vibes for full-on first-date bombshell. I’m ready to stop thinking about my history with Lex and start writing a brand-new story with someone new. And I think Keagan just might be the guy for the job.

  For starters, we have a ton in common. We’re both teachers and . . . okay, that’s actually the end of the list so far. But that’s because I’ve never interacted with him outside of school. Tonight, that’s all going to change. We’re going to get a couple of eleven-dollar pasta entrees, split a bottle of wine, and totally hit it off. I can just feel it. This is the start of something completely new for me.

  I arrive at the restaurant at six o’clock sharp, but thanks to an incredibly chaotic parking lot, it’s a few minutes after six by the time I finally step through the doors. The date-night crowd is out in full force tonight, with just about every table spoken for. If Keagan is here already, I won’t be able to spot him among the masses.

  “Reservation under Keagan Anderson?” I ask the hostess, drumming my fingers nervously against my clutch. “I’m not sure if he’s here yet.”

  “That’s me!” a voice that’s louder than seems appropriate shouts over the ambient music.

  I snap my head in its direction, locking eyes with my date. He’s tucked away at a small table next to the kitchen.

  The hostess gives me a sweet, almost apologetic smile before leading me to our table, where Keagan is waiting with a bottle of wine and a bread basket that, by the looks of it, he’s already combed through for all the good rolls.

  “Hey there, Corrie. Nice of you to finally show up.”

  I cringe at that absolute no-go of a nickname, but before I can correct him, he jumps to his feet, maneuvering around the table to pull me into an ill-advised side hug. Suddenly, this feels less like a date and more like dinner with a coworker.

  Sigh. We’re not off to a great start.

  Once we’ve both settled into our seats, I have a chance to get a real, honest-to-God look at my date for this evening. And I hate to be mean, but he’s not as good-looking as I remembered. Maybe it’s just his sunburned cheeks that are throwing me off, but I also don’t recall him having that receding hairline. For bonus points, his normally clean-shaven face is a mess of patchy stubble. It’s like the hair on his head said see ya and relocated to his jawline. But maybe I won’t notice after a glass or two of wine.

  “Hope you’re good with red.” Keagan gestures to the uncorked bottle in the middle of the table. I recognize the label immediately—this is the same brand of cheap five-dollar wine I pick up when I’m grading papers.

  “Of course,” I lie, then fill up my glass and take a good, long sip.

  It takes a lot of willpower, but I manage not to visibly wince at the taste. I’m getting notes of friend vibes and dead dreams. Rudely, my taste buds choose now as a good time to remind me that, less than a week ago, I was drinking a fancy-pants chardonnay with a
much better-groomed man. A man that makes my heart rate shoot up, despite the short leash I try to keep my body on when he’s near.

  “How’s your summer going?” Keagan asks, pulling me back into the present.

  Jeez. Since when am I the kind of girl to fantasize about another guy while on a date? I really need to pull it together. I’m being rude.

  “It’s been great so far,” I say, forcing a smile. “What about you? Are you missing your kiddos?”

  “Not even a little.” Keagan chuckles, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’m not actually a huge fan of kids.”

  I blink at him, waiting for him to admit that he’s making a joke, albeit not a very funny one. Instead, he just smiles sheepishly from behind his wineglass.

  “You’re kidding, right?” I ask on a nervous laugh. He has to be. Who in the world would go into education without being truly passionate about kids?

  Much to my surprise and complete confusion, Keagan shakes his head. “I was originally in school to be an engineer,” he says, swirling his wine around inside his glass as he gazes up at the ceiling. “I wanted to work on planes. But it turns out those classes are, like, really hard. I was failing out of the program and needed to find a new major, and fast. Luckily, I’d already passed a few of the prerequisite courses for a degree in elementary education. So, here I am.”

  He finally returns his gaze to me, shooting me a big, cheesy smile, as though the crazy talk coming out of his mouth was the most normal thing in the world. Meanwhile, my fingernails are digging tiny trenches into my palms.

  “So you became a teacher . . . by accident?” My voice is strained, but it’s all I can do to keep from snapping at this guy in the middle of this perfectly mediocre restaurant.

  “Not really by accident. It was more just like a backup plan. Those who can’t do, teach, right?”

  His nasally laugh makes my stomach uneasy, so I settle it with a long, slow sip of this terrible cabernet, and fix my gaze on his hairline to keep from having to look this jerk in the eye.