CHAPTER 19
CASSIE
I want my mother to go back to Boston. No, even better—let her go south. I want her to drive all the way down to Florida, find her way to Cape Canaveral, board a rocket ship, get launched into outer space, and make a new life for herself on a distant planet somewhere.
Ugh. All right. Maybe I’m being overdramatic.
Actually, no. You know what? I’m being a perfectly reasonable amount of dramatic.
Since she got here, Mom has been utterly insufferable. And maybe if she were behaving poorly toward only me, I’d have an easier time letting it slide off my shoulders. But she’s been bitchier than usual to my grandmother, and that makes me see red. It’s inexcusable and Grandma doesn’t deserve it. Besides that, it’s quite repulsive watching a woman in her forties act like a spoiled brat, which is what Mom is doing when I enter the kitchen for breakfast.
“Mother!” she snaps. “You have to give a speech. I’m not letting this go.”
“It’s no longer our establishment, Victoria. The new owner is the one who should deliver the speech.”
“The new owner is a child,” Mom retorts, lifting her nose up. “And she made the offer. She asked you to do it.”
“And I declined.”
“Mother.”
“Victoria.” Grandma’s looking increasingly annoyed. “I already declined the offer. The subject is closed.”
“This makes our family look bad.” Mom, as usual, refuses to drop it. “The Tanners built the Beacon, and a Tanner should be the one to speak at the reopening. Say a proper goodbye. If we say nothing, it looks like we’re just handing it over.”
“We sold it, dear.” Grandma gives her a pointed look. “Primarily because neither you nor your siblings wanted to take on the responsibility of renovating it. So, please, let the new owner reap the rewards of her efforts and enjoy her moment in the sun. I had nothing to do with this reopening and I wouldn’t feel comfortable taking any credit for it.”
I hide a smile. Go, Grandma.
“Good morning, dear.” Grandma catches sight of me in the doorway. “Adelaide stopped by the bakery in town this morning and picked up some fresh croissants and pastries.”
“Oh, nice.” I feel my mother’s eyes on me as I go to the counter to assess the goodies our housekeeper brought.
“Just take one,” Mom warns. “We have a dress fitting today and you don’t want to be bloated for it.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “I’ll try my best not to eat this entire platter.”
Grandma chuckles.
“You slept in,” my mother says.
I don’t miss her frown of reproach. Awesome. Now my sleeping habits are an issue. I genuinely can’t do anything right in her eyes. Well, unless we’re in public together. Then suddenly I’m the most wonderful, accomplished, thoughtful daughter in the world. That’s the image Mom needs to project. That we’re best friends. That my achievements, few as they are at this current time in my life, are all a credit to her.
“I had a late night.” I duck my head and hope they don’t notice my blush, aka the curse of the red hair.
Tate snuck into my bedroom again last night. We hooked up again, and it was better than the first time.
And the second time.
And the third, fourth, fifth …
I’ve seen him every night this week.
Last night, though, was one for the books. He went down on me for almost an hour, his mouth voracious, one hand squeezing and kneading my breasts while the other pushed two fingers inside me. I was biting my lip to stop from being too loud. Tate is very good at what he does.
Truthfully, his breadth of experience is overwhelming sometimes. He’s so comfortable, not just with his own body, but mine. There’s no hesitation when he touches me, only the confident hands of a man who knows what he’s doing.
The one thing he refuses to do, however, is freaking have sex with me.
What? Who’s bitter?
Okay, fine. I’m not actually bitter. I’m impatient. Tate keeps reminding me we’re taking it slow, but part of me wonders if he’s still too scared to be my first. Not just because of the supposed pressure, but for what it may mean for us. Peyton concurred with that suspicion when we texted about it earlier. She said men are terrified women will immediately expect promise rings and I love yous once they lose it to a guy. I told Tate I wasn’t expecting a relationship out of this, but I have a feeling he doesn’t trust that.
“Yes. It did sound like a late night for you.” Grandma’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “I heard you talking long past midnight. You had a friend over?” she prompts, looking like she’s fighting a smile.
Shit. I thought we were being quiet, but evidently not.
“No, I didn’t have anyone over,” I lie. And there’s no way Grandma could’ve seen him last night, since Tate still insists on climbing through the window when he comes over, claiming he doesn’t want to bump into my family. I think he just enjoys the sneaky element to it. The excitement. What I’m learning about Tate, the more time I spend with him, is how much he loves leaning into his playful nature.
“I was just watching a movie,” I add. “I didn’t realize I had the volume on so loud. I’m sorry if it woke you.”
Her eyes sparkle. I know she knows I’m lying. “My mistake. Well, then you really ought to lower that volume, dear.”
Mom, of course, believes my lies. “Of course she didn’t have anyone over, Mother. So late at night?”
In Mom’s mind, there’s no way her daughter could possibly have a guy over. Which is ironic since supposedly I look like a bimbo, soooo, apropos to her logic, there should be a line outside my bedroom door.
I grab a plate and a croissant, then reach for the butter. I expect a comment from Mom about going easy on the butter, but it doesn’t come. She’s busy checking her phone now.
I join them at the table, my own phone coming to life the moment I sit down. I peer at it, anticipation dancing through me when I notice the email subject line.
“Ahh! The printer sent me the digital proof!” I tell Grandma.
Mom looks up and asks, “What proof?” at which point I remember I hadn’t told her about my foray into the world of children’s book authorship. Wasn’t planning on it, either.
But it’s too late now.
“Oh, it’s no big deal,” I say, downplaying the project. “I put together a little illustrated book for Roxanne and Monique. You know, for their birthday.” I shrug. “It’s cute. I wrote the story, and asked Robb to do the illustrations—”
Shit.
What the hell is wrong with me? I’m two for two now with boneheaded slipups.
“Robb?” Mom is visibly displeased. “Robb Sheffield?”
“Yeah.” I tear a piece off my croissant and shove it into my mouth. Maybe if I’m chewing she’ll stop questioning me.
“I didn’t realize you two kept in touch.”
“Oh. Yes. Here and there.”
“Here and there,” she echoes.
“Uh-huh.” I chew extra slowly. “We exchange the occasional message on social media, just to say what’s up.”
Her lips flatten as she picks up her coffee cup. “You know how I feel about that, Cassie.”
Well, too frickin’ bad. You can’t give me a stepbrother for five years and then expect me to never speak to him again just because you got another divorce.
I don’t say that out loud.
Honestly, though, I genuinely liked the man Mom remarried. Stuart Sheffield. Filthy rich, of course. I mean, with a name like that, of course he’s wealthy. Stu was more serious than my dad, stricter as well, but he was kind. Sucks that he fell for my mother’s Ms. Congeniality act, but I don’t blame him for that. She’s very skilled at charming people. And seeing as how the world revolves around her, the moment she decided Stu and Robb didn’t exist, I was expected to follow suit.
“It’s not a big deal,” I repeat. “Not like Robb and I are vacationing together in the Hamptons. I just asked him to do a few drawings for me.”
“And what’s this, you’re writing a children’s book now?” She sounds irritated. “That’s what my big, fancy college tuition check is going toward?”
“It’s just a birthday present. The twins love the bedtime stories I make up for them. Dad suggested I put one in a book.”
“Of course he did.”
I grit my teeth, then force myself to release the tension in my jaw.
It tightens right back up when Mom coolly inquires, “And what is your father’s nurse planning for the birthday celebrations?”
“Victoria,” my grandmother snaps.
“What?” She flicks up an eyebrow.
“I thought I instilled better manners in you than that.”
“Seriously, Mother? You’re siding with Clayton’s trophy wife?”
I swallow a laugh, because Nia is the furthest thing from a trophy wife. Nia doesn’t care about image, about money, about clothes, about status. She’s everything that my mother isn’t.
“There’s a party for the twins during the day,” I say, ignoring the jab about Nia. “All their friends will be there. And afterward we’re having dinner, just the five of us.” Then, since I anticipate a bitchy comment about being left out of her own daughter’s momentous twenty-first birthday, I add, “You and I are still going to Charleston that weekend, right? Spending all of Sunday there? I’m so excited for that.”
Making it about her has the desired effect. She smiles warmly. “I’m looking forward to it too.” She rises from her chair. “Anyway. We have the fitting in an hour, and I’d like to get there a bit early. Will you be ready to leave after you eat?”
“Yup.”
“Okay, great. I need to make a phone call before we go.” She saunters out of the kitchen.
I don’t know why, but I have a feeling she’s off to call my former stepfather to gripe about the fact that their kids are still in contact.
And speaking of that … I quickly click on the email and open the attachment.
“Let me see too,” Grandma urges, so I drag my chair closer to hers and together we ooh and aah over the final product. “Oh, Cassie, you did a tremendous job.”
“It was a team effort.” I’m not being humble—it really had been. I wrote the story. Robb did the drawings. And Peyton, who works for a graphic design firm in Boston, put together the layout that I sent to the printer.
I pinch the screen to zoom in on an illustration. Robb’s creative interpretation of Kit the dragon is remarkable. Somehow, he found the perfect balance between scary and cutesy. He brought Kit to life.
“He is so talented,” I marvel. “They look like real characters, don’t they?”
“They are real characters. You created them, dear.”
“I know, but now I can see them. This is so cool.” I feel myself beaming.
“There’s that smile.” Grandma leans over and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Cassandra…” Her voice softens. “I know your mother is … difficult. To say the least. I hope you don’t hold some of the things she says too close to your heart. And I want you to know that I’m proud of you. I’m proud of the woman you’re becoming and I think you are absolutely wonderful.”
I blink back tears. I didn’t know it, but that’s exactly what I needed to hear this morning.