His Kind of Perfect (Sugar Bay #1) (15 page)

The hint of Chanel no. 5 signaled impending
doom but the Versace bag that was slammed down next to her served as
confirmation.

Anabelle bit back an unfeminine word and
reached for her allergy medication. “Hello Mother.” In the next few minutes, her
eyes would itch and water and she wanted to be prepared.

The French fragrance had been Claire
Broussard’s signature scent for as far back as Anabelle could remember. She had
no idea why her mother preferred it to all else but then again it was a perfect
fit for her mother's personality, expensive and cloying. Sort
of
like the wisteria vine in her neighbor’s yard, glorious
once a year, but otherwise a pervasive and annoying pain that took over
everything in sight.

“Anabelle.”

Cool gray eyes assessed her and she fought
the need to squirm. Claire had a specific way of staring that encouraged
confessions before you sinned, made you stutter and question every decision you
once considered correct.

To be honest, Claire Broussard was scary.

She hadn’t always been that way but time
and circumstance had changed all that.

There’d been a time when Claire had been
warm and loving. Anabelle had the photos to prove it and since she’d had to
sneak them from her mother, they remained hidden. She had suspicions they would
disappear because her mother didn’t like being reminded of those times.

Physically, Claire looked perfect. Everything
was as it should be, from a bold stroke of plum colored lipstick, to a sharply
angled bob that tamed the mahogany brown hair that was the same color as
Anabelle’s.

Charlie once remarked that Claire was a
mash up of Cruella DeVille and Endora from the classic Bewitched. Every
Halloween Charlie convinced all who would listen that Claire was a witch in
hiding, never alluding whether Claire was a good or a bad witch, just that she
was a witch because Claire had the uncanny ability to sense things. Maybe she’d
heard about the sexy halter dress Anabelle had chosen for her cousin’s wedding?

“What are you doing here?” Her dad lived by
the motto…the best defense was a good offense. So, she went with that.

“Where else would I be?” Her mother’s tone
was very Southern and Anabelle winced. In her experience, the more distinct her
mother’s southern accent was, the more trouble Anabelle was in.

“Aren’t you supposed to be with Aunt Lorraine
on your Grand European Holiday?”

“I cut it short. The first couple of ruins
were interesting but after weeks’ worth of them, they started to blend so I made
the executive decision to ditch those two and come home early.”

“I don’t get it. Who comes home early from a
European vacation?”

“I heard some disturbing news and I
couldn’t rest until I found out the truth.”

Dread slithered down Anabelle’s back. She hoped
the disturbing news her mother was concerned about had something to do with the
sexy dress that was a daring stretch for her, but she had a bad, bad feeling it
wasn’t.

The luscious smell of coffee hit her when
she opened the glass doors. She stood at the entrance, took a moment to inhale the
aromatic yumminess. Heaven must smell like Starbuck’s and a bakery. Coffee and
tea drinkers loitered the coffee shop. Some nibbled on pastries and drank their
brew, while others crammed tiny tables with their laptops and used the free
Internet.

Guilt was a powerful motivator and her
mother fully utilized her power. Childbirth must give women magical powers of
manipulation and persuasion? As in the more painful, the more effective their
guilt trips.

So instead of watching Netflix at home
while doing laundry, she was meeting a guy she’d never met before to please her
mother. Fifteen minutes should be enough and would satisfy her sense of guilt.

The ‘Master of Manipulation’ had said Ethan
wore glasses.

She should have asked for more details but
she’d be dammed if she would text her mother for information now. She might end
up naming her first child Mildred or Bunny or whatever Claire wanted because
‘Mother knew best’.

There should be a law against having one
child. It was too much pressure for the poor sucker and she hated it. If she’d had
a sibling, there would be another sucker for her mother to manipulate.

If
only.

At least three guys with glasses were present.
She dismissed the cute guy with the hipster glasses. The orange backpack he had
with him screamed college bound and her mother was a stickler for propriety. She
might be in the midst of a grand experiment, but she had no plans on making
younger men her modus operandi.

The guy with the coke bottle glasses had a
goatee and since her mother had a well-known discrimination against facial
hair, claiming Tom Selleck was the only man alive that looked better with a
mustache rather than without, she dismissed him as well.

That left the last guy and…holy cow.

He sensed her stare and looked up. “Anabelle?”

Good Golly. Her mother didn’t mess around
when she played matchmaker.

He stood and revealed a tall frame with a
blue button down shirt and tan chinos. The guy was beautiful if you liked the male
model type. Fit but without the bulky muscles that made one worry about the
dangers of steroids and shrunken testicles…Charlie’s words of wisdom. A hint of
stubble accompanied a face that every female in America would love. The fact he
was a doctor and hot made her instantly suspicious. She’d been used and abused
before and had no desire to be another shield.

“Are you gay?”

He blinked his gray eyes but shook his
head.

“A felon?”

He grinned and a dimple appeared. “No.”

“A cross dressing lunatic with a desire to
turn me into a skin suit?”

He laughed out loud but when she didn’t
join and instead waited for a reply, he stopped. “No,” he said with an almost
straight face.

She appreciated his effort.

“Now can we shake hands or are you packing
a Taser.”

She sighed, took his extended hand and
felt…nothing. Not a zip. Not a zing. Not even a zippity-do-da.

Disgusting.

A good looking, age appropriate,
heterosexual guy lands in her lap and her girly parts refused to melt. It was a
slap in the face to red-blooded girls everywhere. She’d question her sexuality
if she weren’t a panting, drooling mess that stripped naked at the least
provocation from one Derek Wheaton.

Physically, Ethan was prime baby making
material. He had a good job, was kind to old ladies evidenced by his presence
tonight. She should be fist pumping and doing the end zone dance, no doubt
about it.

But the fact remained, Anabelle Broussard
was a contrary lunatic and maybe more like her mother than she wanted to be.

She shook her head at that depressing thought.

Fifteen minutes never felt so long.

With every downward stroke, Anabelle vented
her frustration on the defenseless flank steak she planned for dinner. The fact
that it needed to be tenderized was a bonus. The intended fifteen minutes she’d
allotted had turned into an hour-long coffee date. Though she felt guilty, she
wasn’t sure she should.

Although the master manipulator had
insisted she meet Ethan, a part of her wanted to see if another, more suitable
man would cure her of her obsession with Derek.

The coffee shop date had morphed into a
therapy session. Intuitive guy that he was, Ethan used pastries to coax her
into confessing her man troubles. While he listened and she chugged green tea,
her phone sounded alerts. A part of her wanted to jump on the phone and check
the incoming messages as she’d done since the start of the experiment but
another, more prudent part of her wanted to slow down. Each encounter brought
with it more intimacy. The man had a way of making her do things. Want things.
He was hypnotic that way. She was addicted to him, went to bed thinking about
him and woke up feeling the space next to her for him.

It was madness. And she knew, it wouldn’t
end well.

She needed distance.

So she’d ignored the texts.

Whack.

The experiment hadn’t made them a couple so
she shouldn’t feel guilty for ignoring his text.

They were tutor/student.

Whack.

She should have jumped Ethan. That would
have distracted her from her obsession. He was the grown up choice. Her mother’s
words echoed in her head. Security. Dependability. Companionship.

The dead meat got another whack.

An image of Derek came to mind. Dark, sexy
eyes that stared at her with need and made her feel like the most fascinating
creature on earth. Like he felt more than affection, more than lust. It was
delusional of course because it wasn’t possible.

Yet when he wrapped his arms around her,
his touch both gentle yet strong, she melted. Couldn’t help it. The way he
stared into her eyes when they made love.
Correction.
When they had sex.

Whack.

She’s be
wise
to remember their agreement.

If she were super smart, she’d stop their
deal. Stop before she got more involved.

It had been dangerous to assume she could
have sex without emotion. She was more like her mother than she thought. She’d
seen firsthand her mother’s devastation and her retreat from the world after
her father’s death.

Her phone pinged.

Derek.

Her resolve weakened and she reached for
the phone before remembering her dirty hands.

“Let me get that for you.”

She spun, hand on her chest, and tried to
calm her pounding heart. “Good grief, Mother. Give a girl some warning next
time. You’re like a freaking ninja.”

“I called out but you made so much noise
with your pounding, I guess you didn’t hear me.”

“You think?”

“Really, Anabelle. I think the cow is dead.
There’s no use in beating it to death again.”

“Funny, mother. I’m trying a Pinterest
recipe for Bulgogi,” she said before noticing something was different today.
Her eyes weren’t itching or watering. “You’re not wearing perfume today.”

“I’m trying yoga for the first time tonight
and decided to forgo perfume to help my search for clarity.”

“Good luck with that,” she murmured under
her breath.

“I heard that.”

“Heard what mother?”

“Never mind.” Claire folded Anabelle’s hand
towel in a perfect square. “The question is…are you seeing him again?”

“Who?” She read the recipe again. No need
to support her mother’s craziness.

“You know perfectly well who. You haven’t
returned any of my calls and I’ve been dying to know how the coffee date went.”

“Ah. The real reason you stopped by.”

“Answer the question.”

“Then…no.”

“But why?”

“Would you like some cheese with that whine,
mother?”

“Why, in heaven’s name, won’t you go out
with him again? He’s a doctor for crying out loud.”

“Then you date him.”

“What?” If Anabelle’s hands were clean, she’d
have covered her ears to protect herself from her mother’s strident screech.

“Try it mother. Get yourself some of that
and be a cougar,” she said, waggling her brows at her apocalyptic mother.

“You impertinent child…I
would never-“

“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.”

“What are you saying?”

“Ummm…nothing.”

“Anabelle Magdalene Broussard, what do you
know about dating a younger man? Are you dating one?” her mother asked with
squinted eyes.

The term dating implied coupledom, so she answered
honestly, “No.”

The weight of her mother’s stare was
intense so she concentrated on avoiding eye contact…first rule of thumb for
survival at the Broussard house. Her mother was a fierce tiger and everyone
knew tigers ate their young, which didn’t bode well for her.

She dumped brown sugar into the marinade. Wait.
Had that been her first or second cup? Ugh. Lucky Anabelle, her mother and
Charlie had fierce interrogation skills in common so the precision she was
known for, especially in following recipes, was shot.

She gave up and grabbed soy sauce, pepper
and sesame oil. She added a few shakes of each. For days she’d craved the
recipe and now she wasn’t sure if the dish would even be palatable. But she focused
on impersonating a master chef. Fake it ‘til you make it. Shake. Mix. Stir. She
pretended to read the recipe, all without glancing at her mother.

No stranger to Anabelle’s avoidance
maneuver, her mother washed and bit into an apple she’d selected from
Anabelle’s fruit bowl. Her gaze on Anabelle never wavered and left Anabelle
praying, once again, for a sibling.

“The coffee date was pleasant but there was
no spark.” She was no good with silence. She was so weak and hated it. She
shook her head and checked the grill. She started the first batch, enjoying the
sizzle sound it made. If design didn’t work out, maybe she could audition for
Master Chef.

“For the love of Pete, Anabelle! What are
you looking for? Do you want him to rip off your clothes on the first date?”

“Of course not.” She coughed to cover a
nervous chuckle that had escaped because she recalled the pool hall, when Derek
first kissed her. If not for the public venue, they’d have ripped each other’s
clothes off. Derek’s inability to keep his hands off of her continued to be a
source of wonder and her cheeks warmed at the memory of last week’s beach
excursion. “We’re better off as friends, that’s all.”

“If you say so, although I don’t think you gave
him much of a chance.”

Anabelle shrugged and lined up the next
batch.

“What about the architect you’d mentioned?”

“You’ll meet Heath at the International
Benefit Gala this weekend.”

“Lovely.”

“Yes, but don’t get any ideas. I’m not
interested in him romantically either. We are
friends
.”

“Fine, fine. I have to go. Yoga awaits.” Her
mother grabbed her bag and keys.

Anabelle had a feeling her mother hadn’t
heard a word. She still wore the look of a woman on a mission, which was never
a good thing for the subject of said mission.

“I’m not kidding mother, Ethan and Heath
are just friends.”

More silence reigned as her mother tugged
on her sandals.

“Mother?”

Her mother’s sigh was long and full of
maternal disappointment. “Got it, Anabelle. No more matchmaking. You want to be
old and alone and die without having babies.”

“Not what I said mother.” But Claire had
left, leaving Anabelle with a failed Pinterest attempt.