Sweet Girl (15 page)

His chewing slows while he considers the question.

“Three years, I think. It was back when it was a buyer’s market, and I could still swing a 4.2 interest rate.”

“Kind of young to take on so much responsibility, aren’t you?” I can’t help but ask.

He shakes his head and spears a last bite of egg. I am shocked to realize he devoured the whole plate in under four minutes.

“Honestly, it’s been a long time since I felt young,” he answers.

“I totally understand the sentiment,” I agree.

“How long for those to bake?” He points at the oven, where the cheesecakes are baking away.

I look at the timer on my phone.

“About forty more minutes,” I answer.

“Well then, follow me.”

He leaves the room, and then I have no choice but to do what he says or stand there awkwardly in the empty kitchen.

His big living room is dominated by overstuffed couches in taupe, and the only color in the room comes from an oversize framed Warhol print of a large smoking gun. My dad would approve; he loves Warhol. Across from the print is a flat-panel TV nearly as big as the picture, held aloft by a giant vintage-looking easel. Beyond the living room is a dining room totally dominated by a gorgeous lacquered table. I reach out a hand to run along the top when I realize what it is.

“Is this a door?” I ask, surprised.

The lacquer makes it shine, and the metal base makes it feel industrial and so cool, but beneath the varnish you can clearly see the weathered effect of years spent outdoors.

“It used to be,” he answers, looking down at the table along with me.

“It’s gorgeous,” I whisper, because it is.

It must take incredible skills to preserve the patina of the wood, not to mention a design aesthetic that would imagine juxtaposing a modern-looking base that shouldn’t complement it so well.

“Where did you find this?” I ask, running my fingertips along a groove.

“My granddad’s barn,” he answers sheepishly.

I look up in surprise at his tone. The piles of wood in the garage make sense.

“You made this,” I say in wonder.

“I did.” His mouth quirks up to one side.

“You should sell your work,” I tell him sincerely.

A piece like this would go for thousands of dollars. With the right exposure he could make a fortune.

The other side of his mouth joins the party, and soon there is a massive grin splitting his face in two.

“Jennings, not to put too fine a point on this, but how do you think I bought the house in the first place?”

“You do sell your work.”

He nods.

“A lot of it?” I ask.

I know it is just barely not rude, but I have a thousand questions about him now. He is totally different than what I’d first expected, and I can’t help but wonder. Before he can open his mouth to answer, a gray ball of fur lands on the table in front of me with a hiss.

I jump backwards a full two feet to escape a wild claw swung in my direction.

“What is
that
?” I demand as the thing curls a giant tail around its front paws like visiting royalty.

“This,” Taylor says, reaching out to rub a hand affectionately over the thing’s head, “is Holden, and he’s far more interesting than my work.”

A single golden eye blinks at me in disdain—single because there is only a puckered scar where his other eye should be.

“He’s basically the greatest cat on the planet,” Taylor says, giving his ears a good scratch.

I scrunch up my nose, meeting the cat’s dislike with a gaze of my own.

“If you say so,” I tell them both.

“It’s perfect,” Avis says in utter surprise.

The tension of the last eighteen hours leaves my body in a rush. I’d never made cheesecake before last night, and it took eleven tries before I found a recipe I thought was good enough. Taylor, to his credit, never complained once but sat at the small table in his breakfast nook working on a laptop and dutifully sampling each option I brought to him. He pronounced each one better than the one before, but when I added an extra ingredient to the last batch, he nearly melted to the floor in a puddle after the first bite.

Even with that response, though, I still hadn’t known if I could get Avis’s recipe right a second time, and I’d been sick with nerves. Hearing the word “perfect” makes me feel incredible.

“Really?” I squeak.

“Why, weren’t you sure about my recipe?” she demands.

“I . . . uh . . . no. I just wasn’t . . .” I decide for a little honesty. “. . . totally sure about the chili powder. I didn’t know if I was reading that ingredient right.”

“Chili powder,” she says, and I can’t place her tone.

“Yes, it was surprising to me, but then I don’t have your palate. It ended up making all the difference.”

A small smile plays around the edge of her lips.

“It sure did.” She smiles grandly before leaving me there with a half-eaten mini cheesecake. I pick up a clean fork and take a bite from the untouched half. Last night I only let myself have the tiniest taste to make sure the flavors were right, but now the full impact hits me in a riot of creamy decadence. Caramel and chocolate mix with the filling and play off the crunch the walnuts add to the crust. The barest hint of heat from the chili powder is incredible.

Avis is utterly full of herself, but I guess when you are a creative genius, you earn that right.

Chapter Twelve

“B-17!” a drag queen dressed like Miley Cyrus in her famous VMA costume calls from the front of the bar.

I take another sip of my drink, and Miko reaches between us to stamp the spot on my card.

“Honestly, why would you come and not even play the game?” she asks in a huff.

She’s been filling in my card for me for the last half an hour.

At a table nearby a couple is apparently having some kind of fight. It becomes very audible as the girl slur-screams something unintelligible, slams her drink on the table, and dramatically huffs her way to the door. The Miley impersonator watches her under lashes that are longer than a standard-size ruler. Miley can’t seem to resist commenting as the woman stumbles by.

“Oh, honey,” he calls after her, “emotions are for ugly people.”

I snort before taking a sip of my drink.

“I came for the booze, obviously,” I tell Miko without taking my eyes off the drag queen.

The face of the teddy bear on his one-piece bathing suit distorts each time he rolls the bingo ball around in the cage, and when he sticks out his tongue in exaggeration after each pronouncement, you can see his dental work. It is grotesque and therefore mesmerizing.

“I-32!” he hollers again.

“Y’all are no fun. At least get into the spirit of it!” Landon calls across the high bar table at me.

Brody looks up in response, his lips pursed in barely concealed disdain.

“I’m at a bar in Hollywood on a Thursday. I’m drinking domestic beer while a man in a furry leotard screams directions to a room filled with college students. Sweetheart, I’m not sure how much further I can get into the spirit without requiring a tetanus shot,” Brody tells her pointedly.

Landon just smiles in response and gives him a kiss on the cheek. She must have realized long ago what a snob Brody is and what kind of fuss he’ll put up if forced to come to a place this far east of Cahuenga. The fact that he is here at all just shows what he is willing to put up with in order to hang out with her.

A group of guys walk by our table holding a third round of beers, and one of them slides his gaze slowly up and down my leather leggings.

“I like those pants.” He starts in on the pickup line that nobody has used since ’98 and that no one had
ever
pulled off successfully. “They’d look way better on my—”

Before I can even open my mouth or move to block Brody from jumping to my defense, an angry voice cuts through the buzz around us.

“If you value your teeth, you won’t even finish the line,” a deep voice rumbles from behind me.

The creeper smirks in typical douchey male bravado, but it totally loses the effect when he trips and his friends have to catch him. They stagger back to whatever corner of the bar they came from without looking back again.

I spin around in shock.

Taylor stands behind me, close enough that I can feel the anger radiating off him in waves. His right hand flexes menacingly at his side, and the map of artwork curves around his hard biceps. I recognize what he must look like to another man: trouble.

Beside him my brother appears equally tense as he looks back and forth between Taylor and me. There isn’t any love lost between the two of them and hasn’t been for months. Taylor and Landon are close friends, which means Brody knows he has to play nice. That doesn’t mean he has to like it. He looks at Taylor now like he is appraising him for the first time.

“Bennett,” Brody says, reaching a hand out.

Taylor looks off over my shoulder, staring after the group of guys, his jaw still clenched. Honestly, I appreciate the anger on my behalf, but that wasn’t anything I couldn’t have handled. He finally reaches out to shake the hand in front of him.

“Hey, man. How’s it going?” he finally asks civilly.

“Well . . .” Brody looks around us as if the mass of bodies and neon lighting is explanation enough. “I’m going to need another drink,” he announces. “Who else needs a refill?”

“Me!” Miko says, shaking an empty bottle in the air.

“Ditto,” Landon calls.

I shake my head since I’ve barely touched my drink.

“I’ll help you carry,” Taylor tells him, and they walk away to the bar together.

I fiddle with my bracelets nervously, feeling suddenly stupid to have worn leather pants in the first place. I rarely put any effort into going out, but I felt like putting some in tonight. The leather pants fit like a second skin, and while the white T-shirt isn’t tight, it still hugs my curves. I’d finally found the time to have my hair cut, so my pixie cut is back in a perfectly styled fauxhawk. With the smokiest of smoky eyes and a deep-plum lip stain, I am actively trying to look hot for the first time in years. I don’t want to peer too closely at why that is.

“Unlike you to be so quiet,” Miko throws out conversationally.

I snort, feeling more like myself with the disdainful response.

“Hardly. I’m rarely talkative. That’s Landon’s area of expertise,” I tell her.

“You’re right. You are typically quiet unless challenged or pissed off or dealing with a jag bag,” she tells me, all the while never taking her eyes off the six bingo cards laid out in front of her. She watches them with childlike glee as if willing them to possess each new number Manly Cyrus calls out.

“Jag bag?” I can’t help but ask.

“It’s a perfect word for guys like that, trust me.” She points a thumb behind her in the direction of the drunk guys and stabs her stamp down on O-73.

“Ah,” I answer, taking a sip of my drink.

“The point being that you don’t ever hold your tongue in situations like that. Makes one wonder what’s got you so flustered and introspective.”

“They didn’t have Perrier,” Taylor says, setting a bottle down in front of me. “I got you a Pellegrino instead. I know you like lemon, but I don’t trust anything not from a hermetically sealed container in this place.”

“Thanks,” I mumble.

The tension is gone from him now, and he takes a long pull of his beer while sliding my card closer so he can have a look.

I don’t have to look Miko’s way to know her head is cocked to one side, studying us both. I keep playing with the straw from my drink while Taylor turns to talk to Brody. I studiously avoid turning in Miko’s direction, so she finally leans close and whispers so only I can hear.

“One can’t help but remember a lost bet that resulted in a day trip, a trip you still haven’t told Landon about for some reason. That makes one wonder why he nearly rammed his fist down some guy’s throat for half a pickup line. Or when, in your limited acquaintance, he started to care so much about how you take your water.”

I don’t have the nerve to look back at her or play dumb, because I am wondering the same thing myself.

“Max,” she sings my name with wicked glee, “are you keeping secrets?”

“Bingo!” Landon screams above the crowd, clapping happily.

All eyes swing to her as she jumps into Brody’s arms, laughing like she just won a new car instead of a free drink ticket.

Around us everyone smiles along with her because her joy is infectious, and I am saved from having to face a question I don’t have a good answer to.

“Oh, Kenzie, isn’t this just divine?” my mother coos to me.

I look at her over the top of a rack of summer scarves as she holds up a long-sleeved top the same color as the sign out front. Only in Los Angeles are there such things as summer scarves, and only at Fred Segal do they cost more than a small fishing boat.

“Mom, you already have, like, several hundred tunics, and I’m sure you have more than one in that color,” I say, walking over for a closer inspection.

She sticks her tongue out at me playfully. “Well, you’re no fun as a shopping buddy today.”

“Which makes sense because I came for the chicken paillard,” I say while looking idly through a line of leather shorts.

“Ooh, what about these peasant tops?” she asks, making her way over to the next line of clothing. “But then, you don’t like an empire waist, do you?”

“Makes me look like my torso is nine feet long,” I tease over my shoulder.

“Some people might love to have a nine-foot torso.” She waves the peasant top in my direction.

“Name one.”

“Um . . .” She fights a smile. “Someone with a twelve-foot inseam?”

I laugh loud enough that I’m sure they hear it all the way back in men’s shoes. We haven’t hung out like this for a while, not because she didn’t ask, but because so many unresolved arguments between us made wandering through an overpriced department store more than tedious. When she suggested the outing earlier in the week, I internally balked at the idea since I would have to fit it in during the only hours I’d had off in several weeks. But I still have some pretty epic guilt about all of the secrets I’ve been keeping, and some part of me loves afternoons like this for the same reason she does: they remind us both of better days.

Fred Segal, with its all-American signage and its leaf-covered façade, is the epitome of Southern California shopping. Everything inside it is unique and hand-picked, and has the price tag to keep out the riffraff. We’d been having lunch at the café together since I was a teenager.

“All right, miss. I promised you lunch,” she says, linking her arm through mine. “Let’s head out there before it gets too crowded.”

As we sit down at a small table on the patio, I push my sunglasses up on my head to see the menu better. I know what I will order; I always get the same thing here, but I love reading through a restaurant’s description of its food. Now that I work on recipes regularly, I know how hard it is to sell a dish based on a single flowery description.

“What are you going to have?” I ask, looking up at her.

Rather than respond, she knits her eyebrows in a frown. She reaches out her hand to run a thumb along the top of my cheek.

“Mackenzie, you look so tired,” she says, sounding sincerely worried. “Look at these bags under your eyes.”

I pull my face away, and her hand drops back down to the table.

“Thanks, Mom. That’s just what every woman wants to hear.”

I try to deflect her attention with my annoyed tone, but I know she is right. The weeks of double shifts are still evident in the dark circles under my eyes. Even with only one job, I am still working too many hours to catch up on the sleep. I keep telling myself that once I know the menu better, I won’t have to work so many extra hours to perfect every dish. But it seems like each time I figure out something new, Avis has another challenge to throw my way.

“I’m serious, Mackenzie,” Mom tells me.

“So am I, Mother.” I raise my eyebrows. “The waiter would like to take our order. What are you going to have?”

She smiles sweetly at the waiter she only just noticed.

“Oh, Matthew,” she tells the guy standing next to our table. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t even see you there.”

“No problem, Mrs. Ashton. Should I give you both a moment to decide?” he inquires.

“Oh, of course not.” She looks over the menu in front of her. “Kenzie, do you want your usual?”

I nod in response to her raised eyebrows and sit farther back in my chair to watch the show. My mother makes ordering from a menu into some kind of art form. She rarely chooses one entrée but rather selects three or four things so she can have a couple bites of each. It is a complete indulgence, and she spares no expense in her selections or her requests to alter those selections to suit her ideals. Her love of food combined with the fact that she tips exceptionally well makes her a favorite of waitstaff on both coasts.

“First we’ll have the quinoa salad without the peas. And Matty, can we get just a dash of that Italian truffle oil on top?” she asks, knowing full well she’ll never be denied anything despite the fact that the menu clearly states there can be no substitutions.

“Of course.” He smiles grandly.

“You’re an angel.” She beams at him. “Next, I’m dying for the
vongole
. What wine should I have today?”

“We just opened a gorgeous Sancerre,” he tells her, nearly giddy as he writes down each new addition to the order.

“Divine! Two glasses, please. Then we want the chicken paillard, but can you ask them to sauté the potatoes in butter instead of olive oil?”

“Absolutely,” he agrees again.

“Ooh, what’s the pizza today?” she says, apparently coming to that line on the menu.

“Mother, where are we putting all of this?” I have to ask.

She dismisses my question with a wave. “You know Daddy will eat whatever we bring home.” She looks up at the server expectantly.

“Margherita, with heirloom tomatoes. Would you like to add that as well?” he asks.

She wrinkles her nose in distaste. Apparently the choice isn’t exciting enough to warrant the calorie count.

“No, let’s just start with the first three, and if we need to add on we can later.”

“Perfect.” He takes the menus from us. “The wine will be right out.”

She turns to me with a huge smile on her face.

“I can’t wait to try that
vongole
,” she says happily.

I shake my head, amused at her obvious excitement. “You’ve had it at least a thousand times before,” I tell her.