Skinny Bitch in Love (17 page)

I made my deliveries to Julia’s and Cali Bakes—no Sara—and then detoured so I could pass my space for Clementine’s No Crap Café. Still perfect. Still had to have it. Still didn’t have anywhere near the money for it.

I was about to head home when my phone rang—Alexander, saying hi, thanking me again for the cupcakes, telling me how Emil, executive chef at Fresh, had grabbed a knife the wrong way out of the grill chef’s hand the other day and was now bandaged up and out of commission again, much to everyone’s joy. Alexander reported on his love life, and I reported on mine with the same
so far, so good
. We hung up and I stared
in my restaurant space again. Clementine Cooper, owner and executive chef, who didn’t grab knives out of her staff’s hands like an idiot.

“Hey.”

I turned around to find Sara sticking her tongue out at me.

“I’m mad at you, but I miss you,” she said. “Being in a fight with you sucks.”

Yeah, no kidding. “I know. I’ve been moping all morning. That’s why I came over here, to stare into my new dream spot for my restaurant.”

She peered in. “Great location. And with all your new baking stuff, you really might pull it off, Clem. That’s awesome.” She pushed her sunglasses on top of her head. “And I guess you could be right about Duncan. Forewarned and all that. I really like him, though. You should see his pecs, Clem. He’s so hot.”

I wouldn’t go that far. But Sara was staring dreamily into space, and if she thought so, that was all that mattered.

“So how did you two hook up, anyway?” I asked, noticing all the foot traffic on either side of the storefront for my restaurant—lots of great shops around it.

“Remember after the class ended I promised Eva I’d go for one drink with her even though I thought I’d kill myself if I had to listen to her go on about her asshat husband for another half a second? Well, we got downstairs, and then Duncan asked if he could join us, and Eva said fine, he could give the male point of view, but after like one sip of her drink, Eva got a call from her friend—yes, she actually has one—and ditched
us, thank God. So it was just me and Duncan, and we were just hanging out, talking—really talking, though—about everything, and then he just looked at me and told me I had beautiful eyes. And beautiful hair. And he leaned over and kissed me. So I grabbed his face and we were making out and then we went to another bar, and then another, and then we came back to our place since Duncan’s roommate’s girlfriend sleeps over like every night.”

“How’d you leave things?” I asked.

“I don’t know. We just left things. He’ll call today and we’ll hang out. Or something.”

Yeah, or something. I had no idea if I was being cynical or if their drunken sex now meant things would be awkward between them—and for the class.

“So why were you coming from this direction, anyway?” I asked. “You didn’t have to work today?”

“Took the day off. Because guess who got a second callback for the Attractive Friend commercial?”

“I knew it! So awesome, Sara!”

“I know. I can’t believe it. Not the Fat Friend callback. The Attractive Friend callback—and the second one. And I’ve only lost eleven pounds so far. Let’s go celebrate. I’ll treat us to a slice of your chocolate raspberry cake at Julia’s. I swear I’ll only eat a quarter and save the rest for tomorrow and the next day.”

“You can eat a whole slice every once in a while,” I assured her. “We’re celebrating.”

“Ooh, you know what?” she said. “I have a better idea. Did
you see a new tat shop opened where the massage place used to be? I keep thinking about getting something on my ankle. Should I? Like the size of yours.”

I had a little yin-yang symbol next to my left hip bone near my stomach. “Let’s both get one. Right now. I want one for my upper arm.”

She grinned and we headed in to Brat Tat. I couldn’t decide between a Pisces symbol or a tiny cupcake.

“You have to get the cupcake, Clem,” Sara said. “Pink frosting.”

I was thinking chocolate frosting but pink frosting would be damned cute. “What are you getting?”

She was flipping through a book and glancing at all the photos on the walls. “Maybe an armband. No, wait, that might not work for some roles. Ooh, that,” she said, tapping her finger in the book. It was a tiny Leo symbol, the outline of a lion’s head and mane in cool copper lines. “That is me.”

Five minutes later, I was gritting my teeth and pretending getting inked didn’t hurt like hell so that tattoo virgin Sara wouldn’t run out the door. The few minutes of pain would be worth it.

“You said it didn’t hurt, liar,” Sara growled at me as the tattoo artist—a woman whose arms were her advertisement—got to work near Sara’s right hip bone. “Ow. Ow. Ow.” Sara forgot her pain the second the woman was done. “I love it!” she screamed. But then the tattoo artist covered it, as she had mine. “I can’t wait to get this bandage off. I want to walk around naked to show off my tat.”

Since we had to keep them covered for a couple of hours, and I didn’t want to go anywhere with the bandage on my arm, we went back home and celebrated Sara’s callback and her first tattoo with my German chocolate cake.

In between bites, she checked her phone—at least ten times in an hour.

“I’m sure he’ll call, Sara. He’s Duncan Ridley, librarian.”

“I know. Just can’t help it,” she said, breaking into the goof smile.

Sara didn’t hate my guts. My Skinny Bitch business was taking off. I had a fabulous new tattoo. And a date with Zach. Not bad.

“Damn, you look good,” was the first thing Zach said to me.

Yeah, I did. Tiny, tight, sort of shiny very dark purple dress and flip-flops, since Zach said we were eating on the beach.

Carrying a picnic basket, he led the way outside, his beagle, Charlie, scampering after us. Zach spread a blanket halfway to the water, then sat across from me. I couldn’t stop staring at his face, even though I tried to look everywhere else: the gorgeous blue ocean, the boats I could see shimmering in the distance. A dog chasing after a Frisbee. Two little kids working on a lopsided sand castle.

“I made your portobello mushroom burgers,” he said, handing me one on a plastic plate. “Which also has to do with the
good news I’ve been wanting to tell you. For a week,” he added, play kicking my foot.

“Sorry about that,” I said. “I do like good news.”

He set out plates of pasta salad and a bowl of red grapes. “My chef thumbs-upped your recipes. They’ll be on the Silver Steer menu on opening night.”

“Excellent,” I said. “That is good news.”

He poured us glasses of wine, then held up his to clink mine. “Maybe you’ll actually eat there now.”

“Maybe I will.”

“I realized something while you were avoiding me,” he said, taking a bite of the burger. “That I missed you. Everything about you.”

“Everything?”

He nodded slowly, staring at me. “Except that little cupcake on your arm. Because that wasn’t there last time I saw you.”

“Just got it today. I have another one. Somewhere you can’t see right now.”

“Shoulder blade?” he asked, leaning over and past me to look at my back. He slid a finger inside the armhole and peeked inside.

“Not there.”

“Tailbone?” he asked, playing with the hem of my dress.

“Nope.”

“Mmm, maybe on your neck.” He came closer and lifted up my hair in one fist. He kissed my neck, then my lips. “Maybe I’ll find out where when we finish eating and go inside.”

“Maybe,” I said, barely hanging on to my usual composure. I wanted this guy. Right here on the beach.

He stayed next to me, his leg leaning against mine as we ate our burgers and pasta salad and grapes and drank our wine. We smiled as a tiny old man, who Zach told me was a regular on this stretch, jogged so slowly at the water’s edge that it was like he wasn’t moving at all. Charlie gnawed on a biscuit on the edge of our blanket. The sun was setting, casting a red-pink glow on the horizon. I could stay there all night.

“I brought dessert,” I told him, reaching into my bag for my box of chocolate chip cookies.

“Skinny Bitch Bakes,” he said, reading the label. “I like saying that.”

I handed him a cookie. “I just started a new baking arm of my business. I have clients all over Santa Monica.”

“So you weren’t kidding about being busy,” he said. “Wow, this is good. It reminds me of my grandmother’s cookies, and that’s the highest compliment I could give.”

I smiled and held his hand. “I’ll take it.”

“I said it before, and I’ll say it now, Clementine Cooper. You impress me.”

“You’re going to give me a bigger head than I already have.”

“Oh, I’ll knock you down to size if need be.”

“No doubt,” I said. “And same here.”

“Yeah, I know,” he said and kissed me again. Looked at me. And then kissed me again, pressing me down on the blanket. “Let’s go inside.”

Yeah, let’s. Fast.

We packed up and headed back, Charlie walking beside me, which according to Zach said lots about my character. Inside, he went into the kitchen and told me to make myself comfortable in his living room. He came back with two glasses of wine, then put on some low music and sat down very close to me.

Within seconds, the wineglasses were on the coffee table, and he was tilting up my face and kissing me. His hands were everywhere—in my hair, on my face, my shoulders, and moving down, trying to slide inside the V of my dress, but that was what I got for going with such a tight dress. I wanted his hands on every inch of me.

He reached behind me and zipped down, way down, when the doorbell rang. Twice.

Oh come on.

He ignored it.

I couldn’t.

“Zach. Seriously?”

“There’s no one it could possibly be,” he said.

Then came banging on the door. And a voice. “Zach, it’s me!”

He sat up and zipped my dress back up. Then closed his eyes for a moment. “Give me two seconds.”

I was very close to getting up and walking out. If this was what being involved with Zach Jeffries meant, then forget it. How many times was I—

In walked a girl—seriously, a girl—who couldn’t be more than eighteen. And a skinny, cute guy behind her, with longish,
almost grunge hair and two different Converse sneakers.

“My sister Jolie and her boyfriend, Rufus.”

Sister? I thought there was just the redhead. This girl looked nothing like Zach. She looked more like me. Dirty-blond, silky hair in layers to almost her butt. Cat-like green eyes. A pound of gold and silver jewelry everywhere. Great clothes. And skinny like her boyfriend.

“I’m totally cut off,” she said. “None of my cards work. ‘If you think you’re adult enough to blow off college and get married, you’re adult enough to pay your own way.’ That’s what he said.”

“Jolie, I’m—”

“Yeah, I know, I can see. You’re in the middle of something,” she said, looking at me and smiling. She extended her hand. “I’m Zach’s half sister. His father’s daughter with the second wife. There’s a third wife, too, but I think they’re almost history. And Dad’s lecturing me about marriage? I’m eighteen.”

Rufus said nothing; he just sat down and petted the beagle and looked around. Jolie explained all without a breath. Apparently, she’d changed her mind about attending college in the fall and wanted to marry Rufus and become an actress while she was still young and hot and nowhere near twenty-five. So Daddy cut her off and now she and Rufus had nowhere to live.

“Is that supposed to be your engagement ring?” Zach asked, eyeing the stack of silver rings on her ring finger. “Don’t you always wear that, just on a different finger?”

Jolie crossed her arms over her chest. “It’s not about the ring, Zach. It’s symbolic. And who cares? This is about love, not some three-carat rock.”

He picked up his wine and took a sip. “Jolie, you can go to college and audition for acting jobs—you can even be engaged for a few years, even though you’re way too young.”

“I don’t want to go to college. I want to be an actress. If I’m going to school at all, it’s to take acting classes.”

“You know how many actresses I’ve known who’ve never gotten past an audition?” he asked. “Or a minimum-wage-earning job as an extra?”

“Yeah, how many Zach?”

“A lot. And Clem,” he added, turning to me, “isn’t your roommate trying to be an actress? Tell Jolie what it’s really like.”

“Sara could tell you horror stories,” I said.

She eyed me. “I don’t want to hear horror stories.” She walked up to Zach. “Stop telling me I’m going to be a failure before I even try. You’re just like Dad.”

“Oh God, don’t go there.”

“Rufus, tell him.”

“You kinda sound like him now,” was Rufus’s contribution. “Just not as loud.”

“And Rufus, how exactly do you plan to support yourself?” Zach asked. “Let me guess—you’re in a band.”

Rufus looked at him in all earnestness. “How’d you know?”

Zach turned toward the sliding glass doors to the deck. He was taking a moment, I saw. He turned around. “You guys can
stay here for two weeks, Jolie. Two weeks. You mess up the place or leave the door unlocked or fuck up in any way, and you’re out. You have two weeks to finds jobs and get an apartment.”