Nick and Daisy might not have had anything serious, but it couldn’t have been easy on his pride to watch her choose someone else.
“So, this Jackie character,” Taylor said, hoping to take his thoughts in a different direction. “Total psycho?”
“Let’s just say a change of address was in order,” he said curtly. “But since you’re obviously dying to discusses exes, how long do I have before Calloway bangs on that door and challenges me to a duel?”
It was her turn to wince. Unfortunately, he glanced over just in time to see it.
“He was really supposed to move in here with you?” Nick asked, his voice just a bit kinder than before.
She swallowed, not at all sure she wanted to be discussing one of the more embarrassing—and painful—moments in her adult life with Nick Ballantine.
Especially since the cut felt a little deeper every day. She’d been so sure that the meeting between her and Bradley that had been scheduled for yesterday would be her chance to figure out what was up with him—a chance for them to talk about what the heck had happened.
Instead the coward hadn’t just cancelled the meeting—he’d called in sick. Again.
Sick, my ass. He was still avoiding her.
But no way was she breathing a word of any of this to Nick. “Bradley’s just doing the whole guy cold-feet thing. He’ll come around.”
“Huh.”
She glared up at the single syllable. “What’s huh?”
“Pretty dick move, agreeing to move in with a girl, then bailing the day of.”
“Less dick than moving out on a girl after you asked her to move in?”
He got up from the couch. “Want a beer?”
“It’s eleven in the morning,” she said as he went to the fridge.
In response, he pulled out two bottles he must have brought with him, because she hadn’t bought them. He held one up to her in question.
She sighed and slumped back once more on the couch. “Yeah. Sure.”
He opened drawers until he found her bottle opener, then crossed the room to hand her one.
She nodded in thanks, then stilled with the bottle halfway to her lips, not recognizing the look on his face as he studied her.
“What?” Taylor snapped. “Trying to rummage up some sort of insult?”
“Nah. Where you’re concerned, I’ve always got a dozen insults in reserve. It’s a bottomless well.” He tilted the bottle back and took a sip, still watching her.
“Then what’s that look? An impending lecture?”
“Well…” He took another sip. “Fine. You want to hear this? The thing with me and Jackie? Never serious. Not ever. I offered to let her crash at my place for a couple of nights—and yes, I used those exact words—and she showed up that very afternoon with a moving truck.”
Taylor blinked. “Um, that’s psycho.”
He shrugged. “She has issues. But the thing is, Carr…”
“Yes, tell me the thing,” she said, tiredly pushing to her feet. She was tall for a woman, just over five-eight, but he was several inches taller and it annoyed her to have to look up.
“I didn’t break any promises,” he said quietly. “Didn’t break any leases either.”
“What does that— Oh, wait, I get it. You’re a nice guy who was helping a crazy girl, but Bradley’s a total jerk. Is that what this pep talk’s about?”
“I’m just saying you could do better,” he answered quietly.
Then he clinked the neck of his beer bottle with hers. “Or at least you could if you weren’t such a bitch.”
Taylor laughed in spite of herself. “I really hate you.”
Nick grinned. “Want to help me unpack?”
“Oh, yes, please, could I? Maybe I could do some of your ironing while I’m at it.”
He shrugged, then set his bottle on the coffee table and went back to fiddling with his TV. “If you really think there’s a chance Calloway might come around, you should definitely keep displaying your ass in those pants. The body’s almost good enough that he might overlook the personality.”
The jab stung more than she wanted it to, but she was smart enough to retreat rather than show it. Taylor marched her pants, her ass, and her beer into her bedroom, thoroughly enjoying the satisfying slam of the door behind her.
“Careful of the original architecture!” he yelled after her.
Taylor snorted out a laugh. She really did hate him.
Chapter 7
Taylor’s upbringing did not lend itself to romantic inclinations.
Her mother had been a wannabe pop star who’d met Taylor’s daredevil father in a bar when she was twenty-two.
Taylor didn’t know many of the details—thank God—but the version she’d eventually been told was that she’d been conceived in the backseat of a Chevy after too many whiskey shots.
The car hadn’t even belonged to either of her parents. Neither had ever had more than a hundred bucks to their name at any given time. Nope, they’d classed it up real good and had sex in the back of a friend’s car.
A two-week fling followed, followed by an uneventful flameout. Probably would never have laid eyes on each other again.
Except Taylor had been born nine months later.
Her mom had stuck around for an impressive two years before deciding that motherhood wasn’t her thing. She’d run off to be the backup singer for some “star” long forgotten, only to die of an overdose at age twenty-five.
Taylor mourned the tragically young loss of life, but mourn the woman herself? It was easier to mourn a perfect stranger.
To give him a bit more credit, Taylor’s father had tried slightly harder. He’d stuck around, at least. Held down two jobs so that he could pay for regular daycare for his toddler.
Taylor was too young to remember any of this, but it wouldn’t have mattered even if she could.
From what her aunt had told her, all of Vance Carr’s spare time had gone toward his drag racing hobby.
The same hobby that would kill him when Taylor was four.
An orphan before she’d even started kindergarten.
Vance Carr’s older sister, Karen, was the only thing between tiny Taylor and the foster system.
Karen had once told Taylor that though she and her brother weren’t close, it had been she who’d insisted on the paternity test when Taylor’s mom had shown up pregnant.
Taylor was grateful for it. It meant that when Karen had learned that she was the guardian of her four-year-old niece, she hadn’t fought it. Taylor was a Carr, and that’s all Karen had needed to know. If Karen had ever complained about inheriting a child she didn’t want, it hadn’t been to Taylor.
Taylor didn’t remember much about those early days, but she distinctly remembered the sticky summer day when her aunt had arrived at the police precinct in Athens, Georgia. She’d been dressed in what Taylor would eventually recognize as her aunt’s “uniform”: a black pencil skirt, silk blouse, and expensive but no-nonsense black pumps.
Karen had scanned the cramped, smelly room, walked with purpose toward a terrified Taylor, and told her not to worry. That she would be safe, and she would be cared for.