She answers by elbowing me in the stomach, hard enough that I let her go as I double over. By the time I catch my breath and straighten back up, she’s tossed another pile of clothes out the window.
“Son of a bitch,” I yell, then look around helplessly. I should just push her ass into the closet and lock the damn door, but she’s a hellion with that elbow and I’m not about to get physical with her.
My eyes catch her blue thong on the floor, and an idea strikes.
Two can play at this game.
I run out into the hall just as Eden enters my closet. I skid to a halt by the pile of her clothes and scoop up the biggest armload I can muster, which is probably three times as much as Eden’s thrown at the window so far. I run back into the room just as she’s backing out of the closet with three pairs of my shoes in her hands.
She stops dead in her tracks, eyes the clothes in my arms, and her mouth flattens. “Don’t you even dare.”
I bolt for the window. She drops the shoes and races me there, attempting to stop me.
Too fucking bad. I beat her by three seconds and toss her clothes right out.
“You asshole,” she shrieks, and without a second thought, she bolts back to my closet. I jet to the hallway, intent on grabbing more of her clothes.
My legs are longer, my intent is more driven, and I beat her back to the window easily. I chuck the pile and stick my head out so I can watch her lingerie flutter to the ground.
Then my gaze goes to Clay standing there, leaning up against the passenger door of his truck, watching us. He’s got one leg crossed over the other at the ankles, arms folded on his chest and a shit-eating grin on his face.
“Don’t stop on my account,” he hollers up at me.
Eden pushes past me to stick her head out the window. She spots Clay standing there and I turn my head to see her jaw clenched.
“Howdy, Eden,” Clay says cheerfully. “Welcome back home.”
She doesn’t respond to him, but takes in the articles of men’s and women’s clothing strewn all about the bushes and driveway. With a sigh, she pulls her head in through the window, and without even looking at me, walks out of the room. I note her head is high, her shoulders stiffly held back, and her hips naturally swaying, which I’m betting is from years on the catwalk. I watch her leave the room, and with a sigh of my own, I start walking after her.
Just as I get partway down the staircase, Eden grabs her purse from the foyer table and regally walks out the door. I hear her car start up by the time I get to the door, and when I reach the porch, where Clay is waiting for me, she’s halfway down the driveway.
“I take it things aren’t going that great living together,” Clay says.
I face him and have to restrain myself from punching that grin off his face. Instead I tell him, “We’re getting drunk tonight.”
“We just went out last night,” he practically whines.
“For an hour,” I remind him as I turn to head back into the house. “I’ve got some work to do. Meet you at Tilley’s about six.”
“Fine,” Clay snaps at me, then calls out, “but don’t you want to know why I came by?”
“You came by to see how Eden and I were doing living in the same space,” I call back over my shoulder.
His answering laugh tells me I’m right.
Chapter 7
What the fuck is wrong with you people?
Eden
“I don’t know about this,” I mutter to Missy as walk into Tilley’s. I’m not feeling sociable and I’m slightly sick to my stomach because I’ve been eating cupcakes all afternoon at her shop.
There’s nothing to reason out why I went to Missy’s Cupcake Gallery after I walked out of Goodnight House. I went there because I had nowhere else to go. I don’t have any family here or friends here. Staying in that house with Coop was absolutely impossible and there’s no hotel in Newberry.
And well…cupcakes.
I stayed there all afternoon and hung out watching Missy bake and frost. For each batch she did, I got to taste test. She chattered the entire time, keeping my mind occupied while jacking me up on sugar. I learned so much more about her, including the completely sad realization that I wish I’d taken the time to know her in high school. She’s got a sarcastically dry sense of humor, but an easygoing spirit that makes her easy to talk to. If she was feeling any awkwardness with me because I probably wasn’t all that nice to her or was a famous, award-winning actress who’d recently been publicly humiliated, she never showed it at all. She acted like I was just a normal person. She’s wonderful, and I know I’ve latched on to her kindness because I’m feeling low myself.
Throughout the afternoon, our conversation blessedly stayed away from the topic of Coop. I think that’s because when I walked into her cupcake shop a little more than six hours ago, I snarled, “Cooper Mayfield is the biggest asshole on the face of the earth and I need a cupcake like right now.”
She handed me a red velvet cupcake with cream cheese icing before the door even closed behind me.
While we didn’t talk about Coop, I was fascinated to hear about her love life. She married a guy she met in college who was a douchebag from the sound of it.
When I’d asked Missy the details of why they divorced, she’d said, “After college, I quickly popped out two kids, which, according to my ex-husband, made me fatter than he’d ever hoped to have to deal with. So I left his judgmental ass and took my kids back home to Newberry, where I proceeded to lose weight and regain my self-worth. He came by sniffing around after that, but I was banging a hot-as-hell fireman by that time and wasn’t interested in what he had to offer anymore.”
Missy is utterly fascinating. Proud, stubborn, confident, and determined. More than anything, though, is her que sera, sera attitude that she developed thanks to a lot of tribulations she overcame. She made me wish to be like that, because if I were, I could handle things better.
Brad cheating on me.
The paparazzi stalking me.
Coop irritating the living hell out of me.
Because she saved my sanity this afternoon, I didn’t hesitate to accept her offer to have dinner and drinks tonight at Tilley’s. It would delay me from heading home and dealing with Coop and my panties on the front lawn. But as soon as we walk inside the bar and I recognize several people looking at me standoffishly, I have regrets and second thoughts.
“Fine,” Missy says. “Turn around, run home, and deal with Coop then.”
“That booth over there looks nice,” I say, pointing, as I realize this is the lesser of two evils.