“You do,” he said. “I’d do anything for you, surely the past twenty years have told you that.”
“Yes, and I for you,” she said.
“Then come with me to London. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I’ve got a work trip. I’ll be there for two weeks, but we could extend it another week and take some time off.”
“London,” she repeated.
“You’ll love London.”
She was sure. But though it had only been a week since she’d been home, she was fighting the urge to go back to Wildstone. She wanted to check on Tilly. She wanted to see if Greta and Trinee were doing okay with the café, or if they needed help.
Brock cupped her face. “Think I lost you there for a beat. Where did you go?”
Wildstone . . . “I just got back, Brock. I need to stay at work, not ask for more time off. Chef Wade isn’t super happy with me right now. I’m afraid I’ll lose the job.”
His eyes dialed into frustrated. “You know you could get your parents to talk to him, they’re good friends. They could get you the time off if you wanted.”
She stared at him, disappointed that he didn’t get it. “I don’t want to ask my parents to talk to my boss, Brock. Would you do that?”
He grimaced and stood up. “Look, I get it. You got your world rocked. But so did I, Quinn. Beth died and I lost you. I miss you, dammit. I’m no longer important to you.”
“Okay, that’s not fair,” she said quietly. “You’re one of the most important people in my life. But it can’t always be about you and your schedule. You travel all the time, and I’m supposed to just drop everything if you happen to need a plus one?”
“Yes, that’s what we do. Or did.”
“You could take the blonde I saw you with on your brother’s Instagram,” she suggested.
He sighed and looked down at his shoes. She had no idea if he was struggling with the urge to strangle her, or laugh. When he lifted his head, his eyes were smiling but his mouth was serious. “You’re still my favorite.”
She smiled back, relieved they weren’t going to fight. “Good to know.”
“Quinn.” He stepped close and pulled her into him. Cupping her jaw he brushed his mouth over hers.
She stilled, willing herself to feel something, the shockingly sensual, erotic explosion of lust she’d experienced in Mick’s arms, or even just a flash of the long-lost spark she’d once had with Brock.
Neither happened.
He pulled back. “You’re not coming to London, are you?”
Her heart squeezed. “No,” she whispered.
“Fine. But this isn’t over, Quinn. I won’t let it be. Go sow your wild oats too, babe. Then we’ll regroup.”
She could still feel Mick’s hard, tough body holding hers down on the bed, moving against her in a way that had driven her crazy, along with his mouth whispering dirty hot nothings in her ear . . .
He hadn’t felt like a wild oat.
Brock was looking at her oddly. “Or maybe you’ve already done so.”
She wouldn’t lie, but if he wanted answers, she didn’t have them. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
He hesitated and then he pulled her in and kissed her.
And then he was gone.
The new theme of her life, apparently . . .
THAT NIGHT, TILLY stood at her bedroom window, staring out into the night wishing Dylan would materialize.
He didn’t.
But that wasn’t what scared her. She hadn’t seen him all week. She’d called and texted until she had a blister on her finger and finally, he’d texted her back.
TILLY, STOP. WE CAN’T BE FRIENDS ANYMORE.
We can’t be anything.
Don’t call or text me again.
She stared down at her phone in shock and disbelief. Pain sliced through her and she actually had to sink to the floor because her legs wouldn’t hold her up.
We can’t be friends anymore . . .
She pressed her fist against the ache in her chest. Since when weren’t they friends? Something was wrong, she was sure of it, and what told her so, more than his harsh text, was that he hadn’t been in school. He was a smart guy and knew his only ticket out of this town was grades, which would hopefully equal a scholarship.
He’d never miss school, not on purpose anyway.
She’d burned the mac and cheese she cooked Chuck for dinner because she was so distracted and worried.
And freaked.
Where was he? Was he okay?
“What’s your problem tonight?” Chuck asked.
“No problem. I’m going out,” she said.
“Out where?”
She wanted to catch a bus to Paso Robles, where Dylan’s dad lived and see if Dylan was there. She had to know if he was okay. “Just to the movies with friends.”
“You’re in danger of failing science,” he said. “Stay home and study to bring your grade up.”
She stood up. “I saved my money to go tonight.”
“And I said no.”
“You’re not my mom,” she said, and horrified at the words she’d just flung at him, she covered her mouth.
They stared at each other.
Finally Chuck sighed and set his spoon down.
Oh great. He was going to tell her a story, and his stories were long. Days long. But all she could think about was Dylan—not that she could tell Chuck that because he hated Dylan, said he was a bad influence on her.
“Your mom and I,” Chuck said slowly. “We . . .”
God. Please don’t tell me about your sex life with my mom . . .
“I loved her. And you’re a part of her, you know?”
Dammit. Dammit, her throat tightened. “Chuck—”
“But this isn’t about me, Tilly. It’s about you. You need to get back into your schoolwork.”
Like she cared about that. Her mom was dead. She was living on a futon. Her best friend in the whole world had vanished . . . “I’m going to the movies, Chuck.”
“No way in hell.”
She walked away and tried to slam herself into her room but she’d slammed into it one too many times and the doorjamb was warped. The door couldn’t slam. She had to turn back to even shut it, and then managed to catch her shirt so she had to open it yet again.
Chuck stood there, eyes flashing with temper. “Don’t slam my doors.”
Compounding her errors—hey, look at her with the big words, take that school!—she shut it on his nose.
Then she sat on her bed and waited. It didn’t take long. When Chuck got stressed, which was all the time, his choice of an anti-anxiety med was alcohol. In forty minutes, he would put away a six-pack and be snoring on the couch, louder than the TV.
She watched an episode of Say Yes to the Dress, checked her watch, and peeked beyond her door.
Yep, Chuck was out.
Tilly nodded to herself and tiptoed out the front door, stopping to cover him with a blanket first.
Chapter 17
Mom used to tell me not to worry when people didn’t get me—people throw rocks at things that shine.
—from “The Mixed-Up Files of Tilly Adams’s Journal”