Page 15 of Beauty and the Beach
He promised Trev he would look out for me, take care of me. So that’s what he’s going to try to do. I’m not even sure I can fault him for it.
“My bike chain is broken, and I’m not walking all the way to your neighborhood by myself in the dark,” I tell him, running my hand down my face.
“Absolutely not,” he says immediately. “I’ll come to you.” Then he coughs, a harsh, barking sound.
“Are you sick?” I pause. Then, grudgingly, I add, “Do you need tea?”
“Why?” he says. “Looking for new ways to poison me now that I spotted your Skittles scheme from a mile off?”
My lips twitch; he hates Skittles. “Scald you, actually,” I say, keeping my voice light. “I thought maybe if I could burn your tongue, I might finally get a few days free from your nagging.”
“You wish, Hamster Slam.”
My grip on the phone tightens.
I put up with him calling meAmsterdam.I call him bird names instead ofPhoenix; he can call meAmsterdaminstead ofHolland. But every now and then he tries to get really obnoxious; that’s when he pulls out names likeHamster Slam, orGangster Glam, or—the worst—Dumpster Ma’am.
“Just come over if you’re going to come over,” I say. “But don’t expect me to change out of my pajamas for you?—”
Except he’s already hung up.
I toss the phone to the opposite side of the couch and scowl at it for a good ten seconds. Then I stand and go into the kitchen to brew myself a cup of peppermint tea.
There’s something relaxing about the sounds of brewing tea in a quiet house; theclink-clink-clinkof the stirring spoon, the lightchinkof porcelain on the countertop. I immerse myself in that peace for as long as possible, brewing and stirring and sipping and savoring, until fifteen minutes later there’s a knock at the door.
I debate making him wait—the idea has real merit—but ultimately I’m too impatient. Something’s off with him and this job he claims to have for me, and all I can think about are those women who cross the border with balloons full of cocaine in their stomachs.
So when I fling the door open, I don’t waste any time.
“Tell me what the job is,” I say.
Phoenix raises his brows slowly at me as his black-brown gaze runs from the top of my head to the tips of my toes and then back again; heat gathers beneath my skin, simmering just below the surface until I can feel the flush in my cheeks.
I snap my fingers in front of his nose to get his attention. “Don’t ogle. It’s rude.”
He snorts and brings his eyes back to mine. “Nothing you have”—he gestures to my body—“is appealing enough to ogle, Amsterdam. I’m simply surprised you’re willing to show yourself like this.”
“The job,” I say through gritted teeth. “Tell me what the job is.”
He doesn’t answer; he just steps forward and pushes past me, entering Nana’s house and leaving me in a lingering cloud of his leather-mahogany scent.
I force myself to take a few deep breaths, staring vaguely out into the night and listening as his footsteps travel down the hall behind me. Then, without another word, I turn and follow.
Phoenix
Sometimes I wishHolland looked more like her brother.
Trevor would never be caught dead wearing tiny silk pajama shorts and a matching silk button-down top. If he were, however, he would look absurd. Not like—her.
I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head.
“Hurry up and tell me,” she calls from down the hall as I settle onto the ancient sofa in Nana Lu’s living room.
Trevor and Holland’s grandmother Lu is one of my favorite people on earth. She’s everything a grandmother should be—everything my grandmother isn’t.
Mavis Butterfield barks half-deranged orders at me and delights in inciting succession battles in her family; Nana Lu just tells me how handsome I am and that I need to eat more. I always leave our visits with a variety of hard candies tucked in my pockets, because she insists, pressing them into my palms with her shaky, age-spotted hands. I eat every last one, even though the only kind I really like are the strawberry ones with the gooey centers.
Lovely though she is as a grandmother, however, Luella Blakely is not a gifted interior decorator. There are tacky seashell displays everywhere—very Florida—and the walls are all different summer colors; pastel lime, sky blue, brightyellow, and sunset orange create a spectrum that’s overwhelming to the eye. It’s awful.
