Fuckity fuck.
It’s so quiet, I can almost hear the grass growing beneath my bare feet until Logan snickers next to me. “Pink lace. I highly approve.”
Allison sneers. “Shut. Up. Logan.”
Ignoring her, Logan leans closer to me. “Don’t worry about this. Just head on inside and grab yourself some coffee. I’ll make sure they don’t maim each other.”
I give him a grateful smile and muster a quick glance back to Ethan, who looks like he’s barely keeping his shit together.
When we make eye contact, I motion toward the house. “Do you, um, do you want me to make the kids some breakfast?”
Allison directs her glare to me, but speaks to Ethan. “Why is your skank making the kids’ food?”
If her goal is to make me feel like shit, she’s one to nothing. I look down at my clothes that were perfectly acceptable for a club, but now, at nine o’clock on a Sunday morning, definitely reek of the walk of shame.
Feeling the familiar burn of embarrassment in my cheeks, I suck in a breath. Memories of storming out of Jamie’s house that night turn my stomach.
This isn’t the same thing.
This isn’t the same thing.
It just feels like the same thing.
I turn away, unable to look at Allison, because all I can do is compare myself to her. She’s beautiful. Perfect blonde bob with sun-kissed streaks that probably cost a fortune to have done at a salon. Designer linen pants. Expensive perfume. Elegant diamond earrings that glint in the morning sun. I feel like a husband-stealing tart next to her, which I know isn’t rational, but my emotions don’t want to focus on rational right now.
“Jesus, Allison. Stop being such a…” Ethan stops mid-sentence and shakes his head. “Look, I’m not doing this with you.”
“Not doing what? I thought we agreed we wouldn’t have hookups around the kids.”
He leaps off the side of the truck. “She’s the nanny and a friend, okay? Lay off.”
“Are you kidding me?” she shrieks, making me flinch. “How clichéd can you get? Are you seriously fucking the nanny?”
Embarrassment scorches my skin that already feels so brittle it might crack.
Logan wraps his arm around my shoulder and steers me toward the house. “You probably don’t want to be around for this. It’s gonna get ugly.”
Understatement of the year,I think with my heart in my throat as I walk away.
* * *
Hunched over the bathroom sink,I stare at my dirty feet, wishing I’d been wearing shoes when I slunk from Ethan’s truck to the house.
All those warnings from my mother come rushing back to me. ¿Quieres que te llamen una callejera?Do you want them to call you a stray? Or the more insidious definition ofcallejera, street walker.
It’s always “them” with my mom. Meaning the neighbors or my school mates. People at church. Anyone who could witness my reproachable behavior.Them.
She’d be mortified if she ever found out about this morning.
Braving a glance, I finally look into the mirror and cringe.
My eyes are bloodshot, that smokey makeup I applied yesterday sits like sludge beneath my lower lashes, and my hair looks like an F4 tornado blasted through it.
Awesome first impression, Victoria. No wonder Allison hates you.
As quickly as my churning stomach allows, I crawl in the shower and wash my hair, desperately trying to scrub off all traces of last night.
By the time I’m dressed in sweats and a t-shirt, the house is still eerily quiet.
