I hate that nickname, but I love that he has a nickname for me. How dumb is that? But that’s what I am when it comes to Caleb Whitman: dumb. So dumb. It took everything in me not to fall into his arms on Christmas Eve. Our bodies were so close, and I was so tempted. But it’s wrong on so many levels. I was glad I held back. And then on Christmas day, when he gave me the most thoughtful gift I’ve ever received? It took actual restraint not to leap into his arms and thank him profusely while kissing him senseless. But I couldn’t do that—not in front of our parents and not with an audience.
Whit is off-limits.
I take a deep breath and decide that the only thing that’s going to improve my mood, besides the rest of the wine, is a pedicure. I head upstairs and dig through the matching containers under the sink in my bathroom. Dad had movers pack up the belongings I left at the condo, and everything’s been neatly stowed away in my new living quarters. There! I find the perfect red—that’s just what I need. It’s a red that saysHave a damn seat, you stupid copycat. The girl wearing this toenail polish is a badass!Ok, that’s a mouthful, but it’s still true. I grab the polish remover and some cotton rounds and that wooden toothpick thing and head back downstairs to the living room. How hard can it be to paint your toes when you have a few glasses of wine?
* * *
Whit
The carnage of a near-empty cookie plate and a half bottle of wine should have alerted me to trouble. Even though Cabernet’s not my regular sauce, I’m not judging wine and cookies, as far as snack choices go.
But when I see Lucy on the couch, tears streaking down her face, I can’t help but stop. I should keep going. Just head up to my room and act like I never saw her, that’s sort of been our routine for the past few days. But...tears. They’re my kryptonite and I’m powerless against their pull.
“Luce? You ok?” I say, hoping to hell she’s just watched a sad movie.
But instead of telling me she’s fine or yelling at me to mind my own business, she onlysobs louder.
Shit.
“Everything ok, Lucy Caroline?” I ask, hoping that fake-middle-naming her will coax a laugh out of her.
It doesn’t.
I’m torn between telling her to holler if she needs me and then making a mad dash for my room or sitting down next to her to find out what the hell has her in tears.
Of course, I choose the latter. But just as soon as my ass hits the couch cushion, she starts yelling.
“God-fucking-dammit!”
I consider myself to be an expert swearer. I love a combo curse as much as the next guy. But this hyphenated, Lord’s-name-in-vain combo is quite unlike Lucy. She cusses, don’t get me wrong— she’s not like Booker, my sainted bestie whose mouth is as clean as the rest of him likely is. But her expletive reeks of distress, so I bluntly ask, “Lucy, what the fuck is wrong?”
She looks up from her phone, which has to be the cause of the cursing, and sniffles. “I had a bad day.”
“No shit,” I say, surveying the damage. In addition to the half-empty wine bottle and nearly-bare cookie tray, there’s a bag of Cheetos on the floor next to her planner, and there’s a towel on the coffee table, all rolled up in a ball, streaks of red staining the white fabric.
“Christ, Lucy, did you cut yourself?” I reach out for her hands, turning them over to inspect them for what? Stab wounds? A slice from a too-dull paring knife? I don’t know what I’m looking for, but my heart is beating double-time.
“Whit, I’m fine. Just tipsy and clumsy,” she assures, me, pulling her hands back. “I was trying to give myself a pedicure, but instead, I made a huge mess. Thankfully, none of the polish got on the carpet—I’d feel terrible.”
I smile. “I grew up in this house, remember? I’m pretty sure there’s still a slime stain on the carpet in my room from, like, 5th grade. Honestly, I think Ma just bought an extra nightstand to cover it up.”
She nods. “Your mom seems especially tolerant.”
“You have no idea. I think she’s always been even-tempered, but I’m pretty sure raising me guaranteed she’d chill out even more. It was like baptism by fire. But yeah, Ma doesn’t get worked up about dumb stuff, like nail polish on the carpet or filling the bathtub with Jell-O.”
Lucy shakes her head. “Our childhoods were so different.” She sighs as she continues to clean up the mess. “Well, I guess I won’t have pretty toes tomorrow. I’m sobering up, but I think a flawless pedicure is not in the cards tonight.”
“Says who?”
“Uh, my crappy hand-eye coordination? Plus, I’m tired. Today was...not the best day.”
“I got you,” I say as I swipe the soiled towel and head for the powder room so I can toss it in the trash before grabbing a fresh one.
Back in the living room, I spread the towel out, thengather the supplies from the little caddy where Lucy neatly stored them. “Red, right? This one’s calledVamp. I’m digging it.”
“Yes, but...you can’t paint my toes.”
“Can’t I? Is it against some stepbrother code I’m not aware of? I gotta be honest, Luce, I feel like you’re privy to rules and regulations that we mere mortals aren’t aware of.”
