My mother doesn’t get to interfere with that just because her name is on the deed to this house. Pampered Pets Grooming is mine alone, though it’s the primary source of support for both of us, and I’ll make my own decisions and they’ll be in the best interest of my business.
Maybe it’s petty, but her aggravation with the situation makes me want to push her buttons a little bit. “He invited me to go out to dinner with him.”
Her eyes narrow. “He did what? Why would he do that?”
I’m about to tell her he wants to get me on his side, hoping I’ll convince her to sell the house to him, but I change my mind. If Gin thinks he’s using her daughter to manipulate her, she’ll dig her heels in even harder. And, yes, that’s what he’s doing, but I don’t need to say it out loud and confirm her suspicions.
“To catch up,” I guess. “We were friends in high school, right up until he stood me up for homecoming.”
Her mouth pinches, reminding me of all the tears and yelling and slamming doors that lasted for days after I finally worked up the courage to tell them I was going to the homecoming dance with a Reilly boy.
“Well, you’re not going,” she says flatly.
Did she seriously just say that to me with a straight face?
I’ll admit I tend to go along with Gin in order to keep the peace a lot more often than I should, but I’m a thirty-five year old woman and I’ll have dinner with anybody I damn well want to.
“Actually, I think I am going to go,” I say and for a few seconds, it feels like some kind of vacuum has sucked all the sound out of the room. Even the refrigerator’s fan motor seems to have quieted down.
Then there’s a familiar rumbling sound.
“Did you hear that?” Gin holds up her hands as the house trembles just enough to make the nested mixing bowls on top of the fridge rattle together. “That’s the sound of generations of Gambles rolling over in their graves.”
“Funny how they timed their rolling with the fuel oil truck going by.”
My mother doesn’t think I’m funny. Actually, she throws her fork down and walks out of the room without another word. A few seconds later, I hear her bedroom door slam.
At this point, I’m ready to have dinner with Hayden out of pure spite.
I have to do a search of restaurants in Concord on my phone. We rarely eat out these days, but even when we did—maybe once a month before my dad died—it was at the corner cafe or the diner here in Sumac Falls.
After almost ten minutes of looking at menus online, I find an entree I want at a place I definitely can’t afford. If nothing else, I’m going to get a heap of chicken parm out of this. It would be way too messy to order if it was a first date, but that’s definitely not what my dinner with Hayden will be.
Before I can lose my nerve or talk myself out of it, I text him a link to the restaurant with a note that I’m available any night after six. That gives me time to shower and change. I might even rummage through the drawer in the bathroom and see if I have any unexpired makeup.
It’s not even a full minute before I get a response.
HAYDEN
I’ll make a reservation for Saturday at seven. I’m looking forward to it.
I toss my phone on the table and bury my face in my hands. I probably should have run this idea by Mel first, but she’s on a camping trip. This is the worst possible time for my best friend to have no cell signal.
Thanks to house-induced financial desperation and Gin-induced spite, I’m actually going out to dinner with Hayden Reilly.
Chapter Ten
Hayden
I’m pouring myself a second glass of water from the glass pitcher, annoyed they don’t use an insulated carafe so the condensation doesn’t drip on the tablecloth, and wondering if Cara is going to stand me up.
Just like she thinks I did to her all those years ago.
She’s been standing outside the restaurant for at least three minutes, her arms folded as she paces a tight circle, clearly torn about having dinner with me. I’m sure she doesn’t realize I can see her from our semi-private table in the back of the place, and with the lighting so dim, I doubt she could see me even if she looked this direction.
I’d like to send her a text asking her to come inside. Actually, I’d like to go out there and take her by the hand, leading her back to the table. But I’m fairly confident she only accepted my invitation to spite Gin. I’m not one of Cara’s favorite people, by any means, and there’s a good chance if I get pushy, she’ll leave and not look back.
When she finally yanks open the door and steps inside, I breathe a sigh of relief. Then I turn my attention back to the menu, even though I’ve already decided what I’m having. Me watching her walk the length of the restaurant might make her feel self-conscious, but the image of her stays in my head, torturing me.
