“Did anyone ever stop to ask you if that’s what you wanted?” Ben asks the question softly, but it still feels like a punch to the solar plexus.
“That’s not a thing we do in our family. You fall in line, you exceed ridiculously high expectations, or you get out.”
“Who got out?”
“My mom.” I shrug like it’s no big deal, as if being abandoned by your mother could ever be anything other than a big deal. “She was supposed to be the successor. My grandmother’s firstborn, her only daughter. She was groomed to take over the firm when she was young, but she basically revolted. She fell in love with my dad and got knocked up. He left before I was born. Grandmother was still willing to give her a chance—pay for childcare while my mom went to law school—but my mom refused. Said the firm was a crime against humanity and she wanted no part of it. When I was twelve, she moved to California and became an art teacher, and we haven’t heard from her since.” I didn’t know much when I was little, other than I wanted to do everything in my power to not fail like she did, to not continually disappoint my grandmother the way she did. The intense desire for success only grew as I got older, as I became even more determined to prove I was not the weak kind of woman my mother was.
“I’m sorry.”
It’s a simple statement, but one I haven’t heard in a very long time. At least not regarding something like this. My associates at the firm apologized to me constantly, but that’sprobably because they were messing up constantly. Is it my fault I pushed them all to succeed and most of them couldn’t hack it?
I set my beer bottle on a nearby stool, still half full. If I don’t stop drinking now, the pity party is going to turn ugly, and I refuse to fall apart in front of Ben. “I should get to bed. Gotta be at the bakery early again tomorrow.” I push up from my chair.
Ben reaches out a hand but stops short of making physical contact. “Thank you for telling me all that, I’m sure it’s not easy to talk about.”
“You can pay me back by not using it against me.”
Ben stands, bringing the two of us level, with only a few inches of space separating us. “I wouldn’t do that, Cam.”
It’s stupid, but I think I actually believe him. I nod and turn to leave.
This time he does make contact, his hand wrapping around my wrist. The brush of his skin on mine is heady, the woodsy scent of him filling my nose.
He hesitates long enough that I know he’s not happy about whatever it is that comes next.
“Just say it, Ben. I’m a big girl, I can take it.”
“Mimi wanted me to tell you your date with Ethan is tomorrow. He’ll pick you up at three o’clock.” He drops my hand and takes a step back.
I nod again, words lodged in my throat. This time when I turn to leave, Ben lets me go. But that doesn’t stop me from looking back at him as I stroll from the room.
11
There’s a knock on my door promptly at three o’clock. I answer it, plastering a fake smile on my face because I think Ethan and I both know how this date is going to go down.
“You look nice,” he says, visibly struggling to choke out the compliment. He hands me a bouquet of yellow daisies.
“Thanks. Let me just put these in water.” I gesture to the kitchen and move toward it without inviting him in. I return a second later, having unceremoniously stashed the flowers in a mug.
“Shall we?” Ethan holds out his arm.
It would be the height of rude not to take it, and I’m tempted, but I have a strong feeling Ethan doesn’t want to be here any more than I do, so we might as well try to get along for the afternoon. I slip my hand into the curve of his elbow. The brush of skin on skin stirs absolutely zero feelings, and when I lean closer to take a subtle whiff of him, I get nothing in return. The man smells like nothing. I think that pretty much immediately eliminates him as romance hero material.
The silence between us grows painful until I finally break it. “Where are we headed?”
“We’re going out to the strawberry fields to pick some berries and have a picnic. The Strawberry Festival starts tomorrow.”
My nose wrinkles before I can control it. I’ve never understood the fascination with picking berries or apples or whatever as some sort of activity. I can go to the market and buy a bushel for a fraction of the cost, without having to get sweaty and dirty. And what kind of town needs two fruit festivals and a carnival in less than two weeks?
Ethan’s eyes meet mine. “Somehow I don’t think this is going to be your kind of date.”
“Picnics are fun, I guess.” If you like bugs crawling all over the food and drowning in perfectly good glasses of wine.
We walk for a few more silent minutes before we reach a sign for the berry farm. It tells us to wait for the wagon to come pick us up. A wagon. This date is getting worse by the minute.
Neither of us even makes an attempt at conversation in the two minutes it takes the wagon to come rambling down the dirt road. Ethan offers me a hand to help me climb up into the back and I take it. Once again, there’s nary a hint of a spark.
Ethan settles on the bench seat next to me, leaving at least a foot of space between us.
