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“Really . . .” He bites his bottom lip in thought. “Let’s see . . . you show up in Anchorage with an entire closet’s worth of clothes for a one-week visit, expecting, what, a private jet to bring you the rest of the way? And looking like you mistook the airstrip for a fucking runway in Milan.”
I push aside the shock that he knows a thing about the fashion industry to defend myself. “I had to pack for this moody weather—”
“Were you going for a jog or to a nightclub this morning, with all that makeup on? I’d bet my left nut that no one’s seen your real face in years. You spend all your money on looking pretty and all your time posting pictures to prove to complete strangers how pretty you are.”
My spine begins to tingle. Is he talking about my Instagram profile? How could he know about that? And, oh my God, did he just make a reference to his balls? “So, some people take pride in their appearance.” I give him a pointed look, even as my cheeks
burn from being picked apart.
He goes on as if I hadn’t spoken. “You’re dramatic, entitled, and judgmental. You like attention and you’re used to getting it. You don’t know much about the world outside your little bubble. You didn’t even bother educating yourself a little about where your dad’s from. Where you were born.”
“It’s not like I had much time—”
“You’re twenty-six years old and you’ve never had time?” His eyebrow arches in that doubtful way. “You decided you weren’t gonna like Alaska before your toes ever touched the soil, and you’ve had your nose turned up to everyone and everything ever since.”
“I have not!”
“Agnes figured you might have a hard time up here, but you could at least try for a damn week. You haven’t seen your father in basically your entire life, and when you finally show up here, you’re pissed that the fridge isn’t full for you? You probably haven’t even considered how tough things have been on Wren, or how he might not know how to talk to you after this long”—he drops his voice—“or what he’s going through right now. But no, you’re more focused on getting your fucking soy latte and what hostess gift you should bring to dinner tonight.” He smiles smugly. “How am I doing so far? Do I have you all wrong?”
“Completely,” I counter with a wavering voice, unable to manage more in my current state of shock. I’m used to Simon—to his gently probing questions, his thoughtful pauses as he quietly evaluates the real meaning behind my words, the way he tries to help me see myself for who I am. It’s his nature, given his profession. There have been times that it’s annoyed me, when I’ve screamed at him to stop psychoanalyzing me. But he’s never done it in a vindictive, disparaging way.
And then here comes this guy, who I met twelve hours ago, making all kinds of unfounded assumptions and picking me apart as if there’s no real substance to me at all.
The cold amusement fades from his eyes, leaving something that looks almost sad. “I wish I was wrong. Because then maybe you’d get over yourself, cut Wren some slack, and use the time you have to get to know him.”
“You don’t even know what happened between us,” I mutter. “I can’t just forgive and forget, and give him a big hug.”
“No one expects you to. But if you’re smart, you’ll be willing to try and salvage even a shred of what you used to have, for your own sake.” Jonah glances at his wrist to check the time again—I have yet to see him slide a phone out of his pocket—and then rounds the truck and climbs into the driver’s side. Leaving me standing there, feeling rebuked and I’m not even entirely sure for what. Several shoppers linger nearby, having witnessed my humiliating and raw dissection.
The SUV’s engine roars to life and a moment later, there’s a holler of “Come on! We’re not all on vacation around here.”
Yeah, Bobbie . . . He’s charming the panties off me, alright.
I’d rather walk five miles wearing nothing but a million mosquitoes than sit next to Jonah right now.
There’s a cab parked a few spots over. The driver, a man with shaggy black hair and a bored expression, lounges in the driver’s seat with his window rolled down, casually puffing on a cigarette. Watching the spectacle.
I wave my hand, still gripping the bouquet of overripe daisies, at him. “Are you available?”
He dips his head once—yes—and then takes a long drag.
Are cabbies allowed to smoke in their cars around here?
Holding my head high—I won’t give Jonah the satisfaction of knowing his words cut me—I stroll over to the taxi and climb in the backseat, trying my best to ignore the waft of tobacco smoke that lingers.
An engine revs and I glance over to meet Jonah’s cold gaze, glaring at me through his windshield. We stay locked like that for three . . . four . . . five seconds before he peels off, his wheels kicking up dust clouds and stones as he leaves the parking lot. Good riddance.
“Where to?” the cab driver asks, his dark eyes peering at me through the rearview mirror.
Crap. How do I get back to my dad’s again? Where did Jonah turn? Was it before or after that sketchy coffee shop? “Do you know where Wren Fletcher lives?”
He shakes his head, and for a moment I panic. I’m about to tell him to take me to the airport, but then I remember that I have my dad’s address in an email from Agnes. I quickly find it and read it out loud for the man. And then sink into the cracked, tobacco-scented leather with a sigh of relief. I don’t need Jonah at all. “How much for the scenic way there?”
Chapter 8
“I still can’t believe you have six kids,” I murmur.
“Seven, come December.” Michael chuckles as he turns into my dad’s driveway. “I told you, I was eighteen when my oldest was born.”
