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“You know I worked as a photographer in Europe when I met Garret, right?” she asked. I nodded.
“If you’re about to offer me a professional photo shoot for the prom, I will have to stop you right there. Not my thing.”
She laughed. It was so easy to talk to her. I couldn’t help but compare her to Sylvia. I envied Lucas for the mother he got. No wonder he was a good person if you put aside the fact he was apparently hate-banging the female population because he couldn’t punish me.
“I’ve seen some of the jewelry you’re making. You could use some guidance. I think I know the right person.”
I shook my head. “I don’t have my sketches. Harry Spencer checked. The second floor is also damaged,” I explained.
“So? Draw new sketches. Think about it,” she shrugged as if it didn’t matter. But it did. No one ever helped me with this.
“Who is that person?” I asked trying to sound indifferent.
“An ex-boyfriend. He’s a jewelry designer. He works with Prada, Valentino, Dior. You name it. I could ask him to help you. See your pieces. Give you some advice.”
I wanted to scream my lungs out in excitement. Of course, that was out of question. I never let people see they had something I wanted. A person like that could help me immensely. He could help me get better and answer the gazillion questions I had about making this a steady income for me.
“How do you even know a person who works with Dior?” I asked amazed. “I’ll have to think about it.”
Elizabeth bit her lips to suppress a smile. She knew I was hooked. She also knew she shouldn’t push me. She got up and looked at me with amusement.
“Clem?”
“Yes?”
“Please don’t sleep on the floor just to prove a point, okay?”
I rolled my eyes. “I’ll sleep on the bed, don’t worry about it.”
“Great,” she smiled and headed out. She placed her hand on the door handle and added, “Oh, and would you please try not to run away tonight?” Her body leaned forward a little bit as if she was about to share a secret with me, “I was wild once too.”
Chapter Eight
Lucas
When I parked my car in front of my house on Tuesday evening, all I wanted to do was eat and go to sleep. The sight of Clementine’s ruined home next to our recently painted house was still something that drew my eyes.
I wondered how she felt, knowing everything she ever had was lost forever. That night, when I was watching her and she was watching the fire, I got the feeling she was somehow pleased. It was another twisted inexplicable thing about her.
I went inside my house and the smell of what I hoped was my favorite lasagna made my stomach growl. My mother rarely missed a chance to cook us dinner. I think she did it because of me and Troy. I was pretty sure she hated cooking, and, the minute we got out of this house, she would just stop and make my father eat takeout for the rest of his life. Cooking for three man was a challenge. But Elizabeth Cole was up to it. She was up to anything when it came to her family.
“Mom, tell me dinner is ready!” I yelled from the front door and went towards the kitchen.
The answer? Complete silence.
“I’m kidding,” I explained, thinking I was annoying her. “I can wait, and I can even help.”
As I entered the kitchen area that was separated from the living room only by a short and narrow hallway, my smile died. I lost my appetite and probably my sleep for the night.
No amount of home cooked lasagna could make up for that particular surprise.
In my fucking house.
I was sure this was my mom’s doing. My father would never even think of it.
Clementine Hartley was sitting on our kitchen island. Her gorgeous long hair down, her eyes dead on mine, her lips parted. It looked like she was holding her breath, waiting for my reaction. I had none.
I could probably yell my lungs out right there and then, but just didn’t. There had to be a good reason for her to be here. Correction. My mother must have had a good reason for inviting her. Clementine, though? What the fuck was she thinking?
