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As soon as we arrive in the double story room, I spot Crawford and Pamela cozied up on the couch. She’s pressed against his side as her fingers trail up and down his thigh. Much like the other day when we met for lunch, she’s all glammed up. There’s not an extension or fake eyelash out of place.
I glance at Crawford and find him grinning widely. Every few seconds, his eyes flicker toward my mother. It’s like he can’t bear to look away for even a second. Reluctantly, I admit that I haven’t seen him this happy in years.
It hurts my heart that she’ll only end up breaking his.
It’s tempting to pull him aside and talk some sense into him. If I thought there was even a snowball’s chance in hell he’d listen, I’d do it.
I’d warn him against my own mother.
Unfortunately, the besotted expression on his face tells me that it would fall on deaf ears. He’d probably share my concerns with her and then I’d have a pissed-off Pamela on my hands.
“You guys are early,” he says. “Dinner won’t be ready for another hour.”
Great.
That’s definitely not what I wanted to hear. I was hoping our meal would be served immediately and then we could take off within the hour.
What really sucks is that Wednesday nights with Crawford were always a treat I looked forward to each week. I love dropping by the house and spending time together.
Now…I can’t get away fast enough.
When Pamela strokes his chest before leaning in to nip at his clean-shaven jaw, my belly revolts.
Ford points toward the staircase that leads to the walkout basement. “Carina wanted to practice her solo, so we’ll head down there until dinner.”
I shoot him a grateful look for his quick thinking and saving us from an hour of watching them play kissy face with each other.
“Sure, sure. Sounds good,” Crawford says, not bothering to glance our way.
Ford rolls his eyes before locking his fingers around my wrist and towing me from the room. Under normal circumstances, I’d yank my hand away, not wanting his father to suspect that we’ve become involved in a full-blown relationship, but it’s doubtful he’s aware that we’re still in the room. His attention is solely focused on Pamela.
I don’t understand it.
I really don’t.
She treats him more like an afterthought, and he trails after her like a lovesick puppy.
I want to smack the man upside the head and tell him to open his damn eyes. He needs to see her for the person she is behind the pretty, Botox-injected mask. It makes me feel like shit to think this way about my own flesh and blood. Life would be so much easier if she’d just jet back to wherever the hell she came from and stopped messing with Crawford. But that won’t happen as long as he insists on lavishing her with gifts and footing the bill for her luxurious lifestyle.
“I’m pretty sure I just threw up in my mouth,” Ford grumbles as we turn the corner and head to the staircase that leads to the finished basement.
“Sorry,” I mutter in embarrassment.
“What do you have to be sorry for? It’s not your fault that our parents act like horny teenagers when they’re around one another.”
My teeth scrape across my lower lip as I consider how best to respond to that comment. Because that’s exactly what it is.
An act.
Mom isn’t head over heels in love with him. She’s securing his affection and making sure she can still lead him around by the nose.
Once we reach the spacious studio, Ford closes the door behind him. There’s an ocean of polished hardwood. Because of the shock absorbing subflooring Crawford had installed, our footsteps are silent. He spared no expense when adding all the little details like mirrored walls and a bar to stretch and practice positioning that makes it seem more like a professional studio.
This is my happy place.
Under normal circumstances, when I step inside the bright space, everything that weighs me down vanishes into thin air and I’m able to focus on the piece of choreography I’m working on. That doesn’t happen this time. Thick tension continues to gather in my shoulder blades.
For just a second or two, I contemplate coming clean with him.
