Page 24 of Bloom

“I don’t know,” I sigh. “A part of me still wants it, and another part thinks that no matter what I accomplish, people are always going to think of me as the intern who slept with Edward Ferris. Twenty years from now, there will continue to be some doubt about whether I truly earned the position I’m in.”

“There’d have been doubt anyway,” he says gently. “Look at who your dad is. Or was. There was always going to be some question of whether you’d gotten where you were because of yourself or because of him. There probably isn’t a single female on TV who hasn’t had someone suggest, or think, that they used their looks to get where they are.”

“I suppose,” I say. “It’s not just that, though. The way they covered it all up, the way they made me the guilty party when they knew I wasn’t. Even the way they initially tried to cover up my father’s affair … it’s just kind of repugnant. I don’t know that I want to be a part of that.”

“You won’t be because that’s not the kind of person you are,” he says, reaching toward me, resting his hand on my arm. “Whatever you decide to do, you’re going to be brilliant at it.”

I smile at him. “As will you.”

It’s only then that we hear the sliding door opening, that his hand falls away quickly, but not quickly enough.

Allison stands there in a silk robe, the kind of robe that has a fancy French name and probably conceals some very delicate type of lingerie beneath it.

“She’s a little young for you, isn’t she?” she asks coolly. “Maybe I’ll get you a subscription to Barely Legal for your birthday.”

“It wasn’t what it looked like,” James says, just as coldly. “We were just talking.”

I stand to leave, allowing myself one look back at him. Our eyes meet for a single moment. I’m not sure which of us looks more unhappy as I go inside.

Chapter 16

The next morning Ginny helps me make waffles.

“Isn’t Allison great?” she squeals, as I pour the batter onto the iron.

“Mmmm,” I reply. A noise that means nothing at all, but one I know she will take to mean agreement. “Did you have fun last night?”

She raises one shoulder, ambivalently. “Things were a little tense here, so we all cleared out. Figured maybe they just needed to work off a little steam, if you know what I mean,” she says, with a quick raise of her brows. Yeah, I know what she means, and the idea makes me a little sick. Did they make up after I went upstairs? She certainly came outside dressed for reconciliation.

The smell of waffles draws the boys forward. First Dan, and then Max, and finally James. The latter yawns and collapses in his chair. “Grayson,” he says. “I love your waffles. I’m sorry we ever said we didn’t want you here.”

“You never said that.”

“Well, we never said that to you,” he laughs.

Max smacks the side of his head. “Shut the fuck up. We’d kick you out before we’d kick her out. In fact, it’s only that you’re related to the two of them that we’re letting you stay.”

“I’m not related to the blonde troublemaker,” says James, still smiling. “Just the redhead with the big mouth.”

“A redhead who’s gonna spit in your waffle batter if you keep talking,” says Ginny.

Allison emerges then, dressed like she’s heading to the ladies’ tea at the country club — white capris, a cashmere tank, a scarf around her neck. Meanwhile, James is now shirtless, but still wearing Thursday’s shorts, which he may or may not have gone running in. I’m heartened by the fact that he sure doesn’t look like a guy who’s trying to get laid.

She fixes her icy smile on me and comes to the opposite side of the island. “I’ll take over now,” she says, pulling the waffle iron away from me and reaching out her hand, fully expecting me to hand over the batter. I’m kind of stunned. Who the fuck does she think she is, walking into my fucking kitchen and trying to take over my fucking waffles? I grab the waffle iron by its cord and yank it back to me.

“I think I’ve got it, thanks,” I say, with clear sarcasm.

“Are you sure?” she asks. “Because it smells like something’s burning.”

“Boys,” I call out. “Do you smell anything burning?”

They all say no. I try not to gloat.

“Fine,” she snaps. “I’ll set the table.”

I raise a brow at Ginny, cutting strawberries, but she doesn’t acknowledge it, acting as if she hasn’t heard a word of our conversation. And if she did, I’m sure, she’d fall squarely on Team Allison.

Allison then proceeds to complain about the state of the flatware, the number of plates. She then demands a butter dish, of all things.