Page 32 of Forked (Frenched 2)
“You know what shit. The whole I’m just a poor boy nobody loves me routine.”
“I never said you didn’t love me.”
“You know what I mean. Implying that I think I’m too good for you, or that you’re not good enough for me because I grew up…” I struggled with how to put it. “Advantaged.”
Nick laughed and cracked a second egg. “You grew up rich. And you were too good for me.”
“Whatever, Nick. It was you that had the money hang-up when it came to us, not me. I never even thought about it.”
“Because you never had to.” He didn’t sound angry or bitter, but this whole tired conversation bothered me. Irritated that he’d spoil our fun with it, I got to my feet. Why the hell would he even bring it up? I tossed the paper towel in the garbage and tried to slam the cabinet door shut, but it had one of those slow-close mechanisms that prevented it from making any noise. How fucking annoying.
“Fine. I never had to think about money,” I snapped. “Yes, my college education was paid for. Yes, my parents bought me a car.”
“A BMW,” he clarified, beating the eggs with a fork.
“A BMW.” I watched him for a few seconds, wishing I could take a turn. I felt like beating something right now. “Why are you doing this?”
His arm stopped, and he looked at me. “Doing what?”
“Starting a fight.”
“I’m not starting a fight, Coco. I was just commenting that I’ve never seen you wash a kitchen floor.”
“Or mow a lawn or pound in a nail or use a goddamn drill.” My hands curled into fists.
“No, now that you mention it.” Nick had the nerve to look amused. “What’s this about, cupcake?”
His nickname for me, which I’d always loved, now sounded childish and silly. Like I was pretty and sweet, a pink-frosted birthday confection. He thinks of me as a helpless girl, just like my parents do. “You think I’m just a princess. You think I can’t do anything on my own just because I’ve never done it before. You think I don’t know how to work with my hands.”
“Now that’s just not true.” He set down the fork and bowl. “I’ve seen you work magic on me with your hands many times. Come here.”
“No.”
“Come here, stubborn.” He pulled me in for a hug, and I didn’t resist for long, allowing his arms to twine around my waist, my forehead to rest on his solid shoulder. “I’m sorry I upset you. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“I’m sorry too.” My voice was muffled in his shirt. I took a deep breath, inhaling his scent, which was now mingling with my perfume on his skin. “It’s not really all about what you said. It’s this house thing—I’d be taking on a huge amount of work on my own, and I’m scared that my family will tell me I’m crazy, like Mia did. Not only because it’s a lot of money, but because of all the work it needs.”
“I think that’s great.” He squeezed me tighter. “And you can do anything you set your mind to. I know you can.”
I sighed. “You haven’t seen this house. Part of the reason I’m scared to ask my parents for help buying it is that Mia could be right. But I just love it so much.”
“Show it to me.”
“Show it to you? When?”
Nick released me and reached for the sour cream. “Tomorrow morning maybe? We can drive through Indian Village before we get on the road.”
“Really?” I clasped my hands together under my chin.
Nick spooned some sour cream into a bowl and added a teaspoon of baking soda. “Yeah. Do you think we can see the inside? If I’m going to give you an honest opinion about the investment in terms of time and money, I’d like to see the entire thing.”
“Maybe. Let me text my agent.” Hurrying toward the door where I’d dropped my purse, I pulled out my phone and saw that I had four messages, one from Erin wanting to know how things were going (which made me smile), one from Mia apologizing for being harsh with me today (which made me feel guilty), one from a vendor assuring me I could get all the outdoor furniture I wanted (which made me thank God) and one from Angelina, asking if we could change the whole party to a luau theme (which made me frown in confusion because she spelled it loo-ow. Took me a minute). She wanted me to call her immediately, no matter the time.
I groaned.
“Problem?” Nicked called over Johnny Cash’s rough-hewn twang.
“No. But give me a minute, OK? Can we turn the music down slightly?”
