Page 34 of That Kiss

“I always forget how young your parents still are. Crazy to think they’re just now in their early forties.”

My parents are already in their sixties. My mom was 39 when she got pregnant with me, and 40 when she had me. Growing up, it didn’t bother me that they were considerably older than all of the other kids’ parents in my grade, but it didn’t go unnoticed. It’s something that as I get older, I do worry about. I worry that if I do wait to settle down and have a family of my own a decade from now, would they even still be here? I choke back a tear, a lump quickly forming in my throat.

“What about you? Gone on any dates since you’ve moved back? I don’t think I’ve heard you talk about anyone.”

“No,” I respond quickly, then pause. Was that technically a date the night I teased Decker about paying for my dinner? I shake my head to myself. My standards must literally be in hell if I consider a man paying for my dinner—while not actually being there to eat it with me—a date. Maybe I need to reevaluate my standards. That thought leaves a sick feeling in my stomach. Deck and I have hooked up twice now, with not a single mention of going on an actual date. I feel my lips turn into a frown at the thought.

“No? Girl, what is holding you?—”

The door chimes and Adrienne, Decker’s younger cousin, who’s the chief legal counsel at Slade Industries International, walks in. With her stilettos adding at least four inches to her already-tall frame, and her perfectly-curled strawberry blonde hair bouncing with each step, she looks like a real-life Barbie.

“Hey ladies!” She smiles, a pink pastry box from the Bean & Bun in one hand, and a pair of Chanel sunglasses in the other. “I brought you a little treat.” Izzy jumps up and dives in after giving Adrienne a hug.

“You look beautiful, as always.” She bends down to give me a warm hug, which leaves a cloud of her expensive-but-not-overly-potent perfume lingering behind. “I’m so sorry I haven’t stopped in sooner to welcome you back home.”

She perches gracefully on the edge of my desk, her long, lean legs crossed delicately one over the other. There’s a large glass window on the other side of the wall that looks directly into the shop where the mechanics are working. I watch out of my peripheral as all of their heads turn in unison when they spot her.

“No apology necessary! I’ve been crazy busy trying to get acclimated to everything here, and I know you’ve taken on so much at Slade. Congrats, by the way, on the promotion to chief counsel. That’s huge.”

She waves away my congratulatory remarks. “Is it really huge when your family owns the billion-dollar company you work for?” She scrunches her nose and I reassure her that it’s still a major accomplishment she should be proud of.

Adrienne has always struggled with the dynamic of who her family is, and the wealth and power they wield in this country. Even though she graduated top of her class in high school, and then went on to do the same at Harvard Law while also volunteering for humanitarian trips around the world, she doesn’t always feel she deserves it.

“Are you planning on picking up your Mercedes later today? It should be done by 3 p.m. at the latest.”

“Yeah, I’ll have one of the boys bring me by,” she says, referring to one of her many cousins. “Oh, speaking of the boys, I’m going down to Texas next week to hang with Aidan and Axle. I never thought I’d miss those two so much after sharing a womb with them for nine months and never having my own identity.”

The famous Slade triplets—or as teachers in school referred to them, Slade Cubed—were a blast growing up. All three are the exact image of their father, Hudson: tall, blond, and always smiling. They were already taller than their poor mother—who is barely my height—by the time they were in the fifth grade.

“I bet that’ll be fun! Those cowboys down there will never let them live it down once they meet you, though.” We both laugh.

“Trust me, they’ve already warned me not to be ‘flirty’ with any of them.” She rolls her eyes, her long lashes fluttering. Adrienne is the type of woman who actually lights up every room she enters. She’s warm and inviting—something that men have often mistaken for flirting—leaving her with a slew of unwanted advances over the years. “Just wait till they see my roping and riding skills; they’ll be far too intimidated to think they stand a chance with me.”

She gives an exaggerated wink, but she’s being modest. Like everything else she does, when it came to roping and riding, Adrienne even outshone most of the boys and men growing up.

“I think every man who meets you falls in love with you just a little bit, Adrienne.” I hold up my fingers as if they’re framing her face from a distance. “You’re that picture in the magazine where they piece together all of the ‘best’ features on the ‘hottest’ celebrities to make the perfect one. Plus you also have the smarts, success, and personality to back it all up. That’s why your dumbass brothers think you’re flirting.” I laugh. “They just fail to realize that men fall over themselves for you because you’re literally that bitch—the entire package.” I fan my arms out widely and Izzy voices her agreement around a bite of her pink sprinkle donut.

Her eyes fall from mine and she toys nervously with her keys that she’s left on my desk. “If only I could keep one around.” Her laugh is hollow. “Anyway,” she stands up and reaches for her sunglasses, “Scotty said he’d give me a ride back to the office, so I shouldn’t keep him waiting any longer.” She gives me another quick hug. “I’ll text you later; let’s grab dinner this week. See ya!”

“How the hell does she have trouble keeping a man?” Izzy says once she’s out of earshot.

I shake my head. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

I push the back door curtain aside, checking to see if Decker pulled into the driveway when I wasn’t looking. I know that’s impossible, because I’ve been pacing the kitchen and front room for the last hour waiting for him to get here.

“He said 7,” I mutter, pulling up our text thread to confirm the time. “Yup, 7 p.m.” I stare at the last text he sent me and the three I sent over the span of the last few hours, which have gone completely unanswered.

Me (4:14 p.m.): Hey, thanks again for making the time to come by and talk tonight. Want me to cook dinner?

Me (5:38 p.m.): I’m just planning on making frozen pizza. Let me know what toppings you want.

Me (7:09 p.m.): Is everything okay? Let me know if you’re running late or if your plans changed.

Five minutes after I sent the last message, I called him, but there was no answer. Since then, I’ve called three more times with no answer. I debated on confirming our plans earlier in the day but talked myself out of it. I didn’t want to appear clingy or annoying, and I know he was stressed about his meeting in Denver.

Maybe it didn’t go as planned and he stayed an extra night. Or maybe it went completely south and they burned a bridge with a politician and he’s too pissed to talk to anyone. I run through a list of other possible reasons why Deck would not only ignore my texts but also blow me off with no explanation and no apology, but I can’t come up with anything that doesn’t end in him being hurt physically in some way.

My arm rests atop the open refrigerator door as I stare at the open bottle of white wine, then at the clock on the oven. It’s 8:19. I glance out the window one last time. The sun has now fully set and the only illumination is the soft glow of the porch light I turned on for him. My hand slides into my pocket for my phone and I consider calling him one more time . . . when it hits me that maybe there isn’t some grand explanation as to why he didn’t show up tonight.

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