Page 14 of Hotter 'N Hell

When it was done, I had thought I might speak to him or he would seek me out to saywelcomeor, heck, whatever priests said to visitors. But a swarm of people lined up to speak to him as if he were a celebrity. I gave it longer than I should have for him to possibly turn to look my way. But after five minutes, I’d said my goodbyes to Mary and left.

The pitcher of margaritas I’d had by the pool the rest of that day while I worked on my tan helped the snub. If only the lime, sugar, salt, and tequila could have washed Father Jude from my memory.

That had been ten days ago, and he was still in my thoughts.

I needed a purpose in life.

Something to do. A hobby. A job. Maybe move off to college somewhere. I could try going to class. That would take some intense begging and convincing with my parents, but…heck, I’d even go to Louisiana and live with Fia while attending the college she’d gone to. I considered that for a minute. No, we’d kill each other. I hated homework and writing papers. Scratch that.

Back to a job or hobby. What did I like to do?

I slowly pulled the spoonful of sunflower butter out of my mouth as I stared out the back patio doors that overlooked the pool area. Was it bad that I didn’t know what I liked to do?

Yes. It was pathetic. Sad. Eye-opening.

In three weeks, I would be twenty-two years old. I had been able to legally drink for a year, and I didn’t know what I liked to do. If I was good at anything. What if I wasn’t? I stuck the spoon back into the jar. How was it possible that I had made it twenty-two years and didn’t have any idea who I was?

Was that it? I was a rich man’s spoiled daughter, who had beengiven everything. I had never worked a job, never had a hobby other than shopping, tanning, and Netflix. There was no depth to me. Nothing admirable.

And Crosby had met a girl with a job, who had dreams, knew what she enjoyed, had different layers, and he’d found something to admire. Respect. He was attracted to her because she knew who she was. Unlike me. Who had survived to please him, be with him, do what he wanted, go where he wanted.

While I’d been his lap dog, she’d been an exotic bird.

I did not want to be a lap dog. I wanted to be someone’s exotic bird, dammit.

“Please tell me there is an unopened jar of sunflower butter in the pantry,” my mother said as she walked into the kitchen, wearing her white-and-gold Versace bathrobe, Hermès slides, and her terry-cloth hair wrap from Target.

I stuck the spoonful in my mouth and replied, “Nope,” while my tongue worked the creamy goodness free.

She sighed and placed a hand on her hip while giving me a disapproving look. “Really, Saylor? You have to eat it right out of the jar?”

I swallowed, then licked my lips. “I’d like to remind you that I am the one with the nut allergy in this house. Eat the peanut butter.”

Mom rolled her eyes. “Well, I am going through menopause, and I need to cut all the calories I can. Besides, it tastes better than peanut butter.”

My mother had never been fat a day in her life. She was forty-seven and looked like she was in her thirties. She’d never even been thick. Heck, the pictures of when she had been pregnant, she’d still looked fabulous. I had no sympathy.

“There is that sugar-free jam and fake butter in the fridge you can put on your toast.”

Mom huffed as she went to jerk open the left side of therefrigerator. “We have got to hire a new cook. Luciana retiring and leaving us is just unfair. I miss her egg white omelets.”

I screwed the top back on the sunflower butter. “Yeah, how could she? I mean, she’d only had a pacemaker put in.Jeez, woman. Lazy much?” I drawled, my voice thick with sarcasm.

Luciana had been working for this family for fifty years. My father had been nine years old when my grandparents hired her. It was time she had her freedom. Enjoyed her golden years or whatever.

“I know her health forced her to retire, but I miss her.”

“Then, replace her,” I replied.

It had been three months since she’d left us. I was fine with it, but Mom was the one struggling to move on.

“I can’t find the right fit. Luciana was family,” she said, taking out the fake butter and sugar-free jam from the refrigerator.

“Then, we will make our own meals,” I replied flippantly as I put the sunflower butter back into the pantry.

“Will you get me the loaf of bread? The keto-friendly one?” Mom called. “Pilar should have gotten it yesterday when she did the grocery shopping.”

Pilar was the maid. Now, if she had retired, I might be more upset. Thankfully, Pilar was only fifty and had many years left in her. I could make my own sandwich, but I did not want to clean a toilet. Or do laundry. Or wash dishes.

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