Page 7 of The Love Scam
“I. Don’t. Know.”
“I said you didn’t lose it.”
“How the hell would you know?” God, she was infuriating. Her good mood in the face of his very serious problem was aggravating—
Aggravating beyond belief,Blake’s voice spoke up helpfully.
Well, it was!
It’s like she has no understanding of the seriousness of your situation. Thinks your problems are funny.
Well, she did! The only time she stopped grinning was when he threw up on her. And even then she’d left the child with him, resulting in an awkward chat,
(“You’re having a bad day.”
“I am having anunfathomablybad day, sweetie. Um. No offense.”
“It’s fine. Sweetie.”
“It’s nothing to do with you personally—”
“It’s fine,” she insisted.)
ducked into thebagno delle donne,and emerged a few minutes later with damp but clean(ish) feet while he and the kid set up camp in the lobby, near the enormous double beverage dispenser. Oh sweet, sweet beverage dispenser, one side lemonade, the other side cold water in which floated a dozen spring strawberries. He guzzled glass after glass, until he could no longer taste vermouth barf; the resulting Mr. Misty headache, in the face of his hangover
(“Aaaaaggggghhhh—”
“Press your thumb against the roof of your mouth!”
“—ggggggghhhhh—hey, that worked!”)
was no biggie.
Anyway, there was no, repeat,noparallel between this woman’s behavior and how he related to the rest of the world in general and Blake in particular, and what was with this kid, anyway?
“C’mon,” he said abruptly when the woman rejoined him, leaving a trail of wet footprints between the bathroom and the lobby. “Let’s talk.”
“Oh, goody.”
“Let’s go over here.” He (gently) jerked his head toward theristoranteto the left of the lobby. He might be able to get a single slice of bruschetta down his gullet without dying. Once he scraped off the tomatoes and olive oil and garlic. And crumbs. And crust. Maybe. Maybe he wouldn’t die. “Have a—” He swallowed a gag. “Snack.”
Her ever-present grin reappeared. “My treat, I bet.”
“I can pay,” the child said quickly.
He could feel his face get hot. God, when was the last time he’d let someone else pay for anything? Years. “I’m not a chauvinist,” he snapped. “It’s got nothing to do with my penis.”
“Thanks for clearing that up. In front of a child, no less.”
“Well, it doesn’t!”
“I’m only a kid if you count in years. And I can pay.”
“That’s not necessary, but thank you, hon.”
The child didn’t look convinced. “Are you sure?”
“I can’t believe I’m— Look, it’s just we were poor for a long time, so we hated when other people paid.”
