Muffin Top

But they had the entire day together tomorrow.

All he had to do was figure out how to convince her that this wasn’t about proximity. It was about a helluva lot more than that.

Chapter Twelve

Frankie was off for a run by the time Lucy made it down to the kitchen for breakfast the next morning. Gussie and her dad were waiting for her though and, judging by the fact that the big coffee pot on the counter was down to one cup, they’d been there for a while.

This didn’t bode well.

Who was it that said a person could never go home again? They were wrong, because you could do it, but that didn’t mean a person should. It was sort of like the too-tight jeans in every woman’s closet they refused to get rid of—she might be able to button them, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t regret wearing them. Maybe that’s why Lucy mostly wore empire waist dresses like she was now.

“Waiting for me?” she asked, snagging a cup down from the cupboard and filling it with the last of the coffee.

Her dad folded the morning paper and set it down by his breakfast plate, empty except for a dollop of syrup. “Seemed like a good idea after last night.”

Playing dumb was the last resort of someone who had no clue what else to do, which pretty much described her before her first cup of coffee, since her dad never had Mountain Dew in his fridge. “Why’s that?”

“I came home earlier than expected and quickly went upstairs. Not that either of you noticed,” her dad said. “He seems nice enough.”

Oh yes. Here it was. The Midwestern passive-aggressive advice framed as help when it was actually an invisible switchblade knife to the kidneys. She took her mug and sat down across from her dad, steeling herself for what was going to come next.

“But,” he went on, “I don’t think he’s interested in being just friends, so if that’s all you want then you should probably tell him.”

Okay, that was not what she’d been expecting—especially not after last night, which had been all about letting off some sexual steam and nothing more. Not with him. Not when it came to her. Still, she was so tossed off-balance by the sincerity in her dad’s voice that she just sat and blinked at him while he took a sip of his coffee.

He set the mug down and let out a deep breath. “It’s not nice to lead someone on.”

Her dad spoke from experience. After the divorce, her mom had married a Greek tycoon, yes, an actual real-life one. After that, neither of them had seen much of her—unless Lucy’s new stepdaddy had picked up a new mistress. These women had never lasted long, but while they did, her mom always came back to Antioch to visit her sweet baby and see dear friends, her mom had always said. In reality, she’d come for the ego-buffing that only Lucy’s dad could offer.

She’d tell him in a low, confidential voice about how horrible everything was while pressing her hand—bright with diamond rings—against his upper thigh. Lucy had walked in on them like this, once, twice, too many times to count. And it had always ended the same, with her dad believing this time was different.

It never was. Her mom always left.

Bless his heart, her dad had loved her mom. He’d told Lucy one night that he’d fallen for her mom the moment he first saw her and didn’t stop until the tycoon’s lawyer showed up on their front door to inform them of her death. Accidental drowning when she’d fallen from the tycoon’s yacht.

Lucy had been sixteen, and even on the day of the funeral, she didn’t cry. She never had. What was the point? Tears weren’t going to fill that empty ache of abandonment.

“I know you’ll do the right thing, Muffin.”

Leading someone on was the last thing Lucy would do, even if she looked like her underwear model mom instead of her dad’s favorite high-calorie treat.

She cleared the emotion out of her throat and found her voice, finally. “Frankie is just a friend.”

“Does he know that?” her dad asked as he bent to the side and scratched Gussie behind the ears.

“Have you seen him?” What was her dad putting in his coffee these days? “We’re not exactly in the same dating league.”

He cocked his head to one side. “Why not?”

“Dad, I love you, but I don’t want to have this conversation.”

They’d had it too many times. She’d come home crying after another day of people being shitty to her—the taunts, the cruel practical jokes, the just general meanness of people for no other reason than that she was an easy target. Her dad would hug her and promise it would get better. It did, but not until she’d figured out the best defense is a great offense.