Page 131 of Spicy Ever After
“I don’t see why you can’t wait a year to do this. Wait six months.”
It’s Beck’s dad. When no one replies, I realize he’s on the phone.
All I can hear in his voice is anguish. “Give my boy a chance, Paul.”
And even I know this is not a conversation I should be overhearing. I turn to head back upstairs but stop when I catch:
“You know as well as I do Beckett can’t buy you out in less than three months. How can you do this to him? Stabbing him in the back like this?”
Stabbing him in the back? Stabbing Beck?
Who would dare?
I realize that I’m leaning in to listen closer when the stair beneath me creaks.
Loudly.
“H-hold on, Paul—” I hear the scrape of a chair in the kitchen. “Hello? Is that you, Hattie?”
Busted.
Wincing, I turn again and descend the stairs.
“Yes, sir. It’s me.” I poke my head into the kitchen and find a startled Mr. Olivier with a phone pressed to his ear. “But I can go back ups?—”
His surprised look morphs into a scowl. “Nonsense.” His gaze drops as he barks into the phone. “This conversation isn’t over, Paul. I’ll call you back.”
He beeps the phone and practically slams in on the table. His hands shake, and I’m not sure if it’s from strong emotion, from Parkinson’s, or both.
I swallow, unsure what to do. An urgent impulse tells me to run—or at least walk briskly—back up the stairs.
But something else—something deeper inside me—insists I stay.
Beck’s dad slumps at the kitchen table, sort of hunched, still scowling at the phone like it insulted him. A spill-proof mug sits in front of him.
“Coffee’s fresh,” he grunts. “Help yourself.”
I stand motionless for a moment.
Do I want to pour myself a cup of coffee and sit at the table alone with Beck’s dad?
Hmmm…
Yeah. I kinda do.
Plus, the coffee enchants me like a sorceress.
I pad over to the counter where there’s an overturned mug just waiting for me. This, I am almost certain, Beck left out for me.
I smile as I fill it.
“Half-and-half’s in the fridge and sugar’s in that blue dish.”
“Thank you.” I help myself to both, admiring the light blue, narrow-rimmed sugar bowl ringed with yellow daisies. I’d bet my sewing machine it was Beck’s mom’s. Something she picked out. Pretty. Feminine. Simple.
The little dish has me picturing a floral print halter neck dress with a ruffled collar, belted waist, and flared skirt. I can almost see the pattern pieces in my head.
I’ve modified patterns before—for practically every piece of clothing I make for myself—but I’ve never designed anything from scratch.
