Color Me Crazy (5 page)

Addie cleared her throat. “Don’t kill me, but we need to make one more stop.”

“I can’t drive in the fetal position.”

She rubbed his shoulder. “You’re fine now, and you’ll barely have to slow down. I left my scarf in Cleo’s car. It’s on our way home.”

“Her flat’s on the other side of town. And besides, I’ve had enough drama for today. I can’t stand those pathetic puppy dog eyes again.”
No matter how pretty they are.

He’d been forced to listen to over an hour of tears as the redhead pondered her impending homelessness. When he’d finally snapped and offered her a fistful of money, she’d smacked his arm and shrieked, “I don’t need money, you idiot.”

When he’d pointed out that she most definitely seemed to need money, why else wouldn’t she be paying her rent, she’d replied, “I need to grow up.”

Then there had been more crying and commiserating. He had almost died from the female hysteria. Women.

“We don’t have to go across town,” Addie said. “She’s at her parents’ house in Terrell Hills, probably suffering through dinner and working up the nerve to tell them about the eviction. I’ll run in while you stay in the car.”

She was bloody right he was staying in the car. “I’m sure her family will help her,” he pointed out.

“That will be a last resort, believe me. Only if she feels she’s hit rock bottom.”

Julian laughed. “As you well know, hitting rock bottom is my specialty. She’s nowhere near the bottom just because of an eviction notice. Not unless she has nowhere to go and ends up living on the streets, which seems unlikely.” He swallowed.
Been there, done that.

He pulled out of the parking lot and accelerated toward the expressway. He was in control of himself again, thanks to Addie’s soothing touch and the powerful vibrations of the El Camino’s Turbo-jet V8, to which he felt solidly connected. He shifted into fourth—the amber engine noise deepened to a comforting gold—and merged into the fast lane.

...

Cleo sat on the silk brocade couch and listened to Josh and her father discussing sports. Dinner was over. All she had to do now was choke down some cake, then she could escape. Luckily, her mom was so enamored with Josh that she wasn’t too tuned in to Cleo’s mood.
Evicted.
Her first priority was going to be the avoidance of moving home. She’d stay with a friend—hell, she’d hit the local homeless shelter—but she was not moving in with the folks.

“Are you boys going to talk basketball all night?” her mother asked. “It’s Cleo’s birthday. Let’s talk about something else.”

“Sophie,” Josh said as his wineglass was refilled, “I think tonight’s pork tenderloin was the best I’ve ever tasted. I can’t wait for dessert. I don’t know why Clark isn’t a butterball.”

“Why, thank you, Josh.” Her mom nodded with an unmistakable expression of approval, as if Cleo was the farmer who’d brought the prized pig to the fair. If she had a blue ribbon, she’d stick it on Josh’s forehead.

Cleo drained her extra-large glass of cab and smacked it down on the granite coffee table, earning a laser look from her mother. “Pardon me,” she said, appreciating the nice buzz humming over the remnants of her hangover.

“In the kitchen, Cleo,” her mom said. “Help me make some coffee.”

Cleo rose obediently and followed. She was about to get an earful, but at least she wasn’t going to get the
What were you thinking?
speech in regard to her date. Every time she looked at Josh, with his clipped blond hair and his crisply pressed clothes, all she heard was
Winner! Winner! Winner!

Her mother spun on her heel as soon as they made it through the kitchen’s swinging door. “Cleo, what were you thinking?”

The kitchen door swung shut and bumped her on the ass. “What was I thinking about
what
?”

“Your outfit. What on earth are you wearing? You look like a flower child. What did Josh say when he saw you in that?”

“It’s a sarong, Mom. A one-of-a-kind, 100-percent silk, hand-dyed, super-expensive sarong. And come to think of it, Josh didn’t say anything.” She frowned and leaned against the counter.

Sophie’s face relaxed, and the eyebrow that had disappeared into her bangs came back down to a more reasonable position. “Well, it does bring out your eyes. You just pick the strangest things, dear.”

“I didn’t pick it,” Cleo said smugly. “Addie dyed it for me.”

It was a swirling ocean of green, indigo, and deep purple. It fell to mid-thigh, so she’d paired it with dark, skinny jeans and some purple suede boots she’d found on sale. She’d left her hair loose to bounce on her bare shoulders.

“Oh?” Sophie perked up. “She’s the most delightful girl. I adore her accent. And yes, now I can see it. That top is exquisite. I should have recognized Addie’s work.”

“Right.” Cleo watched her mother get the silver coffee service ready. “Actually, Addie should be dropping by any minute now. She texted that she left her scarf in my car.”

“She can stay for cake,” Sophie said. “Get down an extra plate, dear.”

Cleo walked into the formal dining room, rolled her eyes at the ostentatious cherubs floating across the domed ceiling, and removed a china plate from the sideboard.

“Make that
two
extra plates. Your brother’s in town for a medical conference. He said he’d try to stop by.”

Ben was in town? “Why didn’t anybody tell me? Have you seen him?”

Her mother refused to make eye contact. “No, we haven’t seen him.” She busied herself polishing an invisible spot on a sugar spoon.

“Well, we need three extra plates then, don’t we?” Cleo asked.

“No. Just two.” Sophie began humming as she always did when she intended to end a conversation.

“But isn’t Ben bringing—”

“Don’t start, Cleo.”

“Mom—”

“Your father and I thought that with Josh here for the first time, we didn’t need any complications. Ben understands.”

There was no way that her brother understood their mother’s refusal to let him bring Marcus, nor her desire to wait out what she referred to as his “gay phase.” As if on cue, her phone vibrated in her back pocket. She pulled it out and looked at the text.

T
ELL
M
OM
I
CAN’T MAKE IT.
S
ORRY, KIDDO—HAVE A HAPPY BIRTHDAY.

Cleo sighed. “Promise me you won’t kill the messenger,” she began.

She was saved by the doorbell. “That must be Addie,” her mother said. She rushed off to open the door, thereby escaping the conversation. Cleo sighed and followed her mother to the front door.

After the hugging and greeting, Sophie started the begging. “Oh, no, you have to stay,” she said to Addie. “Just for a few minutes.”

Inspired by the distraction Addie provided, Cleo joined in. “Yes, stay for cake, Addie. Pretty please?”

“Speaking of pretty”—Addie winked at her—“Juli’s in the car. I really need to be going.”

Cleo looked at the door. He was in the car? And he wasn’t coming in? Well, fine. She didn’t want to see him again, anyway. Much.

“Well, invite her in, too,” Sophie said. “There’s enough cake to go around.”

Addie laughed. “Juli is my brother. Julian.”

“Oh my goodness. I didn’t realize. Go and get him, dear. I won’t take no for an answer.”

“Well, he wasn’t feeling well earlier,” Addie said.

Sophie stared at Addie with a frozen smile on her face. It was the face she wore to show she expected her orders to be followed—no questions asked. Cleo was unfortunately familiar with the
see how patient I’m being with you
expression.

“I’ll go see if he’d like to come in,” Addie said.

The night was getting interesting. Even Sophie wouldn’t be able to remain focused on Cleo’s shortcomings while a tattooed British man dropped f-bombs all over the chintz chairs.

As soon as Addie was out of earshot, Sophie clapped her hands. “I didn’t know Addie had a brother. I’m sure he’s absolutely charming. Have you met him, Cleo?”

“I barfed on him earlier today.”

Her mom let out an exasperated sigh and waved her hand.

“No, really,” Cleo said. “I did.”

Josh walked up. “Did what?”

“Nothing, dear,” Sophie said.

Cleo grabbed the wineglass out of Josh’s hand and drained it. Then she stared at the door and waited for the show to begin.

The main event walked through the door—obviously reticent—dragging his feet and hesitating in the foyer. The Sex Pistols T-shirt had ridden up to reveal a couple of inches of sculpted abdomen, and Addie reached over and yanked it down. Cleo’s traitorous body sparked to life like a lit fuse. A warm wave of desire bloomed between her legs and worked its way up to her tingly scalp before zipping back down to the tips of her toes. She stifled a shudder.

“This is my brother, Julian Wheaton,” Addie said.

As if someone flipped his on switch, Julian ran a hand through his shiny, dark waves and gave a shy grin.

Josh instinctively placed an arm around Cleo’s waist.

“Hello,” Julian said. Sophie’s gaze traveled up his tattooed arms to his face, where the grin had turned into a dazzling smile. Cleo smirked. There was no way her mom would be charmed by that cheesy act.

“Where are my manners? Come in and have a seat, won’t you? I’m Sophie Compton.”

There was a warble in Sophie’s voice, which sounded at least two octaves higher than usual, and Cleo cringed in embarrassment over her mother’s extended hand. She obviously expected Julian to kiss it.

Without missing a beat, Julian did just that. He administered a simmering gaze and brushed his lips across Sophie’s knuckles. It would have been hysterical had her mom not been smiling like an idiot and fluttering her eyelashes.

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Compton,” Julian said. The accent came on thicker than Cleo remembered. Good grief.

“Please, call me Sophie.”

“Sophie,” Julian said, gently releasing her mother’s hand in order to shake her father’s.

“Hello, son. Nice to meet you.” Clark grinned, clearly amused by his wife’s response to whatever pheromones Julian was oozing.

Next up was Josh, who wasn’t nearly as impressed by Julian’s sex appeal. His grip on Cleo’s waist tightened, as if she were a slippery little fish who might be eaten by the big, bad shark. “This is Josh,” she mumbled.

Julian’s eyebrow lifted. “Why is it that I see no outward signs of injury or mutilation?” He winked and gingerly rubbed the top of his slightly swollen nose. Then he held out his hand, forcing Josh to let go of her in order to shake it.

He held everyone’s rapt attention as he leaned over to kiss Cleo on the cheek. “That looks gorgeous on you. Did Addie make it?”

She wanted to roll her eyes, but she was flattered and they wouldn’t budge. “Yes, she did,” she said instead. “Thank you.”

“It’s like Stravinsky’s ‘Rite of Spring,’” he said, continuing to stare.

“Pardon?”

“The beginning of Act One, where the girl dances herself to death as a pagan sacrifice. But I’m talking about the orchestral arrangement, of course.” He stepped back a little, as if to get a better view. “The tonality and dissonance look just like these swirling colors…”

Addie cleared her throat, and Julian looked around the room. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

“No, don’t stop,” Cleo said. “I don’t know what you said, but it was lovely.”

Julian stared at the floor, seemingly preoccupied with the toe of his black boot. A few awkward seconds passed before Sophie piped up. “Well, well, well. Everyone have a seat. Cleo and I will bring out the cake.”

Cleo didn’t relish the idea of more mother-daughter bonding time in the kitchen. “Come give us a hand, Julian.”

Julian raised his eyebrows—so did Josh, for that matter—but then followed them into the kitchen under the officious guise of a three-man cake siege. Once through the door, Sophie began a scattershot of questions.

“How long will you be in town, Julian?”

“I live here.”

“Oh! I didn’t know. I just assumed…”

“Apparently, it’s a well-guarded secret,” he said.

“And what do you do?”

Cleo sighed and shook her head. Her mom could be charmed by Julian and still lack the ability to imagine him in any type of gainful employment. On cue, Sophie glanced at his arms, in case he didn’t get the crux of the question.

Julian smiled. “I’m a musician.”

“Oh, I see,” Sophie said, as if that explained it. Then she looked at the cabinets behind Julian’s head. “Be a darling and get that cake platter down for me.”

Julian reached for the platter on top of the cabinets, raising that pesky shirt again.
Oh, boy. Tattoos down his back, too.
Sophie cleared her throat.

“And what type of instrument do you play?”

“He owns a recording studio, Mom,” Cleo said. The conversation needed to head in another direction.

“And I play guitar,” Julian said.

“Oh, dear,” Sophie said, stepping to the refrigerator to retrieve a white bakery box.

Cleo rolled her eyes. “Mom—”

“Does my occupation present a problem?” Julian asked, leaning casually against the counter.

“Compton girls have a weakness, that’s all,” Sophie said.

“Mother.”

“For handsome guitarists,” she continued, patting Julian’s cheek and scooting him away from the cutlery drawer. She placed the cake on the counter with a suspicious glance at Cleo. “I wonder if Josh plays an instrument?” Subtlety was not one of her mother’s virtues.

“Is this what I think it is?” Cleo asked, opening the cake box.
Let’s move along now.

“It’s
tres leches
cake from Mi Tierra,” her mother said. She looked at Julian and smiled. “It’s Cleo’s favorite.”

Cleo couldn’t resist sticking a finger in the rich, creamy frosting and bringing it to her mouth. The light whipped topping melted in a puddle of milky sweetness on her tongue. She closed her eyes and shivered in delight, then took one more swipe at the cake. “Oh my God,” she moaned. “So sinful.”

“Goodness, Cleo,” Sophie said. “Behave yourself.”

“I don’t have to. It’s my birthday.”

“You’re being crude in front of our guest. Keep your fingers out of the cake and out of your mouth.”