Frenemies Page 2

  Paint. Brushes. Pencils. Canvases. Knitting yarn and needles. Crochet things and cross-stitch kits and everything else arty you could ever imagine. The second store was the ceramic painting room where I taught the kids every weekend and occasionally slipped off to during my lunch hour to do a little something for me.

  It was like paradise for me. I wandered through the store, taking stock of everything that was available. Thankfully, the stock crisis of the weekend had been well and truly averted, and I’d gotten a stark reminder of why Grandma was not allowed to do that anymore.

  She forgot.

  Not because her memory was going, but because she had the concentration of a squirrel.

  This store had been my safe place for as long as I could remember. As a teen, I’d retreated here, painting in the back room, and my summers in college had been spent earning money behind the counter. That was when the ceramics classes had started.

  I’d had grand dreams of moving to a city and being discovered and having my own art shows, but instead, here I was. In my hometown, living with my grandmother, running the family store.

  And I couldn’t be happier.

  I plugged in an order for the few things we needed and sent it to the supplier. The next hour ticked over slowly with only one customer who browsed without buying. It’d been a quiet Monday, so when three-thirty rolled around and it was still dead, I flipped the sign on the door to ‘Closed’ and locked the door.

  It took me half an hour to clean the store. When it was done, I slipped out the back and headed toward my car. It was about the only thing I actually owned, but it didn’t stop Grandma Jen stealing my keys and jumping in whenever she thought I wasn’t paying attention.

  Honestly, she might be eighty, but she was probably a better driver than I was. I tended to, um, speed. Mostly after being held up by people doing thirty in a sixty.

  Some of us have places to be, Karen, okay?

  I pulled out onto Main Street into the slow flow of Monday afternoon traffic. It was nothing new. I was seriously considering changing the opening hours to accommodate the flow of customers, but Grandma was a stickler for tradition.

  Not that she upheld the tradition, but I digress.

  My phone rang, connecting up to the screen via Bluetooth. Grandma’s name flashed on the screen, and I hit the button to answer the call. “Hey, Grandma.”

  “Immy? Can you hear me?”

  “I’m in the car, not the Yukon.”

  “Smartass. You need to go to the store before you get home.”

  I sighed and quickly changed lanes to turn left instead of right. “What do you need me to get?”

  “Flour, blueberries, butter, milk, and bananas. Oh, and matches.”

  I frowned. “All right. Do you want some pork to go with that, Laura Ingles?”

  “I don’t think they had blueberries or bananas in The Little House on the Prairie, Imogen.”

  “Fine, fine. I’ll get you what you need. Anything else?”

  “Yes. I need some wine. And Twizzlers. Also, cheese.”

  “Are you hosting the book club again?”

  There was a pause. “We’re out of chorizo.”

  “Grandma, I’m not making you another charcuterie board. All you all did was stalk poor Mr. Hawkins who just wanted to prune his rose bushes.” It was my turn to stop. “Oh, my God. You’re going to perv on Mason.”

  Her silence gave her away.

  “No. I’m coming home.”

  “Imogen! We’ve been reading War and Peace for the last three weeks! It’s imperative that we have our snacks.”

  “War and Peace? Are you shitting me? You’re reading Fifty Shades of Grey hardbacks with War and Peace dust covers you ordered off eBay.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “You used my eBay account!”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes, oh.” I pulled into the parking lot of the store. “I’ll get you what you need, but it’s the last time, do you hear me? You need to find a new place for your clandestine stalker parties.”

  “It’s a book club, darlin’.”

  “Whatever you say, Grandma. I’m going now. Bye.” I hung up before she could add another thing onto the list. Thankfully, she’d never worked out texting, so I knew I was safe with the list she’d given me on the phone.

  I tapped out the items into the notes app on my phone and made my way inside, pausing to grab a cart on the way in. It took me mere minutes to get through the store, and I was about ready to check out when I paused and looked at the wine aisle.

  Yeah.

  If the Stalker Club was meeting at home tonight, I needed the wine.

  All. The. Wine.

  I scanned the aisle for my favorite Sauvignon. There was only one bottle left, and I darted toward it to grab it. My fingers touched the bottle at the same time another very male hand did.

  “Well, this is awkward.”

  Narrowing my eyes, I turned my face toward the man who was currently accosting what was clearly my bottle of wine. “You’re on my wine, Mr. Black.”

  Mason’s lips twitched to the side. “On the contrary, Ms. Anderson, you’re on my wine.”

  “No, I don’t think I am.”

  “Maybe we can cut our losses and share it.”

  “You’re as delusional as I was when you said, “I’ll call you.””

  He dropped his grip on the bottle with a laugh. “Touché. I’ll give you this one.”

  Damn right you will.

  “Thank you.” I plucked the bottle from the shelf and nestled it into the cart with everything Grandma had demanded I buy.

  Mason’s gaze followed my hand. “Girls’ night?”

  “You’d think, but no.” I offered no further explanation.

  He grabbed another bottle of Sauvignon that was more expensive and set it in his cart. “Your grandmother?”

  “How did you guess?”

  “She strikes me as a chorizo and brie kinda woman.”

  “She spoke to you today, didn’t she?”

  “She demanded my attention,” he said carefully, leaning against the cart. “Does that class as speaking?”

  “In her eyes? Yes,” I said dryly. “What did she say to you?”

  “That it was her turn to host the book club, so if I saw several excitable women at your house, I wasn’t to assume you were hosting a sex party.”

  Yep. That was Grandma all right. “Sounds about right,” I admitted. “The food is for her; the wine belongs to me. I don’t think it needs any further explanation.”

  Mason grinned. It was the same grin he’d given me when he’d seen me on my front porch, the one that made his eyes crinkle at the edges.

  It gave me the willies. The good willies. Butterflies-esque-willies.

  I didn’t like it.

  I cleared my throat and steered my cart to turn it around. “Well, I need to get this to the local horny elderly chapter, so…”

  “You can’t bring yourself to have a conversation with me, can you?”

  I paused. “What do you mean?”

  “You keep running away.”

  “I do not. Your daughter needed—” I paused. “Where’s your daughter? Did you lose her?”

  Mason laughed, dipping his head back. “No. She’s with her mom.”

  I said nothing.

  “At her mom’s house. Thirty minutes away.”

  “Oh. I assumed you were together.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “Why? Because all the people who have kids are together?”

  “No, but nobody in their right mind would move with a child in tow.”

  He grinned again, rubbing the side of his jaw. “We tried to convince Maya it was a bad idea, but she wanted to see the house. I viewed it without her, and she was pissed.”

  “She’s like… four. How can she be so mad?”

  “Almost.” Mason put another bottle of wine in his cart. “She’s four in a few weeks. I guess you’ve never heard of a threenager.”

  �
��I don’t have children, so no.” I turned my cart fully. “So you’re not with her mom?”

  Mason followed me to the end of the aisle where I browsed some cordials, pretending not to care. “No. We broke up a week before she found out she was pregnant. We tried again after that, but we were just friends. Still are, actually.”

  “That’s good for Maya.” I put a lemon cordial I didn’t want in my cart and moved along.

  He followed me again.

  “Yep. My company opened a new office here, and I relocated so I could be closer to her.”

  “My congratulations,” I drawled. “I don’t want to be rude, but I have to get back home before the stalker club descends on my house.”

  He plucked the lemon cordial from my cart with a wink. “I’ll see you around, neighbor.”

  I pursed my lips and watched as he turned and walked down the next aisle, leaving me standing there like an upturned turtle.

  That’s what it felt like, at least.

  Lying on my back, flailing, unable to respond.

  He was right.

  I didn’t want that lemon cordial.

  At all.

  “Ooooh, my!” Lillian skirted up beside me, adjusting her hairnet. “He’s a hottie!”

  I turned and looked at one of my grandmother’s best friends. “Not you, too.”

  She pursed her lips. “What I wouldn’t do to that young man if I were thirty years younger.”

  “We’re going to the register,” I told her, looping an arm through hers and controlling the cart with my other hand. “I can’t believe Grandma sent you here to check on me.”

  She grinned, peeking into the cart. “You’re missing some wine, honey.”

  You know what? She was right.

  I definitely was.

  ***

  Jennifer, Lillian, Evelyn, and Kathleen walked into a bar.

  They didn’t, actually. They were all sitting around the coffee table. Grandma Jen was holding court in the high-backed armchair I hated. Lillian was in the smaller bucket chair, already holding her back as if it was about to give up on her. Evelyn was flicking through her book like it was a shopping brochure, and Kathleen was frowning at her glass.

  “I swear this is all gin, Lil.”

  Grandma picked up her glass and swilled it. “It’s no good being mostly tonic, Kath.”

  This was reason number one why I didn’t chaperone book club night. It was less book club and more… whiskey club.

  I wasn’t against that. But when the whole club consisted of eighty-something-year-olds who were a little on the spicy side…

  Well.

  You try policing that.

  It was easier to sit at my canvas and ignore the majority of their crap. It was also harder to do because the second one of them offered a stupid idea, I was almost inclined to respond.

  It was like being on a diet and someone giving you chocolate cake. You know it’s a bad idea to say yes, but you know you’re not gonna turn it down. Nope. You’re gonna eat that slice of cake whole, baby.

  That was essentially what it was like.

  Except this chocolate cake came up with dumb ideas.

  And got drunk over the books we all knew they hadn’t read.

  Honestly, it was kind of goals. If I could be half as irritating when I was eighty, I’d be pretty damn happy.

  Not that I was going to tell Grandma Jen that.

  “So,” Lil said, pretending to flick through her book. “I saw that scrummy piece of ass next door talking to Immy at the store earlier today.”

  I paused, my paintbrush in the red paint. I was doing a new canvas, something for fun. Mostly to get my mind off said scrummy piece of ass next door, so this wasn’t helping.

  Grandma shuddered. “If I were thirty years younger—”

  “You’d still be too old,” Evelyn snarked. “Unless he likes older women.”

  “You know he doesn’t,” Kathleen responded. “He already spent his best years bonking Immy.”

  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Did everyone over the age of seventy-five know about my college hook-up?

  Hook-up.

  Because it was only Mason.

  Yeah. I wasn’t exactly someone who played the field. Then or now, to be honest.

  But still.

  Kids, don’t keep journals. Your nosy grandma will find it and, apparently, use it as fodder for her book club.

  “Don’t you guys have some nipple clamps to be reading about?” I said, determined to steer it back to their book. “I’ve read those books. I can’t imagine that the new neighbor is more interesting than a kinky billionaire.”

  “I have no idea,” Lil admitted. “I read two chapters and got distracted by Days of Our Lives.”

  Grandma nodded agreement. “I watched that movie about Queen instead. Fantastic.”

  “And we call ourselves a book club,” muttered Evelyn, ever the sensible one. “But I would like to hear more about the hottie next door.”

  Four pairs of eyes all snapped in my direction.

  I held up both my hands. “I have nothing to tell you. I haven’t seen Mason in six years, and I had no idea he was moving in until he did. I’m sorry to disappoint you, ladies.”

  They all sighed and turned back into their circle.

  “Well, I for one think we should bake him some muffins,” Kathleen said, reaching for a slice of cheese from the charcuterie board I’d been forced to create.

  “I think a pie would be best,” Evelyn offered.

  Lil shook her head. “We should bake a cake.”

  “We should do all three!” Grandma announced, clapping her hands. Excitement lit up her eyes. “We can give him a feast! Plus cupcakes! Did you know he has a little girl? A darling little thing with the cutest curls.”

  Gasps filled the room, and almost immediately, the momentary silence was filled with the sound of their tittering. They broke into arguments about what fillings the pie should be; cherry or apple, if you please. Lil wanted to know how the cake should be iced; sugar icing or buttercream. Kathleen asked whether her muffins should be blueberry or chocolate, and Grandma wondered how many sprinkles to put on the cupcakes.

  I pushed my canvas across the table and dropped my forehead to the cold, paint-coated surface.

  Dear God.

  Nothing would stop them now.

  CHAPTER THREE – MASON

  Sweet Tea Shenanigans

  “Fuck.” I jerked out of the way in time to stop the box cutter slicing my finger open. I had ten thousand boxes to unpack and a sliced finger wasn’t going to help me on my mission.

  It would be about as helpful as my three-year-old had been the last two days.

  Thankfully, I’d managed to send her back to her mom’s house with the pinkie promise that I’d paint her room next week with all the free time I didn’t have.

  I tipped the box I’d just emptied upside down and retrieved the box cutter from the floor before I stepped on it and took off my toe, then sliced down the tape so I could collapse the box.

  Honestly. I didn’t care if you were a fucking ballerina—moving house made everyone useless, clumsy messes.

  It didn’t help that I wasn’t exactly fully thinking about what I was doing.

  No. I had one too many brain cells focused on my new neighbor.

  Imogen Anderson. The woman I’d almost fallen in love with in college. I said almost because I’d never let myself go the whole way. I knew it wouldn’t work. We’d spent so long making sure that we were only casual that there was no way I could ever admit I had real feelings for her.

  Did I regret it? Sure. I wish I’d told her before I’d graduated that I liked her as much as I did—then maybe she’d understand why I never called her.

  On the other hand, if I’d told her, there was every chance I wouldn’t have Maya.

  And I’d pick my daughter over everything else.

  Although, there were a few months where sleep almost edged her out.

  Almost.<
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  Sometimes, it kinda did.

  I was only human. Humans liked sleep. Humans needed sleep.

  Except toddlers. Apparently, toddlers were the exception to the rule. Those little monsters didn’t need anything except snacks, constant attention, and milk.

  Like cats.

  Huh. Toddlers were secretly cats.

  That made so much sense.

  I was pretty sure I’d seen Maya climb on top of a bookshelf once. Not a two-shelf thing, but one of those towering monstrosities that was almost ceiling-height.

  God only knew how she’d gotten both up and down there without killing either her or me.

  I pulled the curtains from the box marked ‘IV OO,’ which was Maya’s way of helping label the boxes. It was a good thing I spoke three-year-old because reading it was a little like reading Welsh; some people could understand it, but to everyone else, it was just a bunch of letters in an inexplicable order.

  Reaching up to the pole I’d secured to the wall this morning, I secured the curtains onto it and turned the little screws that fixed the pole to the fittings. And I paused.

  This window looked out onto both my front yard and Imogen’s, and my position gave me a view of an elderly woman hobbling across my grass with a basket of something clutched tightly to her.

  I didn’t know who she was, but I was going to make an educated guess and assume she was Imogen’s grandmother. They had the same nose that turned up a little at the tip.

  Right on cue, three surprisingly forceful knocks rattled my door a minute later. I left the curtains where they were hanging a little wonky and headed for the door. The second I opened it, I was greeted to the sight of the woman I’d seen shuffling along my grass, but the black wrap she’d been wearing had opened to reveal a bright red cardigan and startling yellow skirt.

  Yeah, she was Imogen’s grandmother. There was no doubting where my old flame got her personality. If her grandma was half as flamboyant as her clothing…

  “You used to sleep with my granddaughter. I brought you muffins.” She thrust the basket at me and invited herself in, pushing past me before I could even think about choking out a response.