Her Defiant Heart - Monica Murphy, Page 4

  So I ignore the sizzle of awareness that zips through me at the sound of his sexy voice. Or the gentlemanly way he opens the door for me. And I definitely ignore the tingles that wash over my skin when he rests his hand on my lower back, guiding me into the restaurant. The very cute girl standing behind the hostess desk stands at attention when she catches sight of Rhett. She practically gobbles him up with her gaze as she checks him out, and I’m tempted to bare my territorial fangs and tell this bitch to back off, he’s mine.

  Yeah. That wouldn’t go over so well.

  Instead I smile politely at her as Rhett asks for a table for two. The hostess sends me a withering look as she grabs the tall, heavy-looking menus, and seems to put an extra swish in her step as she asks us to follow her.

  Rhett doesn’t even pay attention to her. His hand is still at my lower back, his fingers barely touching me, yet his body is so close to mine I can feel the heat radiating from him, smell his delicious, spicy-clean man scent. I’m not usually into this sort of thing, falling for a guy because of his scent or the way he touches me. I don’t fall for anyone period, friends or family and definitely not men who claim they’re interested in me. No one ever sticks around, you know? And the ones who do stick, usually need lots of help, like my dad.

  Once we’re seated and the hostess has left us alone, Rhett sets his menu on the table and studies me. “I really thought you weren’t going to show up for our date,” he confesses.

  I almost didn’t, not that I’d ever admit that to him. I’m surprised he’d tell me that. “I would never do that, though I’m sorry I was running a little late.”

  “You should’ve texted and let me know what’s going on.” He sounds like an overly concerned boyfriend. I don’t know if I like that. His behavior should give me more reason to dislike him so I can cling to it. “I was kind of worried.”

  “I’m sorry.” I don’t sound sorry, though, and I think he knows it, so I try to soften my snide words with an apologetic smile. He smiles in return, his gaze sticking to mine for a moment too long before I finally tear mine away and start checking out the menu.

  Dread fills me as I keep reading. The prices are outrageous and I try to find the cheapest option, though I’m starving. Like my stomach is growling loudly and I’m afraid he might hear it starving. And everything sounds so good, like dreamily, melt-in-my-mouth good. There’s a buffet too; that includes unlimited mimosas. The alcohol sounds like a smart choice. Something to numb me, loosen me up—but not too loose—and make it easier for me to fake this so-called date.

  “I think I’m doing the buffet.” Rhett shuts his menu and I do the same, mimicking his movements. I read somewhere once, maybe in Cosmo, that you should use the same body language as your date, because that tells him you’re interested. “How about you?”

  “I think I want the same.” Please God, let him pay for my meal.

  “It was the unlimited mimosas that got you, right?” The lopsided smile Rhett flashes me makes me smile in return, all while I try my best to battle the heat that washes over me. He’s too quick with his smiles, with his seeming approval of everything I do. Makes me not trust him even more. “They’re my mom’s—well, my stepmom’s—favorite part of the brunch menu here. She loves this place.”

  The heat is gone, replaced by icy cold tendrils of fury. My entire body seems to sag under the weight of his words, the implication, the oh-so-casual way he talks about my mother.

  Not his.

  Mine.

  “Are you two…close?” It takes everything out of me to ask this question. My voice is strained, my throat burns and my eyes sting. I blink back the angry tears and shake my head once quickly, dismissing the emotion.

  Rhett’s smile is gone in an instant, and he seems to go cold too. Dormant. “Our relationship isn’t great. She’s not my mom, and when I was younger I reminded her of that fact every chance I got.”

  Interesting. Everything I see on the Internet tells a different story. But then again, you can tell whatever story you want on social media. What happens behind closed doors is another matter. “Did she boss you around?”

  “No. Well, yeah, I guess. She just—she tried to be my mom, and I didn’t want her to do that. I already had a mom, you know? And then she died.” His eyes go dark, his expression somber. He doesn’t like talking about his dead mother, not that I can blame him. I don’t want to talk to him about my dead father, so the feeling is mutual. “She overstepped her boundaries a lot, especially when she first moved in with us. Still does.”

  “Because she’s always mothering you?” I practically spit the question out and I clamp my lips shut so I don’t say something awful. Talking about her is difficult, harder than I thought it would be. How she can be a mother to him and completely ignore me my entire life, I will never understand.

  “No, she doesn’t try to mother me.” He tilts his head to the side, like he’s trying to figure out what she is to him. Or more like he’s trying to figure out how to explain her to me. “Our relationship over the years has…changed.”

  “For the better?” Don’t act like you care too much. He’ll wonder what’s up with all the questions.

  “Not, necessarily.” His gaze lifts, locking on our server. “Ah, there’s our future mimosa angel.”

  I glance up to find a gorgeous blonde standing beside our table, holding a small tablet and a stylus. Her smile is slow and sultry, and I study her carefully, hoping I can…what? Pick up tips? What’s up with this restaurant? Do they only hire beautiful women to work for them? “I’m guessing you two want the brunch with unlimited mimosas?”

  “You’re so smart.” Rhett hands over his menu and I do the same, though the server isn’t even looking in my direction as she takes the menu from me. Her focus is zeroed in on Rhett. Damn, that’s rude. Even when there’s a woman at the club—which is rare but still, it happens—I always make eye contact with her when I’m taking their drink order. Though most of the time they act embarrassed. Suppose I can’t blame them since I’m the one who’s topless.

  “I try my best.” The server is blatantly flirting. She even leans over a little bit, offering Rhett a glimpse of her chest via her deep V-neck shirt. “I’ll bring out the mimosas. Go ahead and help yourselves at the buffet. There are two chefs on duty today, at the waffle bar and the omelet bar.”

  “Thank you,” I murmur, though my words are pointless. It’s funny, how I want to blend in and not be noticed, yet I’m offended when the waitress doesn’t acknowledge me.

  The server saunters away and Rhett’s already getting out of his chair. “Ready to fix your plate?”

  “But my purse…” I point helplessly at my cheap black bag sitting at my feet. Not that anyone would want to steal it. All I see are a fleet of Louis Vuitton, Chanel and Gucci bags. I might be broke, but one of my favorite things to do is read fashion blogs. I look at the pretty photos and dream.

  Rhett doesn’t even look at my pitiful bag, thank goodness. “It’ll be fine. No one will take it.”

  If someone steals it, which I doubt, I know Rhett will replace whatever I lose, and that isn’t much. Pushing my worry away, I rise to my feet and follow him to the buffet line, grabbing a warm plate and staring in wonder at all the food spread out before me. So much fruit, so many pastries. Bacon and sausage and hash browns and country potatoes. There are salads and thinly sliced deli meats, a bagel and toast section, and the chef at the waffle bar is beckoning me to come to him, so I do.

  He prepares me a Belgian waffle and tops it with fresh strawberries and whipped cream. I quickly grab a few pieces of bacon and then I head back to the table, my shabby purse sitting right where I left it. Rhett hasn’t returned yet, and I wonder if I should wait for him.

  My stomach growls in protest at the thought.

  “Here’s your drinks.” The server appears, placing our mimosas on the table. Her gaze lands on my plate and she wrinkles her nose. “You’re really going to eat all that?”

  I glance at my p
late, wondering what she’s complaining about. This is the biggest meal I’ve had in weeks. Possibly in years, especially since I’m not through yet. “Yeeeaaah.” I draw the word out, like duh. I don’t know what her problem is.

  “That’s just—so many calories on one plate.” Her gaze shifts to my body and she offers up a blatant perusal. “You must work out.”

  Running all over a strip club while carrying drinks and avoiding grabby-handed customers is about as much of a workout as I get. “Sometimes,” I say with a shrug.

  “Well, if you want my advice, sugar is the devil,” she sing-songs.

  My fingers itch to slap the smug smirk on her face. I bet she’d love to see me fatten up as I shove the food in my mouth. Picking up my fork, I puncture a whipped-cream-covered strawberry and bring it to my lips. “Didn’t ask for your advice, but thanks anyway.”

  She shoots me a dirty look before taking off and I plop the strawberry in my mouth, the juicy sweetness exploding on my tongue. Wow, this is good.

  I grab another forkful of strawberry and whipped cream and consume it, closing my eyes for the briefest moment. I haven’t even got to the good part yet—the warm, crunchy, sweet waffle. I open my eyes and reach for the syrup on the table, pouring a light steam of it on top of my waffle just as Rhett returns and sits down across from me.

  “Their waffles are delicious,” he says.

  I examine his plate—the one that’s waffle-free. “Why didn’t you get one?”

  He smiles, seemingly embarrassed. “I’m training right now, so I can’t eat too much junk.”

  “Training for what?” I know what he’s in training for. I know everything about this guy that I could find in my extensive Google search and hardcore sleuthing on his social media.

  “Basketball.” He shrugs when I give him my best ooh I’m impressed look. “I’m just okay. I mostly play as a stress reliever. I won’t go pro or anything.”

  “You really don’t think so?” In some of my Rhett Montgomery research, the sports-related articles have mentioned that he has potential, but he’s not what they consider tall enough.

  “Nah. I’m not a giant like the rest of the pros.” He shrugs again before he starts eating from his bowl of fruit.

  “You’re pretty tall, though.” That was another thing I read in that online article about dating. Build them up. Be a fangirl. I’m not real good at that, but I can learn. This is a start.

  “Not tall enough.” He says it so matter-of-factly, I’m taken aback.

  “And you’re okay with that? It’s not your dream, to play for the pros?”

  “I’m just being realistic. I’m decent, but I’m not a superstar, and I’m not built like a superstar either.” He stops eating to take a drink of his mimosa, his gaze never leaving mine. I can’t look away either, which is unsettling. What is so enthralling about this guy anyway?

  “Being realistic is no fun,” I tell him with a mock pout, my lips pursed.

  He doesn’t smile or laugh, though. Just keeps watching me, his expression serious. “What about you? What are your dreams?”

  I’m taken off guard by his question. A question no one has ever really asked me before. “Um…” My voice drifts and I realize my mind is void. Empty. I don’t have any dreams.

  Well. I do dream of taking down my mother in every horrible way possible, but I can’t tell him that. He’ll think I’m a total psycho.

  “Come on.” Rhett shifts in his seat, leaning forward, his hawk-like gaze still trained on mine. “There’s got to be something you want. Something you hope for.”

  “I want to graduate college.”

  He dismisses my statement with a wave of his fingers. “Boring. Dig a little deeper.”

  “What’s your dream?” I toss back at him, trying to change the subject. I don’t want to talk about my hopes and dreams. I’ve lived pretty much my entire life without any. What’s the point in starting now?

  “Aw, come on. Don’t dodge my question.” He’s smiling, but there’s a determined gleam in his eyes that throws me. I don’t like how intent he is on finding out my dreams. Maybe they’re none of his damn business. “Tell me. You’ve got to have at least one dream. One wish for your world.”

  “Peace and harmony?” I joke, but he’s not having it. Neither am I. In fact, I’m starting to get pissed. “Look, I barely know you. I don’t feel comfortable sharing all of my secret hopes and dreams and fears with you, okay?”

  “Hey, sorry.” He leans back in his chair, seemingly shocked. I didn’t mean to sound so hostile, but I can’t have him trying to dig around and figure out what drives me to do what I do. I have to keep up my carefully constructed wall around me at all times when I’m with him.

  I can’t have emotional outbursts in front of him either, so I need to calm the hell down before he decides I’m not worth it.

  Taking a deep breath, I exhale slowly and then say, “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to jump all over you.”

  “No, I get it. It’s okay. I’m sorry too. I forget that other people aren’t like me.”

  Oh God. Please don’t tell me he’s going to give me a bunch of crap about how he’s different than other guys and I’m supposed to fall for it. “What do you mean by that?”

  “It probably seems weird, but I don’t mind telling strangers my secrets.” When I send him a look, he continues, “I’m serious. We don’t know each other that well. Who are you going to tell my secrets to? If I confess all to someone I’m close with, then they’ll blab to whoever will listen, mostly to people who know me. And that’s usually people I don’t want to know my secrets. I can’t risk it.”

  He is oddly making sense to me. He’s also admitting he has secrets. I want to know every single one of them—so I can use them against him when the time is right. “So what you’re saying is, I’m not a risk.”

  “Not yet.” His gaze warms when it drops to my mouth for the briefest moment. I go warm too, and I tell myself to get over it. “But you might be.”

  I hate what he just said. I hate worse my reaction to his words. He wants to keep seeing me. He’s implying he wants me to become a risk. I should be thrilled. I’ve got him right where I want him.

  Instead, I’m nauseous. My food doesn’t sound so good anymore, and I can feel a headache coming on. I didn’t expect to feel awful. To almost feel...sorry for him. And that’s totally ridiculous, because I don’t care about this guy. I can’t care about him at all. He’s the enemy. For years I’ve hated him, and at one point, I focused all my blame on him for taking my mother away from me. Stupid, right?

  But this boy sitting across from me knows her. Grew up with her. Complains about her like he has every right to, when he doesn’t. He so doesn’t.

  She belongs to me. She’s my mother.

  “I’ll probably always be a risk to you,” I tell him, using my knife and fork to cut into my waffles. Anger surges inside of me, reminding me that I’m pretty freaking hungry after all, and I’ve barely touched my plate. I happily shovel a forkful of waffles into my mouth, nearly moaning with pleasure at the taste.

  “You’re saying that we’ll never get close.” His voice is flat. Did I upset him? I suddenly don’t care if I did.

  I shrug. “Take it as you will.”

  “I’m taking what you said as a challenge.” I lift my head up, my guilty gaze meeting his. “And I love a challenge. You’ll find this out about me, I promise.”

  Great, he’s determined. I shouldn’t be surprised. This is exactly what I wanted. For Rhett to chase after me.

  “I need more bacon,” I tell him, shoving some in my mouth while he laughs at me.

  That’s okay. He can think I’m joking.

  After all, I’ll get the last laugh.

  I’m one of those weird millennials who doesn’t like social media much, except when using it for stalking purposes. And fine, on occasion, I like Instagram. But I mean, let’s be real—pretty much everyone in my age group is addicted to social media. The reason? They
don’t know how to live their life without it. Think about it. If someone took the Internet away, or their phones away, and threw them in a dumpster fire, or if the President of the United States banned all social media for life, I’m sure a ton of people in their early to late twenties would up and die. Just flat out not exist any longer.

  I’m sure there would be a ton of people of all ages who would freak out and rather die than live without social media and/or their phones. That’s how dependent our society has become.

  I was raised differently. I know, I know I sound like that typical girl who’s all, “But I’m soooo different. Not like other people at all. I’m special.” Like I just mentally accused Rhett of acting on our brunch date.

  But when you grow up broke, when you don’t have much food to eat in the fridge, cell phones and the Internet are a total luxury, one I never had until I was sixteen, the summer before my junior year. That’s when I got my first crappy little phone with its crappy little plan, and I was so damn happy I thought I would burst. I believed my new phone would become my new best friend. The connection to a whole other world I was always seeking, yet somehow never realized it until now.

  Then I discovered what a time suck my phone became and that it’s really hard to function on social media when you’re not very social.

  As in, I didn’t have a lot of friends. I still don’t. Friends are hard to come by. I have one I can count on, but I don’t talk to her that much. I’m too busy planning my revenge. She’s busy living her actual life. We have different priorities right now.

  Ha ha, I’m so funny, but you know what I mean.

  Anyway, I have all the accounts I should. Facebook (never use it). Twitter (don’t understand it, don’t want to understand it), Instagram (my favorite), Tumblr (used to be my favorite, now I don’t know what to do with it), Pinterest (biggest time suck in all the land) and Snapchat (half the time I don’t know what I’m doing).