Loaded, p.6
Loaded, page 6
It’s probably an email offering me twenty percent off Ann Taylor’s summer line now that it’s fall.
But then Jake starts shouting. “Bea! Get in here!”
My heart’s hammering when I leap from bed and race into the family room.
“Dear Ms. Cipriani,” Jake says. “We are pleased to inform you that your submission of ‘Smooth like Jello’ has been chosen to advance to the final round of the competition. Your presence is requested to present your jingle on Tuesday, September 7th, yada yada.” Jake spins around slowly, a smile spreading across his face. “You did it!”
It takes me almost an hour to fall asleep after that. I’m too excited.
I dream of the final round, and when they pick my jingle, for some reason they hang a huge wreath of roses around my neck, like I’m a horse that just won the Grand Prix. The strangest part is that, for some reason, Easton Moorland’s standing beside me when I win, beaming.
When I wake up, I check the time—late enough to call. I dial my boss immediately. “Hey, Harv,” I say.
“It’s pretty early,” he says. “Aren’t you usually still asleep at seven?”
“Did I wake you up?” I wince.
“No, but I was surprised. Today’s your day off.”
“I need to talk to you about Tuesday. I have a thing, and I just found out, and it’s kind of late notice, but I was hoping I could—”
“No way,” Harv says. “You have to come in at noon and serve Mr. Moorland’s board. You agreed.”
I forgot all about that. “My thing is at seven at night,” I say. “So that’s fine. I was wanting to trade my shift.”
“Done,” he says. “You’re now working the lunch shift. It ends at 4.” He hangs up.
All day, no matter what I do to keep busy, I keep seeing that ridiculous rose wreath and stupid Easton Moorland smiling at me. I’m not sure where Jake went, but I’m going crazy all alone in the apartment. I open my laptop, and before I have time to think about it, I find myself typing in the search box.
Easton Moorland.
I hate myself for looking him up.
It’s not like it’s going to change anything. He’s too good looking. He’s too famous. He might not be as recognizable as Jake, because who is? But any notoriety is too much for me. Plus, there’s no way someone like him actually likes someone like me. I’m sure he only tried harder because I said no.
Guys like him probably never get told no.
I should have thought of that and found a way to just put him off. I could have said sure and then canceled. After a few scheduling issues, he’d have given up. He’d never have gone to the trouble of asking my boss for a Tuesday lunch meeting every week if I hadn’t felt hard-to-get.
There are dozens and dozens of articles on Easton Moorland.
Most of them are pretty boring. I mean, I already know he’s slaying in the business world. Reading about all the thoughts people have on why is. . .yawn. I know his parents and his sister’s name. It’s a little creepy they have them listed online, as well as the fact that his sister just married Emerson, heir to the famous Richmond fortune.
I do see the irony in the fact that I’m reading about him and yet that’s why I don’t want to date him. Because people like me read articles about him and I want no part of it.
I hate that this kind of information even exists.
And yet, I type in another search: Easton Moorland girlfriend.
I really hate myself for it, but I have to see what kind of girl he usually dates. Maybe he’s left a string of broken-hearted waitresses in his wake. It might even be his usual MO. I bet there’s, like, a warning posted online, telling all the support staff at the various places he frequents that he’s a dirty perv.
Only, every single article says he’s a self-proclaimed workaholic, and as far as they’ve been able to uncover, he’s never dated anyone.
That can’t be right.
I mean, I’ve never dated anyone more than a handful of times, but it’s mostly because no one has ever been interested in me. When you’re a mousy little nobody, people tend not to ask you out. Easton, however, is not mousy, and he’s definitely not a nobody.
There’s no mention of Miss Collagen USA, so clearly the tabloids miss some stuff. Maybe he’s been paying someone to get all the torrid stories about him cleaned up. People do that in movies. Or maybe one of his old Rutgers cronies owns a search engine, and they suppress anything bad about him someone tries to print.
So far, the articles are setting off one red flag.
When I search for something on Amazon, and there aren’t any bad reviews, I’m immediately suspicious. Did they pay for their reviews? How do they have so many good ones? Trolls are everywhere, and they like to complain. So if not a single person has left a negative review? It’s fishy.
So it worries me that no one has anything bad to say about Easton Moorland. As a business mogul, I find it bizarre. Shouldn’t he have lots of enemies? By lunchtime, it’s still bugging me, and I realize that I have no choice.
I have to call Emerson.
He answers on the second ring. That must mean he wasn’t doing anything too important. “Bea! I’m glad you called.”
“Uh-oh,” I say. “Do I owe you money I forgot about?”
“Funny,” he says. “I was just talking about you.”
“You were?” That can’t be good. “Why?”
“Remember when we were kids how you were the only one who could fix that toilet that just kept running?”
Definitely not what I expected him to say.
“We called a plumber, but they can’t come until tomorrow at four.” Emerson sounds desperate, which is kind of funny.
“You know, if your toilet’s running, you should really catch it.”
“Wah wah,” Emerson says. “Same lame jokes I remember.”
“Did you want my help? Or was that a lame joke?”
“On second thought, that joke was clever. So clever. Ha, ha, ha.”
It’s annoying that the first time I call in at least a week, he wants me to come fix a toilet, but I do want to pry for information, so I’m not really any better. “I can’t believe your grandmother doesn’t have someone on speed dial to deal with any problem, including plumbing.”
“Andre, her groundskeeper and handyman, is on a trip,” Emerson says. “But even if he wasn’t, this toilet is at the shelter.”
Of course it is. Where else would they be on a Sunday afternoon? I swear, if Elizabeth wasn’t such a kook about animals, I’d have thought she married Emerson for his money. The only thing that woman spends money on is horses and pathetic, unloved critters.
“If I come over, you have to swear you aren’t going to try and fob one of those little fuzzies off on me.”
“You know, the tiny Shih Tzu you liked is still here,” he says. “He’s actually kind of whimpering right now, and. . .what’s that, Ivin? You miss Bea?”
I hang up.
On my way out the door, I glance down at my outfit. I’m still wearing the shabby plaid pajama pants and faded navy t-shirt that I slept in. Emerson got me the pajama pants a few years back for Christmas, and Jake gave me the shirt for my birthday when I was sixteen. It says, “Yeah, I’m short. God only lets things grow until they’re perfect. Why are you so tall?” I would normally change before leaving the house, but I’m going to be working on a toilet, and when I’m done, they’ll probably need help with the kennels.
The last time I went over, I ruined a brand new pair of khaki capri pants Jake gave me for my birthday. They were designer, which he told me in a very high-pitched voice as I tossed the urine soaked and scratched pants in the wash. To be fair, I think his tone was less about my pants and their condition and more about the clothes he already had in the washer. Apparently he didn’t want them marinated in my filth.
Anyway, I’m nearly to my ten-year-old Toyota Camry when Jake pulls into the spot next to me in his Nissan Z. He claims it’s ‘not flashy,’ and that it lets him ‘fly under the radar.’ I might’ve believed him if it wasn’t electric blue.
“Where you off to?” He scrunches up his nose. “Nowhere public, I hope.”
Jake never leaves the house without looking like he’s ready to walk onto the set of some commercial or other. Ironically, he often spends half of his movie scenes covered with fake blood or carefully designed grime, but in real life, he’s pristine.
I heft my home repair tool bag across to the passenger seat. “I’m helping Emerson with a toilet.”
“That’s even worse than anything I imagined.” He shakes his head as he walks past me. He throws a hand back in a half-hearted wave. “If you run into trouble. . .” He laughs. “Don’t call me. I definitely won’t answer.”
“You’re an amazing brother,” I shout. “The best!”
He pivots from where he’s standing on our threshold. “You know, that guy could hire a full-time plumber to just be on call, and no one would ever notice. Why on earth he needs to make his sister go over there to work on a toilet. . .” He’s still grumbling as he walks through the door and disappears.
I think Jake’s problem is that he spent so long taking advantage of people that he always thinks people are trying to bilk him. No one I know is more sensitive to someone else asking for a favor—he repays everything anyone ever does for him, and he expects everyone else to do the same. Not with me, but with literally every other person in his life.
On the drive to Emerson’s, I intend to think about what kind of outfit I should wear to the finals on Tuesday. Instead, I keep thinking about Easton. What he does on Sundays. Does he work on weekends? What kind of pet he might have or want to have? Whether he likes helping at the shelter. Whether he’s a good mentor to that kid.
It’s the dumbest thing ever that after turning him down, twice really, I keep thinking about him. My one consolation is that no one else knows what I’m thinking. They can’t see my pathetic dreams or my ridiculous thoughts. And if I’m planning to work in questions about Easton while I help my brother selflessly, well, there’s no reason for me to feel bad about it.
Who would know what his love life is like better than Elizabeth?
That girl does not pull punches.
She does play dirty, though. When I walk through the door, there’s a box of puppies in the entryway. “Seriously?” One of them has a bow around its neck like I’ve walked into some kind of Hallmark movie. “You guys are disgustingly obvious.”
“You think we put cute puppies in a box there just so you’d see them and want one?” Emerson waves me through. “Please. Someone dumped those guys twenty minutes ago. People are the worst.”
I crouch down. “They do look like little angels.” The one closest to me clamps down on my index finger and I revise my assessment. “They’re actually gremlins, aren’t they?”
“We think they’re some kind of German Shepherd cross.” Emerson tugs on my shoulder. “But for real, thank you. This stupid facility has a septic, and it’s one of the dumb newer ones with the water tanks that have to spray off. I was starting to worry we’d wind up with toilets backing up any time.”
“I’m coming,” I say. “Geez.”
It takes me exactly two minutes to figure out that the handle on the toilet is jammed and won’t unstick. “Bad news,” I say. “This needs a new handle, and I brought an extra flapper, but I don’t have that.”
“How do you know so much about toilets?” Elizabeth asks.
“Well, my mom got high a lot,” I say. “And when they thought someone was coming to catch them, they’d always flush their supply. Paranoid people do that a lot when they aren’t even being chased.” I sigh. “We didn’t stay in nice places most of the time, so a lot of their toilets couldn’t handle any extra stress. As a kid, I got pretty good at looking things up on YouTube so I could still go pee.”
Elizabeth’s face is incredulous. She can’t decide whether I’m teasing.
This is just another reason Easton and I would be a total disaster. I wish I could ask about him without looking completely obvious, but I can’t think of any way to do that, so I just say, “I’ll head to the hardware store and be back in a bit.”
“You do think you can fix it though?” Elizabeth asks as she follows me out of the bathroom.
“Pretty sure,” I say.
“I can go with you.” Emerson grabs his keys off the counter. “I can even drive.”
Elizabeth narrows her eyes. “I’m onto you, mister. You just don’t want to have to help me finish the kennels.”
Emerson throws his hands up in the air. “I offered to come, remember? I could have stayed home.”
“You can work on the kennels with me, and Easton can take her,” Elizabeth says, pointing toward the front of the shelter. “I think he just got here, and he’s useless with this kind of stuff, but he could at least drive her there for moral support.”
My heart stops dead.
Easton’s coming?
I want to cry—I’m wearing frayed plaid pajama pants and a ratty shirt. I mean, I don’t want to date him, but so far he’s seen me wearing my work uniform. . .and now this. If any part of him did actually like me, well, it was nice while it lasted, feeling desirable.
Not that I care.
Actually, this is probably better. I stick my chin up and square my shoulders. “Sure. Easton can take me. Why not?”
“Yes, why not?” Elizabeth asks. “You’re doing us a huge favor, so you shouldn’t have to pay for gas to and from the store.” She raises her voice. “Easton! I heard bells jingling. That’s you, right?”
“Yep.” He pokes his head around the corner of the door, and his eyes widen. “Bea?”
I sigh. “Come on.” I shove past him and toward the front door, the dogs in the front kennel yapping louder again now that we’re walking past them. “You’re driving me to the hardware store.”
Easton’s beaming. “Sure thing, boss.”
When we reach the front door, I stop, turning slightly. I press my index finger toward his face, which is really high up. “You will not flirt. You will not ask me out. You will not even think about doing either of those things.”
“Hmm.” He cocks one eyebrow. “I can refrain from asking you out, but I’m not sure you can dictate my thoughts.”
I ball my hands into fists. “I’m wearing pajama pants and an old shirt, because I’m here to fix a toilet.”
“You’re super cute when you’re all growly.”
“I’m not growly.” I scowl. The gremlin puppies are crying and clawing, trying to get out of their sad little box, and I point at them. “They’re growly. I’m firm.”
He laughs. “I won’t ask you out, I swear, but if you start flirting with me, I can’t be held responsible for flirting back.”
I roll my eyes and walk toward my car.
“I thought I was driving.”
“Oh, right.” I look around for his car.
He pulls out his key fob, and I’m shocked to see that he’s driving the boring gunmetal Toyota 4Runner parked on the end.
“Really?”
He shrugs. “Elizabeth told me she needed help at the shelter. The last time I came over in something nice, let’s just say I regretted it.”
It’s his equivalent of my pajama pants and t-shirt. Clearly he has more than one car, though, which I find somewhat entertaining.
“What?”
I shrug. “Nothing. It just wasn’t the car I expected you to drive.”
“What did you think I’d drive?” His eyebrows rise. “Please don’t say a Ferrari or something.” He follows me over and yanks the door open.
“I can’t say I’d thought about it much.” I’d die before I let him know I was googling him. “I’m kind of surprised to hear you help at the shelter.” I hop in the car.
He leans on the doorframe, his face only a foot away from mine. “I’ll probably keep surprising you for a while yet, Beatrice Cipriani.”
Before I can say anything, he closes the door and jogs around to his side. When he gets in, he acts like everything’s totally normal. “Cornell’s? Or Wallauer?”
“Cornell’s,” I say. “Wallauer’s overpriced.”
“Good to know.” He’s smiling for some reason. Maybe because the thought of economizing on a toilet handle is stupid to a man like him, and that kind of bugs me.
“You know, you’ll do better in life by controlling your spending than just earning more.”
“Really?” He lifts his eyebrows. “You think so?”
“Well, taxes just go up the more you make, for one. But also, no matter how much money you have, if you can’t live within your means, you’ll never be financially stable.”
“I suppose that’s true,” he says. “And you’re right about the government taking my money. Taxes are no joke.”
“I guess,” I say, staring down at my hands.
I expect him to ask me something, or to pry, or to talk about the upcoming board meeting. He surprises me again by simply driving. He’s just. . .quiet.
Neither Emerson nor Jake is even capable of that. When they’re with me, someone has to be talking. The silence is kind of nice. I didn’t expect to be almost comfortable in his presence. Or at least, I’m not climbing out of my skin like I usually am when he’s at work, watching me.
When we reach the hardware store, he follows me inside, observing without interfering. I’ve just picked the handle that I think is the right color and size when I hear someone giggling.
It’s two women. One of them is older, and one is close to my age. “—understand how people can go out in pajamas. Seriously.”
“You know, Bea, I’ve never understood how people could express their opinions about others in public without being embarrassed about how rude they are.” Easton glares. “Especially when they’re clearly jealous of the person they’re talking about.”
The women look horrified, but they walk the other direction.
“You shouldn’t have done that.” I walk straight toward the checkout.
“Why not?” He’s jogging to catch up. “They were being really rude.”
