Page 33 of Betting on the Bad Boy
Dante shifted his backpack on his shoulder and turned to go. “If you change your mind about later, you know how to find me.”
I watched him walk away. Having had the opportunity to see him with his pants around his ankles, I could better appreciate the way his jeans hinted at the toned muscles underneath.
Ready to brave the cold on the quad on my way to my next class, I shoved my hands into my coat pockets. My right fist bumped against something. I pulled out a wad of paper and ripped off my gloves to smooth out the creases. As my eyes scanned the typewritten words, a wave of nausea swept over me, and the taste of sour bile rose in my throat.
There on the paper in front of me was the title page of the first draft of my most recent book,Carnal KnowledgebyChastity Austen. The words jumped off the paper and pierced my heart, sending sharp pains radiating throughout my chest. I staggered backward and dropped the page. This couldn’t be happening. How did someone get something in my pocket without me noticing? As I bent down to retrieve it, I noticed a handwritten line on the back.
I know who you really are, and I know what you’ve been up to.
That was it. I flipped the paper over and even lifted it to my nose to see if it had any kind of distinct smell. The only one who’d seen my manuscript was Steph. I’d never even printed it. I crumpled the page and shoved it back into my pocket. Where would this have come from?
Someone knew my secret. My worst nightmare was coming true.
CHAPTER 18
Dante
As I droveover the icy roads, the car slid again, and I turned into it, managing to keep control. The polar vortex had hit hard, bringing single-digit temperatures and heavy snow. Thanksgiving break meant fewer students on the roads, but driving in this weather was still a challenge.
I couldn't help but chuckle thinking about those poor kids from Texas who always ended up in ditches this time of year. Driving in snow wasn't something you just picked up; it was a skill you honed over time.
I was on my way to Meemaw's, my grandmother on my dad’s side. She lived out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by fields that were now just endless expanses of white. I slowed down as another gust of snow blew over the car, reducing visibility to almost zero. I'd been trying to convince her to move closer to town, but she was stubborn. “Your grandfather built this house with his own two hands. If you think some tract house in the city is going to cut it for me, you’ve got another think coming, my boy.”
We made a good team, but she needed to stop pestering me about finding a nice girl to settle down with. She’d eventhreatened to fix me up with one of her bridge buddies’ granddaughters over Thanksgiving. I’d bought some time by telling her I’d started seeing someone, though she definitely wouldn’t understand or appreciate the nature of my “non-relationship” with Faith.
Meemaw was going to be pissed that I hadn’t stayed in Newbridge. She’d warned me it was too dangerous to be out on the roads and suggested postponing our Thanksgiving. But I knew she’d been cooking up a storm, and I’d been dreaming about her homemade pecan pie for weeks. There was no way I was missing Thanksgiving on the farm.
After what felt like forever, I finally turned into the quarter-mile-long driveway. It looked like it had been freshly plowed, though it would need it again soon with the way the snow was falling. Her front door was always unlocked, so I let myself in.
I expected the smell of cinnamon and sweet potatoes or to hear her humming in the kitchen. But there was silence. Where the hell was she? I took out my cell phone and dialed the Withers, her closest neighbors. They were only in their mid-seventies, and if anyone knew where she was, it would be Mary Withers. She answered on the second ring.
After a long-winded conversation about her health and her granddaughter’s new job in Chicago, I finally got a word in. She told me Meemaw had gone into town for dinner at the senior center. Classic Meemaw, telling me not to venture out while she braved the ten-mile drive in a blizzard. I thanked Mrs. Withers and, after another few minutes of pleasantries, managed to hang up.
Thirty minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot of the senior center. Meemaw’s ancient light blue Ford pickup sat in the second row. She qualified for a handicap sticker but refused to use it, “in case one of the old folks needs it.” There were onlya few other cars in the lot; most of the "old folks" were sensible enough to stay home.
As I walked in, I braced myself. Being fifty years younger than the average attendee, I always seemed to catch everyone’s attention. I put a finger to my lips to shush the gossiping ladies decorating tables with plastic cloths and made my way to the kitchen. Meemaw stood at the stove, stirring a giant pot of gravy. I snuck up behind her and covered her eyes.
“Guess who?”
She spun around and flung her arms around my waist. She’d been shrinking over the years, and the top of her head barely reached my chest.
“It’s good to see you, my boy.” Her eyes sparkled, and I could have sworn I saw her quickly wipe away a tear. “I thought I told you to stay put today.” She stepped back, one hand on her hip, the other wagging a wooden spoon at me.
“So, I was supposed to stay home, but you thought it was okay to get out in this storm?” I asked.
“Well, who else was going to come in here and make Thanksgiving dinner for all these fine folks?”
I hugged her tighter. “Meemaw, have you ever considered taking a holiday off?” I knew the answer.
She scoffed. “Pshaw! Now, as long as you’re here, make yourself useful. There are about forty pounds of potatoes that need peelin’ over there.” She waved the spoon toward a corner of the kitchen.
Shaking my head, I rolled up my sleeves and washed my hands in the big stainless sink. “Alright, Meemaw, let’s get to work.”
We fell into a comfortable rhythm, and as I peeled potatoes, I couldn’t help but think about Faith. She’d gotten under my skin, and I wanted to know when we’d be able to see each other again.
It wouldn’t be anytime soon. Right now, I needed to focus on Meemaw and making sure this Thanksgiving was as perfect as every other one we’d spent together.
Faith
