Page 73 of Don't Bet On It
“No, but we’ve gotten ourselves in trouble more than once with alcohol involved.”
She balked. “Are you suggesting I’m going to get drunk and try to lick you?”
It was a crass comment, and yet it did something to my insides. “I wasn’t going there, but now I kind of want to.”
The words were out before I could think better of them.
She barked out a laugh. “I thought you wanted to be one and done.”
“I thoughtyouwanted to be one and done,” I challenged.
She shrugged. “I don’t really know what I want.”
The statement wasn’t complex—pushback should have been necessary—but I understood where she was coming from. “Yeah, I know that feeling.”
She lifted her chin, her surprise evident. “You do?”
“I do.”
She studied me for a beat longer, then nodded. “I guess you do.” She was quiet until the server returned with another beer. This one she approached more slowly. “It’s kind of weird, huh?” she asked.
I’d grown accustomed to the quiet, so I was caught off guard. “What’s weird?” I asked, genuinely confused.
“We both have a parent who drives us bonkers but for completely different reasons.”
I took a swallow of my beer and considered it. “Maybe we should send my father out on a date with your mother. That might fix them both.”
She laughed as if I’d said the funniest thing in the world. Then she sobered. “Wait. Aren’t your parents still together?”
“Yes.” Did I feel guilty about suggesting something that would break my mother’s heart? No, but only because I knew it would never happen.
“Does your father regularly…” Tallulah didn’t finish the question. She didn’t have to. I knew where she was going.
“Cheat on my mother?” I prodded.
She nodded, looking grim.
“Not to my knowledge,” I replied, lifting one shoulder. “I have to think I would’ve heard about it at some point if he liked to playthatgame. Weirdly, my parents are very sexually compatible.”
Tallulah’s mouth fell open, and there was no stopping my laughter.
“Oh, I know.” I took another drink of my beer. “When I was thirteen or so, I assumed they had separate bedrooms, for some reason. Our house is huge, and I never went over to their wing. If I needed something, I went to the house manager.”
“I didn’t even have a room growing up,” she said. “I had to sleep on the couch because my mother couldn’t afford anything more than a one-bedroom trailer.”
I frowned. “You didn’t have your own bedroom?”
She shrugged. “When my mother was gone, which was often, the living room was my bedroom. It was fine. I survived.” Her tone was edgy. “Finish up your story. I want to hear about the Hawthornes getting freaky.”
I pinned her with a quelling look but continued. “I heard the house staff talking one day,” I explained. “They didn’t know I was there. They were discussing something my parents did the previous evening on the tennis courts.”
She sat straighter. “On the tennis courts?”
“Yes.”
“Huh.” She seemed to consider it. “Was there spanking involved?”
I was both horrified and fascinated that she’d managed to put that together. “How did you know?”
