Page 30 of The Broken Heart Playlist
She regards me with naked speculation. “I haven’t seen you around.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Too busy for little old me?”
She’s all angular cheekbones and knife-sharp jaw, long auburn hair falling in uncompromising lines down her back. Her sharp eyes sweep the table. I don’t introduce her to Lisset. I want to keep my daughter far away from her caustic tongue.
But with Gideon I have no such compunction. I have a feeling he can handle her. “Suzan, this is Gideon. He’s new to Brown Oaks.”
“One step ahead of you, darling,” Suzan drawls. “We’ve already met. Haven’t we, Gideon?”
He looks up at her, his expression unreadable. “Was it at the grocery store?”
For the first time, her expression falters. “We met at the library.”
“We did?” He palms the back of his neck. “Apologies, the only person I remember meeting at the library is Kate.”
I sip my coffee, fighting a smile, my body warming at his words. Oh, yes, he’s more than capable of dealing with the likes of her.
“Well, I better be off,” Suzan announces irritably. “I’m as busy as Kate says she is, although for the life of me I can’t remember what it is you do for a living.”
“My mom’s a food stylist,” Lisset pipes up.
“How interesting,” she drawls in a decidedly uninterested tone. Then she smirks in a manner I don’t like. “I hear food stylists use a glue gun for everything.”
“Not everything,” I say. Although, as I stare at her pursed red lips, a satisfying and fitting use for my glue gun springs to mind.
Suzan arches an eyebrow. “What exactly does a food stylist do again?”
I look directly at her. “I take boring, average, everyday food and make it look amazing.”
Kind of like what your hairdresser does with your hair, are the words hovering on my tongue. I want to utter them, to take off the gloves and step into the arena with her, but then I’ll be as cruel and cutting as she is. And that’s not how I want my daughter to view me.
Lisset looks up at Suzan in wide-eyed innocence. “Do you need Mom’s help to make your food look amazing?”
Gideon’s bark of laughter turns heads at the other tables.
Seeming to realize she’s outnumbered, Suzan mutters something and flounces off.
Gideon leans back in his chair, lacing his hands across his stomach. “So, a food stylist.”
“Yes.” I brace myself for his follow-up comment. He’ll either assume I’m a chef (false) or I’m the reason food never looks as good in reality as it does in the picture (true).
After a thoughtful pause, he says softly, “You’re an artist and food is your medium.”
I’m struck speechless. Food styling is a job where art and food collide, and not many people get that. Gideon, however, seems to understand a lot about me. More than what feelscomfortable. In contrast, I’m struggling to figure him out. At work, I’m surrounded by a mix of artsy and corporate types, and Gideon is... I’m still not sure what type he is. He doesn’t appear to fit any mold.
There is something about him, though, that flusters me. And I’m not a woman easily flustered. I wonder briefly if it’s his looks. But I’m used to being around attractive men—Joel and Aaron are two who immediately come to mind—and they don’t affect me like this.
Lisset tugs on my arm. “Mom, can we go? I want to see Grandma.”
“Sure.” I stand. “Thank you for sharing your table with us.”
“Anytime.” One word, but it feels as though he’s attached so much significance to it.
“See you Saturday,” he adds.
“Yes, Saturday,” I echo. Dinner with my sister and Aaron and Gideon. It’s not that I forgot. It’s just that I pushed it so far to the back of my mind I hoped it would magically go away.
