Page 51 of Betting on the Boy Next Door
Sami looks mildly startled but says nothing.
“Seriously, Mom, I’m good . . . yes, still coming for dinner . . . no, she can’t. She has to work.” I flick a glance at Sami, who my mom is now insisting should come to Sunday family dinner. “Yes, on Sunday . . . nurses don’t have regular hours . . . She would if she could, but—”
Sami slips the phone from my fingers. “Mrs. Brower? . . . Okay, Miss Elizabeth then. He’s fine, I promise. Nurse’s honor.” She listens intently to whatever my mom is saying. “Yes, ma’am . . . No, ma’am . . . He was mistaken about my schedule.” She gives me a measuring look. “Sure, we’ll do that. See you then.” She hangs up the phone before handing it back to me.
“What was that all about?” I ask.
“Guess I’m going to family dinner,” she says. “I’m not charging you for it, but believe me, Josh . . .”
She leans forward to fix me with a stare, and I have to fight not to let my eyes slip to her cleavage. “I’ll find a way to make you pay.”
Chapter Fifteen
Sami
ElizabethBrowerisahard woman to say no to. And honestly, I feel better about being able to monitor Josh’s bite anyway. I doubt anything will happen to it, but since this is my first time treating a snakebite, I don’t know what I don’t know. I did bookmark the link Ruby sent me about nonvenomous snakebites for good measure.
“Sunday dinner” apparently means be there way before a traditional mealtime and prepare to stay awhile, but I only sigh when Josh tells me we’ll be heading to his parents’ place around 3:00.
I leave him after making him promise to run over if his wound does anything weird. It leaves me three hours to do some research on local producers and recording studios. As an indie group, we’ll have to book and pay for our studio time, but that’s not hard if you have the money, which we do now, thanks to my country club one-act show.
Finding a good producer is harder. They won’t put their name on just anything. They want to know they’re working with talent because their reputation is on the line too. I’ve spent many hours in the last few months listening to some of the local bands, and I’ve narrowed in on who I want; it’s the same producer Night View works with, a girl named Gentry Hawk. That is one hundred percent a stage name, but who is Lady Mantha to judge? Unfortunately, she’shardto book.
I think the best game plan here is to book studio time to record a tight demo, kill it when we perform with Night View in a couple of weeks, and then see if they’re impressed enough to recommend us to Gentry Hawk.
By the time I find a studio time that works for the rest of the band and reserve it, I’ve only left myself fifteen minutes to get ready for Brower Family Dinner. I’m sure it’s not as formal as the country club, but with every Brower at dinner last night sporting a haircut that cost more than my Doc Martens, I don’t want to be caught out.
I rifle quickly through my closet and pull out a dress that should do the job. It’s a floral sheath dress, yellow flowers on a white background, cap sleeves, boat neck, and knee-length hem. It’s more of a spring dress, but I like the idea of cheerful yellow flowers in January, and besides, it has the most parent-approved cut and fit of any dress I own. I pair it with black wedges and work my hair into a fast French braid. That’s how I wear it for work to keep it out of my way, and I can do the whole thing in three minutes.
That gives me five to fix my face, so I opt for winged eyeliner but a soft pink lipstick. I’m finishing my mascara when I hear a knock at the door followed by Ruby calling my name.
Josh smiles when I come down, but I frown.
“You look great,” he says, running a glance over my outfit.
“I look overdressed.” He’s wearing faded jeans and a Cowboys jersey with Nikes. “I’ll go change.”
He glances at his watch, his expression uneasy. “It’s fine, I promise. Punctuality is kind of a big deal to my dad. I promise, you look adorable.”
I try not to wrinkle my nose at this. Petite women get called cute all the time. Adorable is even worse. Like we’re kittens or pixies. It’s part of why I chose that name for our band: the huge performance I try to give is the exact opposite of what people would expect from a darling little pixie.
Adorable doesn’t suggest sexiness or love vibes. It suggests pats on the head and cuddles. That would be fine if I were an actual kitten.
And actually, it’s fine if Josh thinks of me as adorable because I don’t want or need him thinking of me as sexy. So I don’t argue. Instead, I say, “I’m ready to go.”
We head toward Tarrytown because of course we do. It’s the most affluent section of Austin. Where else would the Browers live? I grill him on his injury, but it sounds like it’s doing fine.
“Let me double-check it,” I say.
He shakes his head but lifts his right hand from the steering wheel and extends it toward me, resting his arm on the console between us. It reminds me of hand-holding practice last night, and I fight the urge to wrap my hand in his.
I shake it off, touching him lightly as I study the bandage I put on him earlier. It’s an awkward location for regular Band-Aids, so I used adhesive cloth tape to secure a gauze pad that runs from the back of his hand to the palm. It’s not weeping, and the bandage is secure.
“Looks good,” I say. “Still not hurting?”
“Nope.”
“At all?” I know it’s been three hours, but I’ve stubbed toes that still vaguely throb three hours later.
