Page 73 of Good as Gold
“That’s cool,” he says. “Why are there no pictures of you in this dress on my phone yet?”
My mood plummets another thousand yards.
Ofcoursethere are women in his life. Maybe they’re not exclusive—otherwise, he wouldn’t have signed up for my little project.
So why can’t I breathe?
“What does your mom think of the dress?” he asks the woman on the phone.
Okay, that’s a weird question.
“Uh-huh,” he says with a grin that makes me feel melty inside. “You think maybe if she’s paying for it, she might get a say? Oh—I see. Yeah, I owe you a hundred bucks. But I thought you wanted a check? You told me you wereso over Venmo. Your words. And you called me a geezer for suggesting PayPal.”
And suddenly my chest loosens, because I think I know who he’s talking to—the teenage daughter of his friend.
“Yeah, I’ll send you the cash before I go to bed, okay? But don’t go behind your mom’s back. That’s not cool. Okay. Good girl. Love you too!”
He hangs up, still smiling. “Sorry. I always take Lissa’s calls. That kid has had a rough year.”
“I know. I’m sorry,” I say. What I really mean is—I’m sorry I was briefly jealous of a grieving teenager.
He shakes his head, his smile falling away. “I’d do anything for that kid. I feel so damn bad.”
And now I just want to hug him.
Get a grip, Giltmaker.He’s not really yours.
But every time he smiles, I wonder what that might be like.
CHAPTER27
MATTEO
JUNE
Spring tilts into summer, and things really heat up.
I don’t mean the weather, either. I mean me.
It was my idea to hang out with Leila, right? I enjoy every minute we’ve spent together, but my attraction to her is out of control.
No matter what we’re doing—watching a movie, playing bocci on the riverbank, having dinner together—my thoughts invariably turn to sex.
You can’t really blame me, seeing as my services are going to be needed again soon. In the next few days, Leila is going to get another smiley face when she takes the test.
So I’ve got a smiley face, too. Right inside my pants.
Making things even harder—literally—we often see each other at work. Her school year has ended, so she’s working for her father’s brewing operation and is often on duty at the warehouse when I pick up kegs and other supplies.
I feel like a pot that’s been left to simmer on the back burner until you need it. My whole body is at a low boil whenever I think about her. And even sometimes when I’m not.
It’s like being seventeen again, but I’m legal to drink, and I don’t have acne.
On Saturday, I roll up to the loading dock of the Giltmaker Brewery to pick up the beer for another party. Every time I arrive here, I marvel at how different this place looks. When I was a teenager, Lyle ran two or three businesses out of the old mill. But it still felt like a small operation.
Those other businesses are long gone. Now the big brick building contains only the rapidly expanding brewery, including Lyle’s office, a retail counter and a busy warehouse.
But that means traffic six days a week. I actually have to wait my turn behind a delivery truck before I can pick up my beer.
