Page 14 of The Spite Date (Small Town Sisterhood #1)

DON’T FUCK WITH KARMA

Bea

The fucker didn’t get the fountain fixed before the grand opening.

It shouldn’t bother me that Jake took shortcuts, but it’s the first thing I notice when I step out of the limo.

At least the grass has been cleaned up. Last I saw, it had overrun the brick patio in front of the converted Victorian mansion that once belonged to the first president of Austen & Lovelace College.

She named the house Ada Jane when she lived here.

I always thought it fit so well.

Now, there’s a banner drooping in front of the bushes beneath the front windows announcing the grand opening of JC Fig , which also pisses me off.

Dad never wavered in saying he’d call his own restaurant Jane’s Fig if he ever saved up enough money to buy the old place. Partly to honor the original history of the place, partly because my mom’s name was also Jane, and partly because her favorite treats were the fig cookies he used to make.

Grief smacks me like a punch coming from inside my chest.

Dad should’ve lived. He should’ve lived and taken a leap with his dreams.

Mom should’ve lived. She should’ve been right by his side, the way they were always there for each other.

They should’ve been here tonight, with Mom working the floor while Dad managed the kitchen, and I should’ve been here with my brothers to help out, and we should’ve caught them stealing a kiss in the walk-in fridge and pretended we were horrified when really, we were all so happy that they were happy and that they taught us to be the same.

And instead, I’m here on a date with a man who’s growing on me by the second, but who’s actually a tool in a revenge scheme against the man who stole my parents’ dreams.

Heat floods my eyeballs and my chest gets tight, and I realize I’m clutching my champagne flute tight enough to break it.

“Are you all right?” Simon asks me.

I shake my head and shove the emotions back down.

They can come out and play later. When I’m in a safe space to let them all out. “Let’s do this.”

He can’t offer me his hand, as one is holding the bottle of champagne and the other his own champagne flute, so after a quick furrow of his brow as he studies me, he offers me his elbow.

The other couple arriving for dinner gawks at us.

They’re not dressed as nicely as we are.

Actually, they’re not dressed as nicely as I am.

Simon’s in suit pants and a button-down with a tie, while I look like I should be on a date with a guy in a tuxedo.

Did he set me up to look too fancy?

Or did he set me up to outshine everyone else here tonight?

I should’ve told him.

I should’ve told him what this is actually about.

But I didn’t, and now we’re here, and if I tell him now, will he back out?

Not worth the risk.

I take his elbow. Tank shuts the limo door behind us, then hustles us to the new restaurant’s door.

“A grand opening,” Simon says. “Quite the date.”

I clear my throat and try to not squirm. “They get the biggest crowds.”

“Is this a thing regularly done in America? Converting old houses into restaurants?” Simon murmurs to me.

“It’s not uncommon.”

“Will it feel like a home inside?”

“That depends on—on what the new owner did with it.”

He smiles broadly. “Do I get the impression you’re hoping it’s dreadful?”

“I’m undecided.”

“Why?”

I gulp. “The thing about small towns is, there’s always history between all of us, and nothing’s ever cut-and-dried.”

“Then I’ll follow your lead. If you grimace, I’ll grimace. If you smile, I’ll smile. If you lose your dinner—well, I’ll try, but I have a remarkable gag reflex and it’s astonishingly difficult for me to force myself to be ill.”

I squint up at Mr. Smiley-Smiley as Tank opens the door for us. I’m not sure I deserve him tonight, which is a crazy change of opinion to happen over a week. “Can you do that?”

“I am a trained actor, darling. Who would’ve thought I could’ve pulled off Peter Jones? I deserve an Emmy.”

“Fair enough.”

The house’s foyer has been converted to the host stand, naturally. I’m relieved to see the old wood trim hasn’t been painted over, but some of the stained glass has been removed.

There’s a page on the college’s website with a walk-through of the old house.

Everyone in my family knows this building inside and out.

I loved the stained glass.

I also loved the chandeliers and the grand staircase that I can’t quite see ahead of me and the banisters and the wallpaper and the worn wooden floors with the rectangular stains where rugs once protected those portions of the floor from being faded from the sun like the rest of the wood.

The hostess slides into the foyer and looks up at us as she reaches the mahogany stand, then blanches. “Oh, shit.”

“Reservations for two and a half for Barney,” Simon says pleasantly. “Do you need the email confirmation?”

“Oh, shit shit shit ,” she whispers again as her eyes flit between us.

I squeeze Simon’s elbow, mostly because I suddenly don’t know what to do.

The theory of arriving at Jake’s grand opening on the arm of his favorite actor to make a scene is a lot different from the reality of being in the scene .

I’m better at pulling my brothers out of trouble and being a smart-ass in places where I’m comfortable than I am at causing trouble behind enemy lines.

Parking my bus three inches over the line of where it’s supposed to be?

Child’s play.

Getting arrested when I have proof I did nothing wrong?

I can handle that, even if it was awful.

Making a large public nuisance of myself on purpose?

I need to tell Simon.

I need to tell him right now what’s going on.

“My man called an hour ago to alert the staff that Barney was a pretend name,” he says smoothly, and I realize he has no idea she’s shit ting because of me.

He thinks she’s having a reaction to him .

Breathe, Bea. Breathe breathe breathe .

I need to tell him.

And I will.

Once we’re seated.

“Yeah, but I thought Barney would be like, Margot Merriweather-Brown or like, one of the Rutherford brothers,” the young woman says with another terrified glance at me.

“The Rutherford brothers? With the Razzle Dazzle family?” Simon asks.

The hostess sends another panicked look my direction. “They live over in Albany. I mean, they used to. They still come around sometimes when they visit the area.”

Wait.

I know this woman. “Olivia? You’re Olivia, right? From Griff’s class?”

Her smile is so pained, I want to take a Tylenol for her. “Hi, Bea. Welcome to JC Fig. We’re so glad to have you for our grand opening.”

Simon’s smile, on the other hand, seems completely genuine.

“You know each other. Brilliant. Not to be that celebrity , but could we possibly be seated quickly? Before we cause a scene in your lobby? I’m eager to try the meatloaf to see how it compares to my favorite from the city. Your menu looks positively delicious.”

Olivia grimaces.

I nearly grimace for her.

“Chef made a fixed tasting menu for tonight. No meatloaf.”

“A tasting menu! Brilliant. Clearly, I must return another night for the meatloaf.” He winks at her. “Provided the tasting menu is as delicious as I hope it will be.”

She blinks at him.

Then looks at me and grimaces again.

Then looks back at him. “You can’t bring in your own alcohol.”

There goes his smile, doing its smile thing. “Can’t I? Just this once?”

If she winces any harder, she’s gonna get a charley horse in her cheek or eyebrow. “It’s against the rules.”

“I noticed you don’t have Dom Pérignon listed on your online menu, and I prefer it to any other bubbly.”

She looks behind her while I manage to not let my face show that he’s lying.

Either to her, or to me in the car.

Then she peers behind us, where Tank is looming so close that I can almost feel him breathing.

And then she closes her eyes and takes the largest breath I’ve ever seen anyone take.

When she opens her eyes again, I lean into the stand. “I feel like your boss would really want celebrities to be happy,” I murmur for her ears only.

“What’s that now?” Simon asks.

“Fine. Fine .” Olivia winces once more, then grabs two leather folios and a drink list and leads us into the converted house.

We walk past the old sitting room on the right, which has had its wallpaper replaced with plain blue paint, and the former library on the left, which has had its bookcases removed, probably to make room to squeeze in two or three extra tables.

The old crystal chandeliers have been replaced with iron fixtures, and the walls in both rooms are adorned with mirrors, which fits Jake.

He knows he’s handsome, and he loves to bask in it.

All of the tables are draped with white cloth and have candles dancing in the centerpieces, which makes me shiver.

We don’t do candles at home.

Especially exposed candles.

Simon glances at me and lifts his brows, like he noticed me shivering.

He’s stupidly handsome tonight. Hair perfectly in place, five-o’clock shadow hinting at scruff to come soon, and he’s already rolled his sleeves up his forearms. His suit pants fit his ass better than baseball pants fit my favorite players, and there’s mischief brewing in his blue eyes, drawing me in like a bug to a zapper.

“Long story,” I murmur.

Olivia leads us up the central stairwell between the two front rooms before I can see any more of the first floor, and my heart cramps again.

Jake replaced the banisters.

Instead of the intricately carved deep-brown wood, they’re iron with glossy black wood railings.

He ruined my house.

I know, I know, it’s not my house.

But for a few months, I thought it would be. I was here when he closed on it. I transferred money to him to help pay for the down payment, which he claimed later was rent money since I’d moved in with him. We had sex in the kitchen.

And now it’s all his, and he ruined it.

My eyes start to burn again, this time for me instead of my parents, but I shake it off.

I’ll feel sad later.

When I’m alone.

Right now, all I want to feel is rage.