Complicated Girl (Baker Street Romance #2)(7)
Author: Mimi Strong

“I was joking about the g*y husband thing, but that wasn’t right of me. I don’t care what you are.” I keep moving deeper into the shop, where the smell of fresh varnish and furniture polish is stronger. “My family raised me and my sister to accept all people, and I do. Not just because of how I was raised, but because it’s only right. If I ever joke about something, I’m joking about the stereotype itself, and not the person.”

“I’m not g*y,” he says. “But between you and me, if a couple of guys with expensive shoes come into my shop and get excited over redecorating an entire house, I do start to speak… a little more like this.” His voice goes up and becomes more precise. “That sideboard absolutely must not be split up from the matching table.”

“You’re bad,” I say, laughing. I keep looking around, and Duncan busies himself with some paperwork behind the counter.

After a minute, he says, completely out of the blue, “You’re pretty.”

“What?” I look around to see if someone else has come in the door.

“I have an eye for beauty,” he explains. “I go to auctions all the time, and I always get the deals. The key is being able to spot value, being able to tell trash from the real deal.”

I frown at him, unsure if I should be offended or flattered. “So, you’re saying I’m not trash?”

“I’m saying you’re the real deal, and you’re pretty. Please don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re just not my type.”

His words are probably said with a kind intent, but they still sting to hear. I snap back with, “You’re not my type, either. I like a guy with balls.”

His mouth opens, like he’s about to say something brutal—something I probably deserve to hear—but then he stops himself. “Good luck with that,” he says softly as he pulls his phone from his pocket.

I cross my arms, hunch over to make myself small, and weave my way around the furniture. “This place is like a maze,” I mutter under my breath.

“Good to see you,” he calls after me. “I’m heading out of town for a few days, but I’ll see you around.”

I drop venom-filled words like water bombs. “Not if I see you first!”

Chapter 6

I am ashamed of how desperately I want to be loved.

Six days have gone by since my failed apology to Duncan, and I still feel lousy about my inability to be nice.

It’s Tuesday, and I’ve taken the entire day off work, just so I can make ridiculously complicated treats for the self-help group tonight.

I’m being silly. Those carboholics would be more than happy with a simple jelly roll, or cookies. But here I am, slaving away in my mother’s kitchen all day, making petit fours—tiny French tea cakes with delicate flower decorations.

I’ve been planning this since last Wednesday, when my attempts to make amends with Duncan at the antiques store blew up in my face.

I keep trying to procrastinate my anxiety, but I can’t push away these thoughts about Duncan. (Duncan, then Drew, then Duncan again. I’m cursed by problems with D-named guys. Must be something in my horoscope.)

Now Duncan’s in my head. He’s not paying rent in there, but he’s my noisy tenant and I can’t kick him out.

Duncan’s words keep ringing in my ears. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re just not my type.”

Whenever someone asks you to not take something the wrong way, they should have the decency to explain exactly how you’re supposed to take it the right way. He said: not my type. What the hell? Is that supposed to be a compliment? It’s not like Duncan said, “I like wrinkly old ladies with big hairy moles, therefore you’re not my type.”

He said he had an eye for beauty, or value, or something like that. I don’t remember that part. Just the kick in the ovaries that was his not-my-type rejection.

I’m finally finished toiling over the petit fours, and I carefully transfer them over to a serving tray. Now I have a new problem. They’re too perfect. Everyone will think I bought them from a bakery. Growling with impatience, I grab some leftover icing and petals, and smudge up a third of them so they don’t look so perfect.

“Meenie, you are unhinged,” I mutter to myself.

I get ready for group, rummaging through my closet for a fresh shirt. I want something with attitude, so I grab my trusty ‘I Love Beijing’ shirt. It looks like a classic ‘I Love New York’ shirt, only instead of NY, it says BJ.

Yes, I’m going to self-help group wearing an I ♥ BJ shirt. That’s just how I roll!

To class myself up, I spend some extra minutes on makeup.

I’m going to come clean tonight. I’m going to throw myself upon the mercy of the group, and tell them the whole truth. I won’t tell some edited half-truths about why my interactions with guys end in disaster. I’ll admit that I talk way too much about guys’ balls—specifically, their lack of them.

Then Feather will give me a diagnosis—probably some therapy crap about blah-blah-who-knows—and then I’ll get a list of what to do, and I’ll cure myself of talking about balls.

It’s going to be great! I feel better already. This is totally going to work.

I’m the first to arrive at room 3C, so I start setting out chairs. Feather comes in next, floating on a cloud of that special beauty and happiness that only natural blondes who are married to sexy hotel owners have.

“How are you doing, Meenie?” she asks, looking over the tiny square cakes set up on the snack table.

“Pretty good.”

She tucks her perfect, platinum blond hair behind one ear. “The last time I saw you bring something so elaborate, your grandmother had just passed away. Is there anything you’d like to talk about before the others get here?”

I stare at her perfect lips and think about the rumor I heard—that she met her husband when he hired her to kiss him. Her kissing magically cured him in some unspecified way I spend far too much time thinking about. She’s so pretty. I’m not into girls, but damn it, I’d probably kiss her too, if she felt it would help my situation.

“Do you think my name is a problem?” I set out the final chair and stand behind it, resting my palms on the back. “I’m just thinking that people take on the qualities of their name. You look like a feather. You’re dainty and wispy. You’re soft and soothing to people, but you still have that core of strength.”