Starfire (Peaches Monroe #3)(14)
Author: Mimi Strong

I was cut off by Adrian’s lips on my mouth. His long arms encircled me, his kiss electric and charging my whole body. When he let me go, every inch of my skin was tingling, from my scalp to my toes.

And then he turned and walked away, a bounce in his step.

I opened the door, slipped in, and kept the interior lights off as I stood in the dark living room and watched the car’s red tail lights streak away in the night.

Alone in the dark, I asked myself out loud, “Peaches, what the f**k are you doing?”

~

On Sunday, I had a ton of energy, and I not only cleaned my room and did my laundry, but I also put all the laundry away instead of giving up partway and leaving the clean stuff in the basket. It wasn’t even my week to clean the bathroom, but I did it anyway, grinning with satisfaction as I scrubbed the antique claw-foot tub to a sparkling shine. Whenever I started to think about something I didn’t want to think about, I just found a new zone to clean!

Ladies, if you want to get your house into tip-top shape, I recommend you send the guy you’re dating out on a date with another girl. Yes, you’ll get some conflicting feelings, ranging from curiosity to outrage, but your house will ultimately benefit.

And, remember, it was all your idea! So when you fluff up all the pillows and start punching them, that’s all you, baby.

At six-thirty, my father came by to pick me up for dinner at their house. I’d only seen him once since my trip to LA, and he had a million questions for me about the underwear photo shoot and the commercial filming. I filled him in as best I could in the car, summarizing the awkward details regarding my love life.

“And your boyfriend Mitchell is modeling underwear in France?” he asked, getting all the details jumbled.

“No, Mitchell’s just a friend. Keith was my, um, boyfriend while I was in California, and he’s in Milan now.”

“But Mitchell took you to Disneyland, right?”

“No, that was Keith.”

“Disneyland can be very romantic.”

“Dad, are you feeling okay?”

We pulled into the driveway of the house, and he tapped on the car’s odometer. “The mileage on this thing is terrible. I like to buy American, but this is ridiculous, and when is the movie star coming back to town?”

(I swear, that’s exactly how he asked me about Dalton Deangelo—as though his car’s fuel economy and the actor’s visit were obviously tied together.)

“He’s more of a TV star than a movie star, and I don’t know when. His butler was here on Friday getting a cabin or something set up. I haven’t talked to Dalton since I left LA.”

We got out of the car and walked up to the house. My father’s gaze was straight ahead as he said, “You’re more than good enough for anyone, Petra. Never forget that.”

My mother swung open the door to greet us. Kyle ran through the house behind her, chasing another little boy with a big, plastic shark raised high over his head.

“The famous model is here!” my mother exclaimed.

The boys’ yelling diminished slightly as they clambered up the stairs and down the hall toward Kyle’s room. My mother’s cheeks were rosy, and her blond hair looked dark, as though it hadn’t been washed in a while.

I gave her a big hug, still puzzling over what my father had said.

“Is everything okay?” I asked.

She squeezed me, hard. “Nothing a little girl talk with my favorite supermodel can’t cure.”

Dad stopped for a moment to straighten the lid on the cut-crystal candy dish where we keep the spare keys, then he disappeared back out the door muttering about having left some lights on in the workshop.

“Really, Mom, what’s going on? Dad just tried to talk to me about boys, sort of.”

She led me into the kitchen and handed me a bottle of white wine, cold from the fridge, and the corkscrew.

“Kyle’s been acting out lately,” she said.

“Do you want me to talk with him?”

She smiled wanly as she set out two wine glasses. “When did I get to be so old? What do you think of those no-surgery facelifts?”

“What did Dad do now?”

“It’s not your father.”

I poured the wine, and she switched the subject to me, asking questions about my time in LA, and nodding at the answers while staring off into the distance.

We put together the salad and got all the food out onto the table.

Dad came in and we sat down to eat.

Kyle’s friend had shockingly bad table manners, but his behavior seemed to improve when we stopped paying any attention. The boys wolfed down their food, and when they asked to be excused, my mother seemed relieved.

She finished her third glass of wine, and finally she spit out what was bothering her. “A woman at the summer camp meeting thought I was Kyle’s grandmother.”

The three of us were alone.

My father calmly and quietly said, “But you are.”

I turned and patted my father’s hand. “You may be excused.”

“There’s nothing wrong with the age that brings wisdom,” he said.

I nodded. “Okay. Bye. Have fun in the workshop.”

He stalled for a moment, gathering up a few dishes and putting the lids on the pickles.

After he walked away and left us in the dining room, I said, “Tell me who it was, and I’ll punch her some new freckles.”

“One of those yummy mommy types.”

“Gross. I hate her. Does she drive a Range Rover and wear tiny little designer jeans?”

My mother grinned. “Yoga pants. The designer kind, though.”

“Yoga pants. Uh-huh. With perfect hair and full makeup?”

“Plus diamond earrings.”

I shook my head. “Don’t you worry about her. Those chicks have it the worst. I see them at the bookstore. Do you know how many self-help books they buy?”

She sighed. “It was just the way she looked at me, you know? She invited me to some party she’s having, obviously out of pity.”

I glanced up at the antique grandfather clock standing in the corner of the dining room. Was Adrian on a date with Golden?

As my mind wandered, my mother kept talking about the way the yummy mommy had looked at her.

A gentle presence settled over me, and I thought of Keith Raven, my sweet LA rebound boy. We’d talked about our days a few times, and agreed that what most people desire more than anything, more than money or fame or stuff, is someone to complain to for thirty minutes a day.*

*Not talk to. Complain to. Let’s be honest here, it’s not a conversation we’re after, not always.