Muffin Top (Page 20)

Then, with only the slightest of pauses by the empty chair at the table, she hustled out of the kitchen with her bowl of cornflakes.

“Now, that was interesting,” Tom said from his spot by the dishwasher as he stared at the empty space in the doorway where Lucy had been only moments before.

Yeah, that was one way of putting it. Frankie was suddenly very anxious to meet this Constance chick. With four sisters, he’d learned a long time ago how to fight like a girl, and he was more than ready to rack up some points in Lucy’s honor.

…

Lucy set her now-empty cereal bowl on the desk and looked around at the untouched memorial that was her childhood bedroom. Everything was exactly as it was the day she’d left after college graduation for Waterbury—including the debate trophies lining the top of her headboard. Yeah, some people had notches in theirs, she had little metal gavels. A set of quick raps at the door followed by the insistent scraping of doggie nails against the wood tugged the corners of her mouth upward. When she opened the door, Gussie burst inside, vaulted up, and landed in the middle of her bed. The little guy went straight to work, messing up the made bed to create a little nest of pillows and fluffed-up comforter.

Her dad, though, stopped just inside the doorway. “Something you want to tell me, Muffin?”

Besides to stop calling her that? “Not really, Dad.”

Nodding, he walked into the room and picked up her empty bowl. He didn’t have to do that, but she’d given up years ago on telling him that she could, would, and did pick up after herself. The man couldn’t stand having anything out of place.

“You know,” he said, looking down at the empty bowl. “It would be a nice gesture for Frankie if you put on a robe before coming down to the kitchen tomorrow morning.”

What was everyone’s problem with her cat pajamas? “Why’s that?”

“Frankie seemed a little distracted by your outfit.” Her dad looked up from the bowl and gave her a small, understanding smile. “I know it might seem silly to us, but he’s trying to work some things out that obviously he’s buried deep for quite some time.”

“And how does my being in my comfy PJ’s at breakfast play into that?”

“Because I don’t think he was seeing them that way.”

“Trust me. We talked about my PJ’s last night. He’s definitely not into them or me. You can rest easy, Dad. No one is going to be hitting on your little girl on your watch.” She winked at him.

“Well, he is making some major changes in his life, and whether you realize it or not, he does very much see you that way. He alone is responsible for his behavior, and what you choose to wear is about you and not him, but I don’t think you’re immune to him, either. You both are playing with fire if your plan is to keep things strictly platonic.”

As if that was even an option. She was Lucy Kavanagh, controller of images and righter of publicity gone bad. However, she was not a leggy goddess with an impossibly tiny waist and shampoo-commercial hair. While she was pretty damn happy with herself for the most part, she wasn’t the kind of woman who caught Frankie Hartigan’s eye—nor did she want to be one of a numberless horde.

“Dad, I love you,” she said with a chuckle. “But I think this is a case of when you’re a sex therapist you see everything as sexual in nature.”

Her dad gave her that look, she knew the one. It meant a seriously awkward and bad dad joke was incoming.

“Sooo,” he said, drawing the one-syllable word out, “you’re saying I have a sex hammer that makes everything look like a nail.”

She squeezed her eyes closed in her best effort to block that mental image and let out a groan. Damn. She really should have seen that one coming. “Oh my God, Dad. Why do you say things like that?”

“Because no matter how old you get, making you embarrass-laugh is one of my jobs as a dad.”

“Good to know.” And weirdly enough, comforting to hear. “But for the record, you’re wrong. Frankie doesn’t see me like that.”

He put his therapist face back on, a deep V wrinkle forming between his eyes. “An interesting assumption on your part.”

A twinge of oh-shit made her lungs tight. “What does that mean?”

He tapped his fingertips against her empty cereal bowl and lifted an eyebrow. “That for as much as you like to give me a hard time for never changing things…” He paused, giving her one of those piercing looks that he normally reserved for his clients or Gussie. “You don’t seem to like to change things, either—especially not your thinking. And the result is you leading with insults and defensiveness instead of an open mind. You gotta take a risk someday, or you’ll ultimately just prove your worst assumptions right.”

That hit uncomfortably close to the dark place where she shoved her self-doubts and questions, but she just double-locked the door because her dad was wrong. She knew what she was about, that’s all. She knew who she was, what she wanted, and what she definitely didn’t need in her life. “Isn’t there a rule against analyzing your own kid?”

“Just making an observation, Muffin.” He gave her a quick peck on the cheek and headed for the door, followed by Gussie who’d jumped down from the bed at the first sign of her dad leaving her bedroom. “I’ll let you get ready. Remember to have fun today.”

She was going to do her best to try. All she had to do was avoid Constance Harmon as much as possible and not think too hard about what her dad said, because she was most definitely not playing with fire when it came to Frankie Hartigan. That was just crazy talk.

Her phone buzzed on the bedside table just as she started getting dressed.

Gina: Are you dead?

Lucy: Not yet.

Fallon: Is Frankie dead yet?

Lucy: No.

Tess: How’s cutie boy Gussie?

Gina: The dog? Really? That’s what you’re going with when she’s halfway across the country with a hot firefighter????

Tess: He does look so cute in pics.

Fallon: Gross. That firefighter is my brother.

Gina: We’ll let you know when it’s safe to rejoin the group text, then.

Lucy: Gussie is fine.

She shared a pic of the dog she’d taken before her ill-planned trip to Frankie’s room last night. She’d barely hit send before the hearts started exploding on her screen and the text alert notifications told her that all of her girls had hearted the photo.

She pulled on her shirt, a cute green V-neck T-shirt that was about as soft as soft got, and her skirt while the three little dots announcing someone was typing appeared and disappeared on her screen. No doubt her girls were having a side discussion about the whole reunion trip with Frankie right now. God help her if they ever got in a room with her dad. There’d be no resisting that interfering foursome. Her phone buzzed.

Gina: Any news to share or juicy gossip?

Yep. They were definitely having a sidebar conversation.

Lucy: We just got here last night. Had some car trouble.

Gina: Is that what the kids are calling it these days?

Fallon: Again. My BROTHER.

Tess: Who said it was okay for you to read again? ?

Lucy: So funny. Let’s remember who we’re talking about.

Gina: Exactly. We’re talking about you, ya badass.

Despite the fact that they were just giving her shit and looking for dirt—that most definitely was not going to appear—Lucy couldn’t help but giggle at their texting shenanigans. Delusional or not, hearing from her girls was exactly what she needed to gird up for the day ahead.