Chapter Eight

The following day, Cora took the opportunity to explore Patterson’s Bluff. Liv had offered Cora her car, and while it was hella scary driving on the other side of the road, there was something so freeing about rolling the windows down, blaring music out of the radio, and sucking in ocean air as she drove.

Talk about nature’s therapy.

She explored the main drag, popping into the bookstore to visit Maddy, and then settled into one of the cafés facing the beach, where she had three coffees, because they tasted so damn good, and worked on her novel.

That night, however, there was other work to be done. Craft-related work. Trent had swung past his parents’ house on the way home from the building site and had picked up a bunch of family albums they needed to start Operation Scrapbook Restoration.

“Do you think we should tell Liv about the…uh, damage?” Cora asked as she eyed the ruined gift, which had dried to a crusty, crunchy mess, with pages rippled by the water and ink bleeding all over the place. “I feel guilty keeping it from her.”

“Why don’t we tell her after we’ve redone all the work?” he replied. “Better to soften the blow.”

“You’re very good at handling people, aren’t you?” She laughed.

You wouldn’t mind if he handled you.

Great. Now even the most innocent of sentences was setting off the dirty-girl alarm in her head. He was wearing one of those tighter-than-should-be-legal T-shirts that should have had “touch me” written all over it. His hair was still damp from the shower, making it look dark gold instead of its usual sun-bleached shade.

“I’ve got three brothers. A smart one, a creative one, and an ambitious one. That makes me the charming one.” He sent her a cavalier grin that Cora felt right down to the tips of her toes.

“How does Liv fit into all this?”

He chuckled. “She’s the youngest and the only girl. Nothing else required.”

“Ah, the golden child.”

“By default.” He winked. “Don’t tell her I said that.”

Cora made a zipping motion across her lips. “I promise.”

They settled at the table, and Cora reached eagerly for one of the albums. Maybe it was weird, but she’d always had a strong sense of curiosity about other people’s families. It was almost like studying a foreign species. When she was younger, all she ever wanted to do was watch sitcoms like Malcolm in the Middle, Modern Family, even reruns of Full House. These groups of people had trials and tribulations—they fought and butted heads. But they always came together in the end to mend hurts and strengthen bonds.

Her house had never been like that.

Catriona Cabot had ruled their house with an iron fist, and her cold shoulder was frigid enough to chill the entire Upper East Side.

“Oh my gosh, look at you all!” The albums were labeled by year and contained such gems as baby “glamour” shots—cue furry mats and blurred edges—gap-toothed school photos, and cheesy family portraits, hair spiked with cement-strength gel. “Is that… Did you have an eyebrow ring?”

Trent groaned as he settled into the seat next to her. “It was a phase. A bad one.”

Now that she looked at Trent closely, she noticed the little scar intersecting his eyebrow. In the picture, he sported a silver bar through one brow and a stud in the opposite ear. His blond hair was sun-bleached and spiked, and he wore baggy jeans. “You look like a Backstreet Boys member.”

“One, seventeen-year-old Trent would be most insulted. It was System of a Down and Rage Against the Machine on my Walkman, thank you very much. And two, yeah… It wasn’t a good look.”

“Well, I’ll raise your eyebrow ring with a belly piercing.” Cora laughed when Trent’s brows shot up.

“Seriously?”

“Oh yeah.” She remembered the pain she’d gone through, hiding it from her mother. That summer she’d developed a preference for one-piece bathing suits and resorted to taping the piercing down so it wouldn’t show through the clingy fabric. Eventually her mother had caught her, of course, and demanded Cora take it out on the spot. “I had a glow-in-the-dark one and everything.”

He laughed, and it crinkled the corners of his eyes in the most delightful way. “Hot.”

Flushing, she flipped open another photo album. Trent’s parents were capital-A adorable. His mother had one of those standard eighties perms, her blond hair fluffed out like a golden cloud around her head. She also sported some serious shoulder pads. His dad, on the other hand, had an epic mustache and huge wire-rimmed glasses.

Another photo showed his mother with her mirror image—another woman with matching fluffy blond hair and the same heart-shaped face. “Is your mother a twin?”

“Yeah.” Trent bobbed his head, his expression difficult to read. “She was a twin.”

“Oh.” She traced a fingertip over their smiling faces. “I’m sorry.”

“It happened when I was a baby, and Mum doesn’t talk about it much.”

“Tell me about your parents,” Cora said as she picked through the pages, peeling back the clear layer protecting the photos and plucking out the ones they needed to photocopy.

“Dad was an English teacher and Mum taught Home Economics. They met at work, got married, and had a gazillion babies. The end,” he said with a laugh. He pulled one album from the stack. Cora’s list was in the middle of them, and he flipped the page, looking over her neatly written notes so he knew which photos to look for. “My family is pretty boring.”

“Boring?” Cora blanched. “Are you kidding me? I would have killed to have a family like yours growing up.”

“It’s not all sunshine and roses,” he said. “We’ve had our ups and downs.”

“Ups and downs are one thing.” She flipped over another page and smiled at a picture of Trent’s parents holding a newborn baby, swaddled in a blue blanket. That must be baby number one: Adam. “Nationally televised scandals are another.”

“Nationally televised?”

“My parents are…famous.” She wrinkled her nose. Of all the F words in the world, this one was by far the worst. “My mother is a therapist who turned into a TV star by having a relationship segment on daytime TV. Think Dr. Phil but female. My father is a world-renowned literary agent.”

“Sounds pretty good so far.”

“Being in the public eye is…” She shook her head. “Frankly, I hate it. People are always watching your every move, waiting for you to slip up so they can document your mistakes for a quick buck. It’s gross.”

Trent watched her curiously, like one might observe something through glass at a zoo exhibit. She hated it when people looked at her like that, like a…specimen. Being the source of someone’s curiosity made her uncomfortable.

“That’s why you’re here?” he asked. “To hide?”

She thought about denying it for a minute, but what was the point? It didn’t matter what Trent thought of her. He didn’t know her. Nobody did here. And she was taking a break from trying to win people over. “Yeah, basically. My parents are in the process of getting a divorce and it’s…ugly.”

Like, public screaming matches ugly. They’d both ended up at a charity gig recently, drunk and mouthing off. Her father had decided to take a date—some sprite of a woman half his age with tits that looked like two half melons glued to her chest. He’d always been a better father than he was a husband, from what Cora could tell.

In any case, Cora’s mother had flipped and someone had captured the whole thing on Instagram Live. So embarrassing.

“That really sucks.” Trent frowned, and his concern was so genuine, it socked her in the chest. Even her ex hadn’t been able to muster up much empathy, instead telling her it was “hardly shocking” they were splitting up.

Sure, it was true…but sometimes she needed a little sympathy and for someone to tell her everything would turn out okay, even if that wasn’t 100 percent true.

“Honestly, it’s probably for the best.” Cora flipped another page open in the album, the smiling faces of the Walters family twisting her heart. “They didn’t really love each other. My parents are…difficult. My mother likes to control people, and I think my father had enough of it by the end.”

He should never have cheated on her mother, but there were times when Cora understood why he’d wanted out. There was only so long you could put up with someone trying to run your life.

“That’s why she never let you have a pet or play sports?”

“And it didn’t stop there.” Cora felt all her old resentments rushing back up from the depths of her soul. “I couldn’t eat anything with sugar in it, because God forbid I put on weight. I couldn’t read anything that didn’t get her seal of approval—no romance novels or anything like that. Hell, I only got to have my birthday parties the way she wanted them.”

Cora sucked in a huge breath, suddenly aware that her voice had been getting higher and higher. God, she must sound so sad. What woman in her late twenties was still hanging on to childhood grudges about birthday parties?

But it wasn’t about that, not really.

“Most people have only suitcases for baggage.” She offered him a rueful, self-deprecating smile. “Looks like I brought something extra with me…and I am totally sucking the fun out of this.”

Suddenly she was aware of how close they were sitting—knees and shoulders almost touching—and she wondered what it would feel like to turn her body toward his. To make contact.

You’re wondering what it would be like for your knees to touch? Seriously? Did you hop into the DeLorean and travel back to high school?

But that’s how he made her feel—young and fun and giddy in the best way possible. He made her feel shiny and new. Like her heart hadn’t known pain and loss. Like it hadn’t been shattered into infinite, irreparable pieces.

“Yeah, because looking at every bad fashion moment I ever had is much better,” Trent said with a roll of his eyes. “We haven’t even gotten to my goth stage yet.”

“No!” Cora pressed a hand to her chest. “You’re lying.”

“I wish I was.” He scrubbed a hand over his face.

“Okay, you have to show me now.”

“Uh, no, all those photos have been disposed of,” he said, holding up a hand. “Permanently. And anyone who might still have photos from back then has been threatened with all kinds of bodily harm.”

Cora laughed with Trent as they pulled the rest of the photos. Liv’s printer had a scanner, so they were able to get copies right away. That way Trent could return the albums before his parents came back from their trip without accidentally spilling the beans about their surprise gift.

Even if this whole thing was a disaster, it was proving to be a fun, glittery distraction and exactly what she needed. Not to mention that spending time with Trent was absolutely not a hardship. After the copies were done, they spread out all the necessary supplies for their crafting adventure—a scrapbook album with plenty of pages, glue sticks, glitter, tape, scissors with those funny crinkled edges, all “borrowed” from Liv’s stash.

“I have a feeling this is going to get embarrassing.” Trent picked up a strange implement with a rotating wheel and looked at it as though it were some kind of mystical artifact.

“Why’s that?”

“I am the least creative person in my family. Seriously, my Christmas decorations were so bad as a kid, I caught my mum hiding them around the back of the tree whenever we had guests over.”

“Oh no.” Cora laughed and pressed a hand to her chest. “That’s mean.”

“I can’t blame her. My ‘Christmas rocket’ really did look like a sparkly dick.”

Now Cora laughed so hard, tears came to her eyes. The visual of little blond Trent and his sparkly Christmas dick-rocket was too much. “Okay, rule number one for scrapbooking: no phallic objects. How about I put you on glue duty?”

“The sparkly stuff is for more advanced crafters, is it?”

She grinned. “Let’s just say they don’t call it the herpes of the craft world for nothing.”

It sounded like she knew exactly what she was doing when, in reality, any knowledge she had was taken from watching reruns of Craft Wars after her breakup. Because what could possibly say “my life is falling apart” more than watching reruns of anything with Tori Spelling in it?

“Okay, we’ve got reference material here—” She pointed to the now crinkled and crusty original version. “And photos here. All we have to do is recreate. I’m going to work on the heading, and you can work on the photos.”

Trent cut the images out and applied glue to the back. It was amusing to see the dainty glue stick in his large, construction-worker hands. He even did that adorable thing where he stuck his tongue out of the side of his mouth in concentration.

“So you were never into art as a kid?” she asked as she filled in one of the letters with short, precise strokes.

“Not really.” He leaned closer to stick the pictures down onto the pages, smoothing the edges with his thumbs. With the two of them working on the same thing, they were getting in each other’s space, and Cora didn’t mind one bit. “I always enjoyed working with my hands, but I preferred making things that people could use rather than things to be looked at. It’s why I ended up leaving school—the idea of being able to get my hands dirty and spend all day outside was way too appealing.”

“How did your parents take it?”

“Well, as I said before, they’re both teachers. So…” He chuckled and raked a hand through his hair. “They weren’t thrilled at first. But a family friend gave me a job and showed me the ropes, and I was always better at building things than I was sitting still in a classroom. They understood that.”

“Your parents sound really supportive.”

“They’re realistic. Plus, they had four other kids pulling good grades, so what’s one lost cause in the grand scheme of things?” he joked.

“Did they compare you?”

“It’s only natural. People do it to siblings all the time, and we’re so close in age that I guess it came with the territory,” he said, sticking a photo down onto the scrapbook page. “But I’m not like my siblings.”

There was something strange about his tone, a hint of emotion underneath the words that pricked Cora’s ears up. As someone who created characters, she was always looking for the chink in someone’s armor, the contradiction behind the mask they presented to the world. And even though Trent had appeared nothing less than perfect in the past forty-eight hours, those five simple words hinted at something less-than-perfect beneath the surface.

“I might not have inherited their desire for straight A’s, but I’m still the reigning family champion at both Jenga and table tennis. I’m also better at cricket than Nick.” Trent smiled and the unabashed cockiness made Cora laugh. “Not that he’d ever admit it.”

“Your family seems so wonderful.” Cora leaned back to look at her lettering. It wasn’t as good as Liv’s but it would pass muster. “I’m officially jealous.”

“Stay a while. Maybe they’ll adopt you.”

“Don’t tempt me,” she muttered with a rueful smile. “Now, how the hell do you think we do this?”

Liv had made some little, flat ruffled thing to go along the bottom of baby Adam’s photo. It looked like it was made out of washi tape, which she could identify thanks to Tori Spelling’s craft tutelage. But that was based on Cora’s very limited hands-on experience and, thus, couldn’t be entirely trusted.

Trent looked at her with a blank expression. “I’m hoping that’s a rhetorical question and not you expecting me to have a bloody clue about how we’re supposed to do any of this.”

Hmm.

“You hold it and I’m going to do the ruffling part.” She pulled a strip of washi tape and handed the end to Trent. “Hold it straight.”

“Yes, boss.” His charming smile sent a jolt of lust right through her. How was she supposed to do anything with that expression aimed in her direction? Could neurons even exist around a smile like that?

She focused on trying to make the ruffles with the tape. Fold, stick, fold, stick, fold, stick.

“I don’t think that looks right,” Trent said, his nose wrinkled.

“Shh. I got this.” Fold, stick, fold, stick.

“But aren’t they supposed to be…even?”

Cora sighed and looked at her handiwork. Yeah, it wouldn’t even pass kindergarten QA. But what else could they do?

“It’s fine, we’ll stick it on and sprinkle some glitter over the top.” She bit down on her lip. “Glitter fixes everything.”

“Hang on, I thought glitter was herpes? And that most definitely does not fix everything.” Trent looked confused.

“No, that’s because… Oh, never mind.” She reached for the container of silver and gold glitter. “In this case, glitter is a good thing.”

“Whatever you say.”

She unscrewed the lid, and a little plume of shimmer mushroomed into the air—like a tiny, sparkling dust bomb. All she had to do was carefully sprinkle it over the washi tape, and…

Her nose twitched. Oh no. Cora had been voted “most likely to wake the dead with her sneeze” back in middle school. Her sneezes were no joke. They could wake a baby three houses down and had the velocity of a high-powered sportscar. Twitch, twitch.

It’s okay, just put the container—

“Achoo!”

Glitter went flying…right into Trent’s face.

For a moment, he didn’t even move. He sat there, like some fabulous drag version of the Tin Man from The Wizard of Oz. Silver and gold glitter coated his entire face, his hair…and everything. The container was now three-quarters empty, and Cora couldn’t seem to budge her lips from their shocked O shape.

“You gave me sexually transmitted glitter,” Trent said, eyes still closed.

“Don’t blink.” Cora set the container down and shoved her chair back, sending another fine cloud of glitter shimmering to the floor. Shit. “Craft glitter isn’t meant for use around the eyes because it can scratch your cornea.”

She could thank Tori Spelling for that tip.

“Excellent,” Trent drawled. “Now how am I supposed to get this stuff off me?”

“Ummm…” Cora’s mind spun. “I think water might be best, at least for most of it.”

“Is it in my hair?”

Cora pressed a hand over her mouth at the sight of Trent’s gorgeous blond locks looking like they’d been attacked by an angry gang of My Little Ponies. “Uh-huh.”

“Shower might be best,” he said, pushing up from his chair. He moved, hands outstretched, and almost walked straight into the sideboard. “If this was my old place, I’d know where everything was without needing to see.”

“Let me help.” Cora got up and took Trent by the hands. Walking backward, she guided him to the main bathroom and turned the taps on. Unfortunately, the shower was one of those tub-combo things. “I, uh… You might need a hand getting into the tub. I don’t want you to slip and fall.”

But it seemed he wasn’t as perturbed by that idea as she was, and Trent had already ripped his T-shirt over his head, sprinkling glitter all over the bath mat. Then his belt buckle clanked as he yanked it open. The sound of his zipper lowering was like a knife through the thick air, and Cora’s knees almost gave out on her as he shoved the denim down over his hips.

Holy shit.

There was perfection and then there was Trent’s ass. Clearly cricket and whatever he did at work were doing amazing things to his body. The board shorts he’d worn to the beach didn’t do it justice at all.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to take my jocks off,” he said, sticking his hands out again. Cora helped him step one foot and then the other into the bath, where he bent forward slightly and stuck his head under the spray.

She tried really hard not to look down at the water running in rivulets over his body. Not to mention the bulge in the front of his underwear. Did the guy carry some extra stuffing down there for good measure? Good Lord!

Wrenching her gaze away and feeling hot enough to rival the surface of the sun, Cora made her exit from the bathroom under the guise of finding some coconut oil to help get the glitter out of his hair. That’s apparently what all the girls used post-Coachella.

When she passed the table in the living area, she cringed. Glitter was liberally dusted all over the carpet and table, with a hefty sprinkling on the scrapbook itself. Was she destined to ruin everything in this house?

Scouring the kitchen, she found a tub of coconut oil in the pantry and a roll of paper towels on the countertop. Now all she had to do was face Trent again and try not to ogle his junk. No biggie.

It was definitely a biggie.

She needed to stop that, right now. This whole situation was a disaster because Cora seemed to attract hot messes wherever she went.

“What’s the common denominator, huh? Maybe you’re the hot mess.” She knocked on the bathroom door, and Trent called for her to come in. “Don’t look at his junk, don’t look at his junk, don’t look at his junk…”

With a deep breath, she pushed the door open and found Trent still under the spray. He was magnificent…and shining like a Christmas tree ornament.

“I feel like I’m pushing it around,” he said with a frustrated growl. “How is there more glitter now than when I started?”

She stifled a laugh, because this was all her fault and really, laughing would be like salt in the wound. “Turn the water off. I think we need to get some oil onto it and then try wiping it off with tissues.”

“First you make me look like a cupcake and now you want to oil me down?” He raised a brow but complied with her instructions and wrenched the taps off. “Is this some weird kink you have?”

“Just wait until I bring out the horse bit and the tail,” she quipped.

Trent threw his head back and laughed. “I guess I opened myself up to that one, huh?”

“You sure did.” Cora went to the edge of the tub. “It’s probably best if you stay there while you do the oil thing so you can wash off any residue afterward.”

“This is going to be delightful.” Trent groaned. “Told you arts and I don’t go well together.”

Cora dug out a glob of the oil and mushed it onto some paper towel. “Here, rub this over the glitter until it starts to stick and then use the towel to collect it all.”

“This is ridiculous,” Trent muttered, but he did as he was told.

Eventually most of the glitter was removed, and Trent looked like an oiled-up body builder minus the fake tan and bulging veins. Cora had turned to the side, so she wasn’t tempted to stare, carrying on a conversation with Trent and handing him new paper towels and globs of oil as required. She’d gotten him into this glittery mess, and so she had to help him get out of it.

“I feel like a grease slick.” He squirted some body wash into his hand and lathered it up over his chest. “And I am officially banning glitter from this project.”

“Wait until you see the damage we did to the carpet.”

“We?” He smirked. “Really? What do you have against carpets, anyway?”

“I’m just a klutz, apparently.” So much for all the years of charm school her parents had forced her through—she was still that bumbling, awkward girl who regularly dropped her books and never knew what to say.

Maybe it was a good thing she was repelling Trent with her awkwardness, because he was way out of her league. Who sneezed glitter all over the hot guy? Ugh. It was like a bad high school flashback. Like that one time she’d made a Valentine’s card for her crush in history class and then tripped and fallen flat on her face while trying to stealthily slip it into his locker.

She’d never lived that one down.

“I’ll, uh…start vacuuming the living room,” she said, bundling up all the paper towels and backing out of the bathroom, keeping her eyes studiously averted from Trent’s almost-naked form. Would it be possible for her to get through any more of this vacation without embarrassing herself?

Not likely.