Looking past Tabby, Amelia caught sight of Donna’s reflection in the bathroom mirror. She had the mascara wand to her lashes and was patiently painting layers of dark black goo. It took her hours to do her makeup, which confused the hell out of Amelia. Granted, she wasn’t one to wear makeup, but she knew the basic principals. There wasn’t that much to do, considering Donna didn’t have many flaws to begin with. She was the only blonde in the group. Petite with a ridiculously small waist, she was bright and funny and she had the best laugh. But on most days she was miserable, sure her world was coming to an end. Then she’d hook up with a guy, and poof—no more depression. Until the bitter end of the affair, complete with crying, moaning and vows of celibacy.
Living with the three of them made a great deal of sense financially. But Amelia would have preferred to live alone. All she saw when she looked at them was what she wasn’t. Not pretty, not funny, not charming, not brave.
Not at all the kind of woman Jay would want.
The thought made her wince. She’d been battling this for two days now, trying to convince herself that what he’d said at the café was true. Only, it wasn’t easy to believe. He was so gorgeous, so sexy. Any one of her roommates would look great on his arm. Amelia would just look odd. Everyone would wonder, What’s he doing with her?
Her gaze went to Donna’s bed, and the slinky top that lay over the pale pink comforter. Maybe if she dressed more provocatively…
Amelia picked up the shirt, then turned to the full-length mirror. It would be snug. Show off her figure, which was okay but nothing to write home about. But, who knows, maybe—
“Whoa, Amelia.” Donna’s laugh cut through the Foo Fighters, right into Amelia’s heart. “Girl, you are not ready for that top.”
Dropping the shirt as if it burned with the same fire flooding her cheeks, Amelia made a break for the door. Tabby stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.
“What top are you talking about?”
Donna went to the bed and held up the garment.
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing. Except, don’t you think it’s a little advanced?” Donna studied Amelia like something in a petri dish. “No offense, but don’t you think you should try on some clothes that fit you, first? I mean, that are really your size?”
“You’re right,” Amelia said, forcing her voice to sound light, carefree, as if this wasn’t the very reason why she didn’t want roommates, why she didn’t want anyone to get too close. “I was just kidding around.”
“Hey,” Tabby said. “Wait a minute. Donna’s full of it. She’s just selfish and didn’t want you to borrow her top.”
“That’s not what—”
“It’s okay,” Amelia said, trying to cut the conversation off at the knees and make her escape. “You guys have a good time tonight. And don’t get too drunk.”
Tabby shook her head. “Amelia, you’re so pretty. I wish you could see it. You’ve got the most gorgeous skin, and your body is to die for. You don’t need to hide.”
Not trusting her voice, she nodded, gave Tabby’s hand a quick pat, then broke away. She went straight to the kitchen and turned on the water. Dirty dishes filled the sink and half of the countertop, and washing them seemed the safest thing to do. At least they wouldn’t be able to see her cry.
Why did she have to be so sensitive? She wasn’t a troll, she knew that. She had her pluses and minuses, like most women. But she’d been so painfully shy all her life that Aunt Grace’s strict dress code had been a comfort, not a burden.
Donna didn’t mean to be cruel. None of them did.
She thought of Jay. But not the way she’d been thinking since… No, this scenario had a new twist. What if Jay had been teasing her? Making fun of her?
She tried to dismiss the idea, but it sharpened as the moments ticked by. There was no reason on earth someone as gorgeous as Jay Wagner should be interested in her. She didn’t know how to dress or wear her hair or do her makeup. He knew about her propensity to blush. He’d enjoyed embarrassing her before, hadn’t he? This was probably a big fat joke to him. Watch the weird girl die of shame.
She sighed, wishing she could turn back the clock. She’d been so happy this morning when the possibilities seemed limitless. When she’d dared to dream her dreams.
She was a fool. A hopeless romantic. A dope.
What’s worse, a broke dope. If only she could afford her own computer.
It didn’t matter. She wouldn’t go back to the café. Not ever. She couldn’t bear the inevitable conclusion to this little farce.
JAY TURNED THE PAGE, scanning the New York Times as he drank his first cup of coffee. Nothing so far had piqued his interest except a piece about gas prices, but he continued. He wasn’t much for routine, but this morning ritual was inviolate. As he skimmed the columns, he paused at a picture. Shit. It was his father and his brother, Peter, taken at a dinner honoring his father’s illustrious career. Jay wasn’t surprised he hadn’t been invited.
His father, Lucas, was a big fish in a very small academic pond. A one-time poet laureate, he held the comparative literature chair at Cornell, and his books were always reviewed in the Times, although Jay knew precious few people who actually read them. Like his father, the books were pretentious as hell, with about as much warmth as a twenty-dollar hooker.
He read the full article and saw that his other brother, Ben, had also been in attendance. A fine time had evidently been had by all.
He folded the paper and finished his coffee, then went to get another cup. He studied his distorted reflection on his silver toaster, wondering if he should grow a beard. That would piss off the old man. But then, everything he did had that effect.
Jay took his cup into the living room, and, after he put the cup on the coffee table, sank down on the couch. It was stupid, this game he played with his father. Lucas wanted him to follow in his footsteps. Jay hated academia. A lose-lose situation.
Now Peter and Ben, they’d turned out as planned. Peter was an attorney with the most boring firm in New York, and Ben was an accountant. It had always been assumed that Jay would go to Cornell, like the rest of them. That he’d major in literature, and become a professor and writer. His grandfather had even set up a trust fund so that Jay wouldn’t have to work during his graduate studies. Instead, Jay had bought the shop.
He looked at the bookcases that covered the wall to his right. Damn, he had a lot of books. Everything from Chaucer to Tom Clancy. And one very slim volume by a man named Jay Wagner.
Published when he was seventeen, the book, a coming-of-age story, naturally, had been reviewed by all the biggies. Not because he was a literary genius, but because of his father. Kirkus Reviews called Jay “The voice of his generation.” Publishers’ Weekly had hailed the book a stunning debut. Everyone wanted to know when the next book would arrive in stores.
Yeah, everyone including him.
He’d tried. He’d written pages and pages, enough for several novels—all of it crap. Whatever he’d had once, it was gone now. No amount of wishing or hoping would bring it back. In the almost ten years since Damage had come out, Jay had lost not only his talent, but his desire. He wasn’t going to be a famous novelist. Or a famous anything. Which was a good thing. He loved his bikes, his friends, his women.
Amelia immediately came to mind, and he leaned back farther on the couch. She hadn’t been to the café since he’d introduced himself. Brian and his part-time helper, Drew, had explicit instructions