Apples & Oranges (The This & That Series)

  Apples & Oranges

  Book two in the This & That Series

  Brooke Moss

  Copyright© by Brooke Moss

  All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and used fictitiously. They are not to be misconstrued as real. Any resemblance to actual events, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form, or by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval systems, without prior written permission from the author.For inquiries, please contact the Brooke Moss, at www.brookemoss.com.

  Cover art by: Brooke Moss

  Edited by: Meggan Connors, www.megganconnors.com

  Published by: Brooke Moss, CHP

  ISBN ebook: 978-1-939976-03-1

  ISBN print: 978-1-939976-04-8

  The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction: Givenchy, Guerlain, Michael Kors, BMW, Xbox, Barbie, Elie Tahari, Oakley’s Juicy Couture, Levi’s, Ray Bans, Hermes, Bon Appetit, Smith and Wesson, Cirque du Soleil, Gucci, Jack Spade, Spanx, Adriano Goldschmeid.

  For Monte.

  (The sweet apple to my acidic orange. Without you there is no me.)

  Chapter One

  My mother’s latest plastic surgery had left her face looking like a potato.

  No, really. It was oversized, comparatively speaking (the woman was a size two for crying out loud), and the skin was pulled tight over her surgically enhanced cheekbones and chin. Though the effect was like an allergen test gone bad, my mother, former eighties’ nighttime actress Annalise DeLoria, wore this hornet attack aftermath proudly.

  My mouth dropped open when I saw her.

  “Twenty grand well spent,” she’d announced.

  Thirty minutes into lunch, and I was still stupefied by the sight. Her caramel skin looked so uncomfortable my own face ached just looking at her. And I kept waiting for her head to flop forward, landing face first in her food because of the weight of its man-made parts.

  The more Annalise talked—chastising me in Spanish for having the nerve to ask if it was her last procedure since it was lucky number fifteen—the less her lips moved. She looked like a ventriloquist, sitting there calling me a grosera, mocosa egoísta over her untouched, undressed spinach salad. Except that her hand wasn’t up anyone’s ass.

  Oh, and she wasn’t calling me a rude, selfish brat for comedic effect. Oh, no. This was all for the sole purpose of knocking me down a peg or two. After all, I’d had the audacity to show up for our once-every-two-years luncheon looking younger, prettier, and more human than she did. Never mind that I was thirty years younger. And her daughter.

  Nobody outshone Annalise DeLoria. Not ever.

  “Well, have you found yourself a man, Marisol?” she asked me through frozen lips.

  “I’ve been dating,” I replied cautiously, pushing my smashed red potatoes from one edge of my plate to the other. “Nothing too serious, though.”

  “You do realize how many calories were in your meal, don’t you?” She flared her nostrils at what was left of my salmon filet.

  My mother had been dieting for as long as I could remember. One of my earliest memories was of her cussing out my nanny for giving me two percent milk on my cereal. It was no wonder I’d grown up and started my own catering business. Rich, delicious, home cooked foods at my fingertips every day. Sure, I spent most of my time at the gym working off the foie gras and truffle sauce, but it was worth it. (My super ripped trainer helped, too.) Besides, it was either open a business where I could eat anything I wanted after being forced to diet from the age of seven or become a hard core bulimic.

  I didn’t like throwing up. It screwed up my lipstick and made my breath stink. So catering it was.

  I pushed my plate back, no longer hungry. Being around Annalise did that to me. “So tell me about Don.” Maybe asking about my most recent stepfather—the seventh, in case you were wondering—would change the topic. He was a lawyer in L.A. whom she’d met while he handled my fourth stepfather’s tax evasion case. They’d been married all of a year, and I was certain she was cheating on him. I didn’t have high hopes for the longevity of their relationship.

  Annalise waved a manicured hand. “Please. The man barely notices when I’m there.”

  “Well, he is seventy-three, Mother.” I discreetly checked my iPhone for messages, then hid it under my napkin on the table. My business partner, Lexie, was drowning in lobster stuffed mushroom caps, and I needed to get back to work. “I suppose his attention span is only so long anymore.”

  “Well, he certainly noticed his case last month.” She forked a piece of spinach, held it up to her mouth, rethought it, and put it back down. “That’s all he noticed, if you want the truth.”

  I shifted in my chair. My mom had never grasped the concept that most people—normal people—actually work for a living. “Well, I’m sure it was a big case if he—”

  “Want my advice, my dear?” She put down her fork and steepled her fingers. Her gaze was heavy… or maybe that was just the weight of her giant face. I couldn’t be sure.

  “Annalise, uh, Mom, I—”

  She shushed me with the wave of her hand. “Get yourself a man. An older one who’s filthy rich and retired. Who’ll worship you, despite your shortcomings.” Annalise smiled at a waiter passing the table—a gesture that was almost undecipherable because of her puffed face—then pointed at my face. “One that will ignore your crooked nose. Or your muffin top.”

  The woman sitting at the table next to us looked at my mom, and embarrassment flushed my skin. I sat up straighter, and willed my cheeks not to pink. It was conversations like this that had fostered my obsession with going to the gym seven days a week. It was conversations like this that reminded me why I avoided my mother like most people avoid the flu. I worked hard for this body, and I’d also paid good money to have this nose.

  “Get him into bed before he can get to know you.” Annalise paused to sip her zinfandel. “Don’t let him see that ill temper of yours. Let him play with the goodies. Get him hooked in bed, then get him to the alter before he asks for a pre-nup.”

  Now the man next to us was staring. Normally I liked saying things to shock the masses, but when it was my mother, with her ten-carat ring and the latest Givenchy bag, it humiliated me. I felt like the eleven year old girl again, being sent off to boarding school because stepdad number three was only fourteen years my senior and didn’t like the idea of having a kid hanging around. It made making love on the kitchen counter very awkward.

  I’d learned that the hard way.

  For thirty-two years I’d been on the receiving end of my mother’s disapproval. When I got good grades she said I needed to be the prom queen. When I got onto the prom court, she said I needed to title in pageants. When I got on the Dean’s List in college, she reminded me that by the time she was twenty, she was headlining on a nighttime network drama. When I started my own business, she reminded me that the balance in just one of her checking accounts was triple the cost of my portion of the loan.

  Being rejected by Annalise was getting really old.

  My mother frowned at me. “Oh, Marisol, why are you scowling like that? You know, you’ll get wrinkles on your forehead if you do that.” Her dark brown eyes scanned my hairline. “I can see you’re already getting some.”

  I touched my skin absently. “I don’t want to get married.”
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  “Don’t be absurd. Of course you do.”

  Words shoved themselves to the tip of my tongue and threatened to jump. Dozens of nasty words like your blouse looks way too young for you, and your teeth needed to be whitened again because you look like a pirate. Insults and jabs much like the ones she spewed my way. I also wanted to say words that reminded my mother she was only saying those things to me so she could hurt me.

  Sadly, it was working, but I didn’t have to let her see that.

  With anyone else, I would have come back at him or her with guns blazing, weaving a tapestry of insults in both English and Spanish. I would have tossed my long caramel colored hair—which I’d just had highlighted for this luncheon—and stalked away from the table like a runway model.

  But this was my mother. And as I sat there across the table from her, feeling fat and unattractive because of the salmon sitting in my gut like a brick, and with the eyes of most of the surrounding patrons on me, I did nothing. I just pressed my lips together and took it.

  “The sooner you get married, the sooner you’ll get divorced. And that, my dear daughter, is where the money is.” Annalise plucked a gold compact out of her purse and reapplied her Guerlain lipstick. “Men will pay more money to get out of a marriage than in. The sooner you get a healthy divorce settlement, the sooner you can stop dipping into the money your father gave you, and you can stop playing that independent woman game you like so much.”

  “Eats and Treats had a great year,” I said through clenched teeth. I’d co-owned my business with my best friend, Lexie, for four years now, and each year our numbers went up. We’d even taken on additional help since the birth of her son, and we’d both still managed to take home a salary every week. In the world of small businesses, that was like a home run. “We’ve expanded our workspace and had to turn away a couple of events for this summer.”

  She shook her head. “What is it you do? Bake cookies or something?”

  My molars were starting to ache from clenching my teeth so hard. “We do sweet and savory, and we provide cooking, waiting, and clean up. We’re full service. You saw my business plan.”

  Yes, Annalise had seen it, but she’d never once asked me to fly to California to cater one of her many events. When I’d offered to cater her wedding reception, she’d turned down the idea, citing that hiring relatives was “gauche.”

  “I didn’t really pay attention.” She sighed. “Did you try this wine? It’s terrible. Don’t they have decent wine in this town? ¡Dios del cielo!”

  Rolling my eyes, I peeked at my phone under the napkin. It was aglow with messages. “Mom, Lexie needs me back at work, I—”

  “Why you decided to settle in this one horse town is beyond me.” She looked at the neighboring tables with distaste. We were in the nicest restaurant in the city, so the people seated near us were well dressed and appeared affluent. I’d assumed Annalise would’ve liked that. “Of all the places in the country, Marisol, the world, you chose here?”

  Unexpected tears jabbed at the backs of my eyes. I wasn’t a crier by nature. My friends all said I had a heart of stone, but my mother had always managed to bring out the vulnerability in me. I hated that.

  “I like it here.” My voice cracked, so I tried to cover it up with a cough. The truth was, I’d settled here in Spokane, Washington, for no other reason than the people I’d met since coming here. After overhearing my mother announce that she would die of embarrassment if her daughter slummed it in a state college, and being told by my father in Florida that he didn’t want any responsibility besides signing the tuition check every semester, I’d applied to every state college on the west coast. Since I’d spent most of my high school years making out with the lacrosse team and being a “mean girl,” most of the colleges in southern California had rejected me. On some random act of mercy given by the gods of college acceptance, I’d gotten into Eastern Washington University by the skin of my teeth.

  “My friends are here,” I added, jutting my chin.

  I’d met Lexie and her cousin, Candace, during our freshman year. I was pretty sure they kept me around because I was crass and made them laugh, but they’d inadvertently filled the giant, gaping black hole left by my family.

  When we’d graduated, I’d stayed in the area to be near them. Not that I admitted that. No, siree. That meant breaking through my tough exterior to show them what’s underneath. Could I have gone to southern California and lived off the trust fund my father had given me? Sure. Hell, I could have moved to Florida and lived like my party animal father for the rest of my life had I wanted to. But I didn’t want those things. I guess I wanted to be “home,” and for whatever reason, this place, surrounded by rolling plains, felt like just that.

  “So you’ll email.” Annalise snorted. “Sell that house of yours and come to L.A. We can go to spas together.” She gestured at her face. “Get our yearly maintenance together.”

  Fat chance, I thought to myself. “I’m not going to L.A.. I like where I’m at.”

  “Oh, please.” Laughing like I’d announced plans to become president, she added, “You don’t really like it here. You’re living here to be difficult. Now come on, the game’s over. You’ve gotten it out of your system. You belong somewhere more sophisticated. Especially if you’re ever going to score a man worth anything. The men here are so…” Her nostrils flared. I think. “White trash, if you will.”

  She shuddered, and the couple next to us grunted. Heat crept up the sides of my neck. This luncheon needed to be over soon, or I was going to snap. And by snap, I meant I was going to flip the table over, Jersey Housewife style. My phone buzzed from underneath my napkin again.

  “My family is here,” I said in a low voice. “And I have to get back to work.”

  My mother smiled, though it looked more like a grimace. Her voice took on a steely quality that made me shiver with fear. I’d heard that tone plenty of times growing up. “Oh, please, Marisol. Don’t be so dramatic.” Annalise paused for dramatic effect as I picked my purse up off of the floor. “You don’t have a family, remember?”

  Sucking a deep breath, I tucked my purse in the crook of my elbow. Annalise always knew how to go for the jugular. All of our lunches ended the same way. Me with hurt feelings, and her with the hefty ego boost that came from humiliating her only child.

  I stood up and crossed to the other side of the table robotically. Bending down to kiss her plastic cheek, I whispered, “Have a safe flight home.”

  Chapter Two

  One broken four-inch heel, two sweat marks on a Michael Kors cowl neck blouse, three chipped fingernails, and a broken down BMW 3 Series convertible. Not exactly a fun way to top off my debunked luncheon with my mother.

  “Maldito coche!” I hissed as I hiked across the busy street.

  A woman pushing a stroller in the crosswalk glared at me. “Nice language.”

  “How was I to know you’d understand?” I snapped. It wasn’t my fault she’d heard me calling my car a piece of you know what. Besides, who walked their baby around in ninety-degree weather? “Buy a minivan, breeder.”

  A car honked at me, but I ignored it. The “walk” sign had long since started flashing red, but I couldn’t move any faster, thanks to my busted shoe. I’d left my iPhone under the napkin at the restaurant so I couldn’t call for a tow, and the unseasonably warm May weather was making my most recent blow-out worthless. Being forced to walk to the nearest auto shop was the icing on my crap cake of a day.

  I didn’t walk places. I drove places. Walking was what tree huggers did because they thought car exhaust was the devil. The only time I ever walked was when I was cooling down on the treadmill after a work out, which usually involved my gorgeous trainer, and in that case, I didn’t mind. But in ninety-degree heat with a messed up shoe? I minded.

  By the time I hobbled into the first garage I’d come across in this sketchy neighborhood—because when do cars ever break down in nice, gated communities with manicured lawns and luxury
cars parked in the driveway?—I felt like a limp piece of lettuce. My hair was flat, my clothes were wrinkled and soaked, and I was pretty sure I’d sweated most of my makeup down into a bronze ring at the base of my neck.

  Limping past the door of the corrugated metal shop with a red roof, I headed straight for the open double garage doors. There was no time to chitchat with some sort of dimwitted receptionist, and there had to be some grease monkey underneath one of these pieces of crap. I was in a mood. I’d just spent forty-five minutes across a table from my mother, and if that wasn’t enough to put someone on edge, I didn’t know what would. My stomach dropped as I passed the mirrored glass door. I never went in public looking like this. Ever.

  “What can I do for ya?”

  Jumping, I tripped over a crack in the cement and stumbled into the garage. A kid in his early twenties with a prominent nose and dark, shaggy hair stood before me. His coveralls were oil stained and greasy, and he peered up at me from underneath the hood of a beat up truck that looked like it should’ve been laid to rest a decade ago. He’d clearly be gorgeous one day, once he’d gotten the chance to grow into his Mediterranean features, but for now he was sporting the awkwardly cute appearance of someone who knew not the full extent of his capability. I remembered those days.

  “Yeah. I need help.” I tugged off my other shoe and tossed both of them into a nearby trashcan. The back of my blouse was completely plastered to my skin.

  His eyes widened. “Hey-yo. I can help you. What seems to be the problem, pretty lady?” As he stood upright, he whacked his head into the truck hood. He blushed and rubbed his tousled head sheepishly. “Ow. Sorry.”

  I would’ve laughed, had I not been on the verge of heat exhaustion.

  When his eyes roamed from the top of my head, down to my toes, and back up again, lingering far too long on my cleavage, I sneered and said, “Is it take your son to work day today?”