Chapter 19

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Lila

"Can we talk? Now." Her voice slices through the hum of dryers and soft music, leaving no room for argument.

My cheeks burn with embarrassment as I glance at Jett, his confident posture faltering. "I'm so sorry, I?—"

"Sorry?" Miranda's eyes lock onto mine, and their anger makes me cringe. Her hands rest on her hips, the red lipstick starkly contrasting to her white-knuckled grip.

"Miranda, this isn't the time," I murmur, wishing the floor would swallow me whole. "I'm working."

Jett leans against the counter, arms folded. Max lets out a low, vicious growl, eyes trained on Miranda. Yeah, I don't like her either, buddy.

"Is everything okay?" Jett asks.

"It's fine," I manage to say, but Miranda's huff contradicts my words.

"No, everything is not fine. Not by a long shot." She steps toward me, and Max barks, baring teeth.

I utter, "Good dog," under my breath and point to the door. "Let's step outside. This isn't the place for whatever you have to say."

Miranda gives a curt nod, her heels clicking a staccato rhythm against the tile as she leads the way.

I cast an apologetic glance back at Jett, the soft light catching the apology in my eyes before I follow her out. Anger rises to the surface, but I tamp it down. I can't seem unprofessional in front of the person who might secure my loan. If she has ruined my chances, I'm going to … I don't know what I'll do, but it'll be bad.

Miranda's strides are purposeful, her posture rigid with every step we take away from the shop and into the relative privacy of the sidewalk. I trail after her, my heart thumping against my ribs, wondering what could have brought on this sudden anger.

"Drake," she spits out the name as if it leaves a bitter taste in her mouth, her eyes drilling into me. I should've known this was about him. It's been two weeks since Drake took care of me, and she's still harboring ill feelings.

"What about him?" I ask, trying to be neutral. In all fairness, she has every right to be upset—I wouldn't want to walk in and see my boyfriend wrapped up in another girl—but nothing is happening between us. We're just old friends catching up.

It doesn't matter that I thought about him all night after he left. He isn't mine.

"What's going on, Lila?"

I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear to anchor myself. "Nothing's going on. I haven't spoken to him since I was sick."

"You mean the day he couldn't wait to play knight in shining armor?" She lets out a haughty laugh. "He hasn't met me since that day."

I feel a strange satisfaction at that thought, but I shake it off, not liking how my body responds. I can't let this become a distraction. Not now, with everything hanging in the balance. He isn't mine.

"Didn't he have a stretch of away games?" I ask.

She looks affronted. "Yes, but he came back today. When I called, he told me not to come over."

"I don't know. Maybe he's hurting from the hit he took at the plate. Or wants to rest his knees. He is a catcher, after all."

"You know an awful lot about him for not following sports."

"Of course, I know a lot about him. We went to the same school. You know that."

"You said you were just friends." She arches an eyebrow, skepticism painting her flawless features. Her arms cross over her chest, a barrier as much as a challenge.

"Exactly that," I insist, keeping my tone even. I force my gaze to meet hers, hoping my eyes don't give away the memories flickering like old film reels. "Kid stuff. You realize we came from a small town. There were only one hundred and thirty-five in our high school graduating class. It'd be weird not to have known him. He was a friend. Nothing more."

Miranda narrows her eyes, searching mine for something more, but I remain stoic.

"Just make sure it stays that way," she says, each word pointed, aimed directly at my resolve. "Don't mess this up for me."

My head dips in a nod, and a silent breath escapes me. It's a concession, a white flag raised before any battle begins. But inside, my mind races through scenes of bleachers, the crack of a bat, and a younger Drake rounding third base with a triumphant grin. Those memories feel a world away now, yet the newer ones sit right there. The way he stepped in and took care of Jake. How he helped me when I was sick—just as he had in the past. It's all too confusing.

"Don't worry. I won't."

"Good." Miranda's lips curve in a tight smile, not one that reaches her eyes. "Because I'd hate to see you have to move out."

With those parting words, she turns on her heel, confidence building in every click-click of her heels against the concrete. I watch her disappear around the corner, the tension between us lingering like the thick summer humidity. Swallowing hard, I lean back against the cool brick wall of the grooming salon, allowing myself a moment to collect my scattered thoughts.

"Kid stuff," I repeat, the words tasting hollow with Miranda's ultimatum hanging heavy in the air. A shiver traces down my spine. The threat looms over me like a dark cloud; her kicking me out means more than just losing a permanent residence—it's a financial disaster, a cascade of problems I can't afford right now.

Not with this loan hanging over my head.

I push away from the wall, needing to return to the salon before Jett thinks I've abandoned him and rethinks his proposal. I need this loan more than anything right now.

But why is Drake Gunner the only thing I can think about—my more than friend acquaintance from the past with whom I've done more than kid's stuff?

Jesus, this day just keeps getting better and better—not. I fear finding out what will come next.