The Art of Scandal(23)

It was a little too close to being called fake than she was comfortable with, but that didn’t make it any less true. Hiding was safer. And was it really hiding when the world was watching? Wasn’t that more like self-preservation?

The worst part of being the woman standing beside a man that everyone adored was the constant pressure to prove that you deserved it.

“It makes things easier,” she said. It was also lonely, something she’d only realized last night when Nathan had given her his sweatshirt.

“Easier for who? You?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice sharpening. She hated when someone who would never have her problems thought they could fix them in five minutes. “You don’t have to understand.”

“I know,” he said sheepishly. “Sorry, but it seems miserable. You should be able to blow off steam and make mistakes like the rest of us.” He leaned closer. “Tell me about one. Something messed up, that deep down you really don’t give a shit about. Something juicy and formative.”

Rachel laughed. His thumb trailed lazily over his forearm as he waited for her to speak. Watching him made her skin tighten again. She averted her eyes. “I have an incomplete tattoo.”

He smiled. “I’m listening.”

The story was embarrassing in a way that most college freshman stories were. At that point in her life, she was still naive and insecure. The most dramatic thing she’d experienced was childbirth, and people like her friend Shauna were so dismissive of the concept of motherhood that Rachel had stopped mentioning her daughter in their presence. One night, Shauna had gotten drunk and called Rachel a white-girl prom queen pretending to be down. “It pissed me off,” Rachel said. “While yes, I pretended to be interested in her shitty performance art, I was never a fucking prom queen. And her family owned a house on Martha’s Vineyard!”

Nathan pitched forward with laughter. There was something melancholic in him that disappeared when he found something funny. It made her possessive. Like each time she made him laugh, more of that delicious, eye crinkling sound belonged to her.

“So this was a spite tattoo?” Nathan asked. “This girl called you basic and you got a fleur de lis on your ass?”

“That is not what it is. And it’s not on my ass. But it really hurt, and I chickened out halfway through. Now I’m stuck with it.”

Miguel rounded the corner with two plastic baskets filled with food. He set them down and eyed the last bottle of chili sauce that Nathan had placed between them. “That shit’ll burn your lips off.”

Rachel grabbed it and unscrewed the top. “Challenge accepted.”

He laughed and gave Nathan a pointed look. “Ella me gusta.”

Nathan’s eyes never left her face. “Me too.”

Miguel waved and returned to the stand. The burgers were huge, and the fries were seasoned with so much salt that it formed a crust on the surface. Rachel used a paper napkin as a placemat and then used three more to cover her lap. She shook out a generous amount of chili sauce into a small paper cup filled with ketchup.

Nathan opened his burger and started covering it with fresh pickles. “That’s a very specific situation you got going over there.”

“Specific?”

“With the napkins.” He pointed to her ketchup. “And your chemistry experiment.”

“I don’t want grease all over my jeans.” She dipped a fry in the spicy ketchup. “And please tell me you’ve tried this.”

“I don’t eat ketchup.”

“Not even with fries?”

“Nope.” He picked up his burger, took a bite, and grunted his appreciation.

She looked down at her burger. “I should cut this in half.”

“Just bite it.”

“It’s messy.”

“Messy’s good. Get a little grease on your chin. It’s sexy.”

She groaned. “You’re making it weird.”

“Why is that weird?” He laughed. “I’m just messing with you. I can go get a knife.”

“No, no.” She picked up the burger and took a big bite. Tomato slid out of the bottom and hot grease coated her fingers, but it was delicious—salty and spiced with cumin and chili—probably one of the best burgers she’d ever had. A contented sigh burst from her throat. “Oh god. It’s been so long.”

Nathan cocked an eyebrow and grinned. She quickly changed the subject. “So, how long have you owned the laundromat?”

Something slid over his expression too fast for her to identify. He ducked his head and took another bite of his burger before answering. “Eight years.”

“Eight?” She lifted her brow. “How old were you?”

“Eighteen,” he said. “I live in the apartment upstairs.”

So he was twenty-six. Who buys their first business at eighteen years old? And why would he choose Oasis Springs? “Before I moved here, I didn’t know what these people were like.”

“These people?”

“Wealthy people. Like the Abbott and Vasquez families, with their piles of money earning interest in a vault on some island.”

He took another bite and swallowed before responding. “I don’t really think about it.”

That was hard to believe. Living in Oasis Springs meant that your kids ran around playgrounds named after Tomás Vasquez. He was the founder of the original Vasquez Coffee plant that was built when the town was still a small immigrant community in the 1950s. Today, that small plant was a billion-dollar conglomerate run by his son, Beto. And the community Tomás nurtured through real estate investment and philanthropy had become one of the most affluent suburbs in Fairfax County.