open before I’m halfway up the walk and steps out into the chilly morning in nothing but a baggy silk robe and mismatched animal slippers. One’s a sheep. The other’s an elephant. Her hair’s swept up like she’s going to a ball, and she’s plastered on full-face makeup. “Tyler! That black eye looks good on you. Are you here to ask for Muffy’s hand? Because I’m not going easy on you, even though she doesn’t have any other prospects. She’s a modern woman. She doesn’t need a man to be complete.”
“Quit making her feel like a loser,” I growl as I shove my way into the house.
Hilda’s made-up eyebrows shoot so high they could give the ceiling a lift. “What are you talking about?”
“Somebody calling Muffy a loser, Hilda?” an old dude in grandpa pants asks behind her. “Let me at him. I got a can of mace somewhere in my pockets.” He pats his thighs, then his butt, then reaches down the front of his pants and comes up with a can of whipped cream.
“What the fuck?” I snarl.
“Huh. Wrong can. That wasn’t from your fridge, Hilda. Promise. I wouldn’t steal your whipped cream. I brought my own.”
“I’d let you have it, William,” she replies. “Have you met Tyler Jaeger? He’s boinking Muffy.”
The old dude peers down his old man nose at me. “You making sure she gets her cookies first?”
“I could just look at him and get my cookies.” Hilda fans herself.
“I’m not here to give you your cookies.” Jesus. “Do you have any idea how much Muffy needs you to accept her for who she is without making comments about her weight or her size or her food or what you want to do to her friends? Jesus. It would be like my mother using you as all of the material for her shows. How the hell would you feel being the butt of every joke?”
William pauses in trying to pull the cap off of the can of whipped cream.
Hilda freezes. “What are you talking about?”
“Muffy. Your daughter. The woman who talks tough and acts like she doesn’t care but feels like she’s never good enough and doesn’t deserve good things. That’s what I’m talking about. She needs you to be her mother, not the food police, and not some kind of twisted social influencer.”
She’s shrinking like every word is a blow, her eyes getting shiny, and I don’t fucking care.
I don’t. Fucking. Care.
“I don’t want her to end up like me,” she whispers.
“What are you talking about?” William says to her. “You’re a fox.” He turns a glare on me. “And if you’re insulting my friend Hilda here, you should know I have a criminal record and I’m not afraid to go after your bank accounts.”
“Fuck that. I know the woman who set off the dick pic virus last year. She can hack circles around you.”
Both of them suck in a breath.
It pays to know the Berger twins sometimes. They move in weird, fascinating circles.
And right now, all I care about is that those circles help me help Muffy.
I point at Hilda. “Quit. Making. Muffy. Feel. Like. A. Failure.”
“I don’t try to,” she says. “She does lots of good things. And she’s so pretty. And she always looks so graceful even when she’s dropping her phone in her oatmeal.”
“Figure out how to tell her that, or you’re not coming to our wedding, and you’ll never meet our kids. Got it?”
She gapes at me like she’s one of the fish in the aquarium Daisy got me for my last birthday.
And suddenly all of my anger is gone.
I don’t care what happens to Hilda.
I care that Muffy’s okay.
I don’t even say goodbye. I just turn and march back out of the house. But this time, I’m pulling out my phone as I go.
Forget being mad.
Forget Cranford. Forget my black eye. Forget my family. Forget the tabloids.
Forget fear.
I love Muffy.
I fucking love Muffy. She’s my best friend. She slipped into my heart a year ago, and she’s stayed there, digging in deeper and deeper until everything that was right in front of me for so long is the only thing I could ever want, and it’s past time I got over being afraid she’ll hurt me.
I want Muffy.
Before I can hit Nick’s number to see if Muffy’s hiding out with Kami at his house, my phone rings with an incoming call from a number I don’t recognize.
Normally I’d send it to voicemail, but it’s local, and I don’t think