Sweet Heart (The Hearts of Sawyers Bend #2) - Ivy Layne Page 0,10

way they’d treated my mother, but after all these years, I had to admit—they might have had a point.

My father was the king of charming smiles. If he could hold onto a dollar we would’ve had a million of them because he could talk anyone into anything. People talk about being able to sell ice to Eskimos, but my daddy could sell an Eskimo the igloo he’d just built at a 50% markup.

He could have been a great salesman, but a loose acquaintance with the truth put him more on the end of a con artist. Combined with his need to spend every penny he got his hands on… Well, there’s a reason my Grams raised me.

My dad liked to tease that I had no sense of adventure, but from what I’d seen, his 'sense of adventure' had gotten my mom a lifetime of empty cupboards and middle-of-the-night moves when they couldn’t make rent. Or worse. I’d take my stable, quiet life with Grams and the bakery any day.

My mother pulled away from Grams and crossed to me, stopping short when she took in my swollen cheek. “Oh, baby, what happened? Are you okay?”

“It's nothing, Mom. Just an accident.” I wrapped my arms around her and held tight. She wasn't perfect, but she was my mom. Despite everything else, we loved each other. I rocked her back and forth, smelling the cocoa butter she used on her skin mixed with the vanilla scent she'd always worn. When I was a child I’d cried when I made cookies with Grams, the smell reminding me of my often-absent mother. Now it just made me smile. She was who she was. And so was I.

So alike on the outside and so different underneath. We had the same tawny skin. The same warm brown eyes. I’d always be grateful I’d inherited her full lips and long lashes. There the similarities ended.

My mother wore her dark brown hair straight to her shoulders. No matter how tight money was, she always managed to look classy and neatly put together. I could do classy and neat if I wanted, but I was more like Grams. I didn't go for her hippie style, but you'd find me in a T-shirt and cut-off jeans far more often than in a twin-set and slacks.

I got my tight curls from my mother, but I wore them chin length and natural, except for the color. Lately, I’d been playing with color, so even there our hair was different. After an unfortunate mistake with yellow, and another with orange—my bright idea of going around the color wheel with hair dye—I’d settled on a shade of cherry-cola with hints of hot pink. It was wild, but every time I looked in the mirror, it looked like me.

My mom toyed with a hot pink curl springing from the poof on top of my head. “I like the color, baby. It suits you. I missed my gorgeous girl.” She cupped my face in her hands, gentle on my swollen cheek, and kissed my forehead.

Pressing my cheek to hers, I murmured, “I missed you too, Mom.”

I meant it. I had missed my mom.

I always missed my mom, even when she was right in front of me.

How could I not when she always, always picked him first.

Straightening, she looked around and spotted the bouquet on my desk. “Flowers? Wow, who are those from?” She looked at J.T., and he shook his head with a wry grin.

“Those are a little out of my budget, Sheree. Daisy got those from Royal Sawyer.”

I shot J.T. a look. Thanks for nothing, my eyes said. His grin widened and he shrugged.

My mother's face fell. “You're not getting mixed up with the Sawyers, are you Daisy? They're nothing but trouble for a girl like you.”

I bit back the response that jumped to my lips. Like she could talk. She was married to Darren Hutchins, a man who defined trouble.

And what did she mean for a girl like me? Because I was half-black or because I wasn't rich? I didn't want to fight with her when she’d just come home, but something inside me couldn't let it go.

Royal had been nothing but kind to me. Just because his father had been known as an asshole didn't mean Royal was too. “Royal isn't like that, Mom. I did him a favor, and he sent the flowers as a thank-you, that's all.”

“What kind of favor?” she asked and raised a hand to touch the bruise on my