Chapter 13
13
CHARLIE
“I think you’re trying to kill me,” I wheeze.
I bend at the waist, my hands on my knees. The shovel I’m supposed to be using is discarded at my feet.
Beckett knows. He has to. There’s no other explanation for why I’m standing in the middle of his backyard shoveling dirt just as dawn is breaking over the horizon. I didn’t think he saw me when I drove back to the farm the other morning, but maybe he did. Maybe something about me currently says, I had life-altering, mind-blowing sex with your sister two nights ago, and I don’t regret it .
And now he’s brought me to the field behind his house to slowly kill me with aggressive manual labor.
I shouldn’t have slept over at her house, but she rendered me unconscious after our last go. I couldn’t have moved if someone paid me to do it.
Beckett snorts. “I’m not trying to kill you.” He drives his shovel into the ground at his side and crosses his arms over his chest. He’s not even sweating. “You’re just digging weird.”
“How could I possibly be digging weird?”
“You’re lifting with your back.”
“I’m not,” I answer automatically, but the gasp in my words saps some of the strength from the statement. I’m digging weird because I’m still sore from everything Nova and I did to each other. I walked with a limp for half the day yesterday.
I lean back up and look around the wide, open field. Everything is cotton candy pink, a furious orange burning closest to the tops of the trees. And I can’t even enjoy it because Beckett is trying to kill me. “What are we—do you even need a fence here? Is this some sort of hazing ritual?”
“No.” He drags his knuckles against his jaw and squints into the distance. “I told you, I’m not fucking with you. I need to build a fence.”
“For what?”
“For the cows,” he says simply, like the answer is obvious. He called me at five in the morning while I was working on the financial projections for one of my clients and told me he needed me in the field behind his house. When I arrived, he handed me a shovel, pointed to a spot on the ground, and told me to dig. For a while there, I thought he had me digging my own grave.
“Clarabelle is getting a fence?”
He nods. “Clarabelle and Diego.”
“Who is Diego?”
“Another cow.”
“You’re getting another cow? I thought Evie put a hold on the animal adoption.”
She had to. Beckett was getting out of control. He adopted an entire family of cats, two ducks, and a cow in the span of a single year. Evie told him he had to stop or build them a bigger house. He pivoted to gifting rescue animals to his friends instead. Caleb got a dog and Layla has an entire coop full of rescue chickens. He tried to get me to adopt a fox last summer, New York apartment be damned. I’m not sure how Luka and Stella have avoided it, though Beckett has seen the state of Stella’s cluttered house. She’d lose an animal in there.
“Wedding gift,” he explains. Right. The cow. “Evie found him on a farm outside of Durham when she was down there for work. Little guy is a miniature and was being starved half to death at some rogue petting zoo. He’s at a rescue now, but we’re going to drive down in a week or so to pick him up.”
Evelyn travels frequently for her work with the American Small Business Coalition, lending a hand to start-up businesses all over the country. And apparently…finding miniature rescue cows for her husband.
“That’s nice.” I glance around the field. By the looks of it, we have about forty-two thousand fence posts left to dig. God help me. “If he’s a miniature, does he need a yard this big?”
Beckett shrugs at me. “I figured we’d mark out the space whether he needs it or not. Clarabelle ended up in Layla’s backyard a couple of weeks ago and almost gave Caleb a heart attack. Best to have the fence, I think.”
I wipe my hand across my forehead. “All right.”
Beckett’s eyes narrow. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.” Chronically overworked and stressed out about Beckett finding out I had a one-night stand with his youngest sister, but I’m fine.
“Is it your dad?” he presses.
“What?”
“Your dad. Did he call you again?”
I grab my shovel and wander over to the next spot Beckett has marked. I forgot he heard that conversation. “No, he hasn’t.” I don’t expect he will either. His preferred method of communication is more indirect. He likes to shoot the shit with my clients at his country club, plant a few seeds of dissolution, then wait for me to call in exasperation.
I finally got ahold of Mr. Billings and had to talk him down from reallocating his entire portfolio. It seems like half of my other clients are in a similar state of distress. I wish I knew what my father was trying to accomplish. But I’m trying a new thing where I don’t give my dad headspace he hasn’t earned. It’s a work in progress.
Beckett hums, watching me dig my silly little hole. I glance up at him. “Are you going to help, or…?”
He frowns at me. “Is this too much for you?”
“The fence? Yeah, probably. I haven’t been to the gym since before Stella’s wedding, and apparently I was doing the wrong things when I was there.” My biceps are tired. Though that could be Nova’s fault—specifically when I held her up against the wall of her bedroom, eliminating the height difference between us, her legs curled high around my waist and my mouth at her neck while I—
“I’m not talking about the fence.”
“Oh.” Stop thinking about his sister in front of him , my mind begs. Stop it . But my brain has never been great at doing what I ask of it, and Nova has wedged herself firmly into my thoughts. Her and her smile and her butterfly lingerie.
So much for working her out of my system.
I blink and then blink again. “What are you talking about?”
“The farm,” Beckett says. “Is running the farm too much while you’re still working the job in New York?”
“Why?” Unease bottoms out my stomach. “Did I forget to do something? I ordered you that fancy fertilizer, right?”
“No, no. You did. I got the invoice. You’ve been doing great for us. It’s not that.” Beckett adjusts his hat, discomfort in the rigid lines of his body. “You’ve just been…working a lot. No one wants to see you run yourself into the ground trying to make other people happy.”
“I’m not. I’m managing.” I’ve had to stay up late and wake up a little earlier, but there’s nothing I would change about the situation. Client needs are still being met in New York. Selene is filling in the gaps. Farm operations seem to be running fine here, and I even managed to put together that spreadsheet for Nova. I know all of this was my idea, and I know I probably wasn’t the first choice to take over for Stella, but I think I’m holding it together nicely. “Everything is fine. I’m doing fine.”
“Fine,” Beckett snorts. He grips the handle of his shovel. “Christ, you sound like Nova.”
Awareness makes my skin flush hot. Her name is a blinking neon sign. I feel like I’m being painfully obvious when I ask, “How so?”
“Her studio. She hasn’t stopped since she bought the place. She’s doing too much, but she keeps saying she’s fine.”
I drive my shovel into the ruddy earth. Comparing me to Nova is laughable. She is wildly out of my league, brilliant and kind and driven and a million other things that make her shimmer and shine. While I am doing the bare minimum and cashing in on a position awarded out of nepotism. “Nova wouldn’t lie to you. And the studio is important to her. She wants it to do well.”
He grunts again, eyes fixed on some far-off point. The creaky weather vane on top of his house grates in the morning breeze. A light turns on in the kitchen. Evelyn appears in the window with her long hair tied in a ponytail and a cat on her shoulder. She squints through the glass and waves when she sees us. We both wave back. Mine looks weird because I can’t lift my arm above my shoulder.
“She’s doing the thing she loves best. Look at her work.” I nod at the tattoos that peek out from the rolled cuff of his flannel. “Do you think she should be doing anything else?”
He rubs his thumb over a maple leaf on his wrist. “I just worry.”
“Well, don’t.” I nudge him with the tip of my shovel. “If she finds out you’re babying her, she’s just going to get pissed. You know that.”
Beckett’s eyes narrow. “Are you going to tell her?”
I hold my hands up, palms out. “Absolutely not. I don’t have a death wish.”
His shoulders relax with a sigh. “That reminds me.”
A laugh bursts out of me. “Oh, good. I’m glad ‘death wish’ reminded you of something.”
He shoots me a look. “Mom wants you at dinner tonight.”
“Family dinner?” The entire Porter clan has family dinner once a week. I’ve always been deeply envious of their desire to spend time together. Also, his mom makes the best broccoli cheddar casserole I’ve had in my life. “Isn’t that for…family?”
It takes Beckett a second to answer. He’s distracted by the sight of Evelyn on the back porch, wearing an oversized hoodie down to her knees and a pair of muddy rain boots. She has a cup of coffee in one hand and a watering can in the other, tending to the plants that crowd the ledge.
“I don’t have the heart to tell her she’s overwatering them,” he mutters quietly. “They’ll be dead in a week.” He sighs and shakes his head, a smile edging at one side of his mouth. “And yes. Mom wants you at family dinner. She said she’s worried about the things she’s hearing on the phone tree.”
I stand straight. “The phone tree? I haven’t heard anything from the phone tree since before the wedding.”
It’s been like a gnat buzzing in my ear. Usually, I get at least seven texts a day. I even tried starting my own message chain, but I got a disconnected voice mail from Matty that sounded suspiciously like Gus’s voice when I dialed the number. The phone tree has been inactive. I can’t figure it out.
Beckett grunts. “Lucky you.”
“Have you heard anything?”
“I heard about the brown sugar lattes, if that’s what you’re referring to.”
It is not. I narrow my eyes. “Have I been kicked off the phone tree?”
I better not have. I’ve earned my spot. I pass on messages faithfully no matter what I’m doing. I once stopped a client meeting so I could lock myself in the bathroom and call Matty about the two-for-one sale on fish tacos at the little stand by the coast. I take it very seriously.
“You can ask my mom about it.” Beckett tosses a shovelful of dirt over his shoulder. It narrowly misses my shoes. “At dinner.”
I prop myself up with my shovel. Nova and I have texted a few times since I rolled my way out of her bed, but I’m not sure where this falls on the how to behave after a one-night stand spectrum.
“Will, ah—” I scratch at my chin. “Will your sisters be there?”
Beckett doesn’t look up from his shoveling. “At family dinner?”
“Yes.” I drag out the word until it’s seven syllables long. I am not doing an excellent job of playing it cool.
Beckett grunts. “Yes. My family will be at family dinner.”
“And your mom wants me there?”
“That’s what she said.”
“You’re sure?”
Beckett straightens with a huff, thoroughly done with this conversation. He nudges his hat up so I can appreciate the full force of his glare. “You can come willingly, or you can disappoint my mother when I drag you in through the back door. Those are your choices.”
There’s an implication with the second choice. That disappointing his mother will result in another action as well. Potentially with the knuckles of his left hand.
“I’ll come willingly.”
Beckett goes back to digging his hole. “Good.”
?I’m fidgeting.
I’m fidgeting and I can’t decide which book to buy. What sort of book says, Thank you for having me over to your home for family dinner, I don’t know what to do with an invitation like this, but I’m grateful all the same ? A thriller? A paranormal romance? Something nonfiction?
“Why don’t you just bring flowers?” Alex calls from behind the counter, his nose buried in another regency romance. He’s barely said two words since I strolled in here.
I pick up a copy of a book with a giant cat on the cover and flip it over, skimming the back. It might as well be in a foreign language. Nothing is resonating right now. My brain is static, my thoughts tumbling over one another. I’ve sufficiently overthought this dinner invitation to death.
“I want to make a good impression. Any dope can bring flowers. Mrs. Porter likes books.”
“You bring my grandmother flowers all the time.”
“That’s because your abuela loves flowers and you should bring people the things they like.” Alex makes a face behind his book. “Don’t pout because your grandmother likes me better.”
I decide on the cat book. At the very least, she’ll appreciate the cover. At the worst, she can drop it in the Little Library I know she has outside of the salon she works at. I whistle and toss the book across the room. Alex catches it right before it smacks him in the face and rings it up.
“Make a good impression,” he mutters. “Like they don’t know exactly who you are.”
That’s the problem, I think. The Porter family does know exactly who I am. I am fun-loving, always-loud, sometimes-takes-trivia-night-too-seriously Charlie. I am the guy who is here to have a good time.
But I’d also like to be the guy that earns a spot at the table by being thoughtful and kind. I’d like to maybe not be a giant joke of a human being all the time. Coincidentally, I’d also like to be the guy that one particular Porter doesn’t have regrets about.
Maybe I should bring her a book too.
I stroll over to the counter and lean against it. “What’s gotten into you?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve been grumbling and growling since I walked in here.”
“Have not.”
“Have too.”
“Have not.”
I give him a look and snatch the book out of his hands. “Don’t underestimate how far I’m willing to take this, Alex Alvarez. You’re a certified grump right now. What’s going on?”
Alex sighs and collapses in the old leather chair he keeps behind the counter. It creaks and groans beneath his weight. “Abuela made you tres leches.”
“You’re mad about tres leches?”
He sighs. “Among other things,” he mutters under his breath.
I scratch my eyebrow. “Yeah. She made me tres leches.” She had Caleb bring it to me. When I peeled back the foil, it was missing the entire left corner. He had cinnamon clinging to his collar and a glare on his face when he handed it to me, utterly unrepentant.
“She usually makes it for me,” Alex grumbles.
I grin. “Luckily, I know how to share.”
Alex raises both eyebrows. “Is that so? I seem to remember you screaming and shoveling carnitas in your mouth the last time she brought you leftovers and I asked for some.”
That’s fair. I did do that. But I only have lunch dates with Abuela once a month and he can see her whenever he wants. She’s his grandmother. I’ve inserted myself into the Alvarez family with the same lack of grace I seem to do everything else, but I can’t feel bad about it. Not when I get tres leches.
“There’s some left. I’ll bring it to the next harvest festival meeting.”
“Ah yes, the harvest festival committee.” Alex’s dumb face slips into something smug. “I heard you volunteered to help Nova with her business visits.”
“Where did you hear that?”
Alex shrugs. “The phone tree.”
Goddamn it. I knew it. I slap both hands on the counter. I knock over a cup of pens and a haphazard stack of novelty Post-it notes. “Why the hell am I not getting phone tree messages?”
Alex picks up his book and flips through the pages, trying to find his place. He dog-ears the corners every time he stops, like an absolute barbarian. “The text chain is on hiatus. Barney over at the farm ran out of minutes.”
“You don’t need minutes to text.”
Alex waves his hand over his head. “You know what I mean.”
I have no idea what he means. “How are you getting information if the phone tree isn’t working?”
Alex’s eyes flick up from the book, then back down again. He turns two more pages, then flips back three. “I never said the phone tree isn’t working.”
He’s being deliberately obnoxious. I glance at my watch. I don’t have time for this. I’m already cutting it close to dinner, and I won’t be late because Alex doesn’t feel like being forthcoming. I grab the book and shove it under my arm.
“We’re talking about this later,” I grumble.
“Sure.” He nods, not looking up from his book. “Tell Nova I say hello.”
“I’m not having dinner with Nova.”
He flips another page. “She will presumably be there.”
“Yes.”
“Then tell her I say hello.”
“Why are you saying it like that?”
A smirk tugs at one side of his mouth. “Like what?”
“I don’t have time for you.” I start toward the door, then change my mind and turn back. “You’ve just lost your chance at tres leches.”
Alex drops his book to the counter and gives me an affronted look. “What? Why?”
“Because of your attitude.” I open the door. “You don’t deserve it.”
?The Porter house sits right at the edge of town, a sprawling rancher with a wide wraparound porch and crisp white shutters. A giant garden out front overflowing with wildflowers and tomato plants. I park behind Beckett’s truck and hustle my way up the ramp they built for Mr. Porter’s wheelchair, a bottle of wine under one arm and the book with a bouquet of flowers in the other. The book by itself felt stupid halfway through town, so I went back to Mabel’s and grabbed a bouquet. We ended up talking for fifteen minutes about posies and peonies, then a client called when I was in my car, and I spent another seven minutes sitting on the side of Main Street talking them down from reallocating half of their savings into a different investment portfolio.
More of my father’s handiwork. An indirect punishment, probably, for cutting our call short the other day.
The door opens before I can knock, and Nova stands in the threshold. The last time I saw her she was sleep-mussed and perfect, naked in her bed with her blankets pulled to her chin. Now she’s standing with her hip against the door, her hair twisted back in one long braid and a simple white fuzzy-looking sweater draped over her frame. Dark jeans and wool socks.
Affection, warm and surprising, fills my chest. She looks cute as fuck.
“Hey,” I call, trying to pretend I didn’t just trip up the ramp at the sight of her. “Were you waiting at the window?”
“In your dreams.” She shivers in the cold air, socked feet shuffling in the entryway. “I saw your headlights in the driveway and it took you a while to get in here. I was starting to wonder about you.”
I give her a wink as I drag my boots against the welcome mat. “I love it when you wonder about me.”
A smile teases at her bottom lip. She passes her fingers over it like she’s trying to hide it. “Get in here, Romeo. It’s cold.”
She ushers me in and shuts the door, pressing her back to it, hands tucked behind her. I watch her as I slip out of my jacket, glad to have her alone for a minute whether she was waiting for me or not.
“I meant to text you,” I say quietly, keeping my voice low.
“About what?”
“Tonight.”
Her face twists in confusion. “What about tonight?”
“I wanted to ask if you were okay with this. After…everything.”
“Everything, huh?” She presses up on her toes to glance over my shoulder, then falls back to the flats of her feet. Checking, I think, to see if anyone is within hearing distance. A coy smile curls her lips. “Have I been on your mind, Charlie?”
That feels like an understatement. She’s been circling there. I was buttoning my shirt this morning and caught a glimpse of a hickey on my hip in the mirror. I stared into space for thirty-eight seconds, half hard, the desire to be back in that bed with her so fierce it felt like a fist in my chest.
I halve the space between us until she has to tilt her head back to hold my eyes.
“I told you,” I tell her, voice low. “Alarming frequency and incredible detail.” I reach for the braid hanging over her shoulder and tug lightly. “Even better detail now.” Her eyes flash and a smile kicks up one side of her mouth. I drop her braid. “You sure it’s okay I’m here?”
“Of course it’s okay. We said nothing would change, Charlie. You’re allowed to come to dinner at my parents’ house.”
“I know what we said, but I don’t want to intrude,” I murmur.
I don’t know the protocol for how to interact with a one-night stand that is also your friend. I’ve never had to do it before.
She watches me for a long moment. Farther back in the house, someone laughs. A chair screeches across the floor and utensils clink against plates. Family. Or what I’ve always imagined it might sound like, anyway.
“You’re not intruding,” she finally says. She glances at the book and bouquet in my hand and tips her chin up. “Did you bring me a present?”
“Absolutely not.” I move them out of reach. “They’re for your mom. Why? You want me to bring you flowers, Nova girl?”
It’s easy to fall right back into the parts we play with one another, but then again, most things are easy with Nova. I think there was a part of me that was worried she’d put space between us. Maybe pretend the other night never happened.
But she isn’t avoiding me, and she isn’t acting any differently.
She’s still Nova.
Relief relaxes my shoulders.
She grins at me. “I like buying my own flowers.”
I laugh. “Yeah, you do.” Unthinking, I reach forward and drag my knuckles along her rib cage. I know this piece of her now, the ink that’s underneath this sweater. The flower on her ribs and the petals that float down her back. “Good at drawing them too.”
“I like to think so.”
Something heavy floods the space between us as I let my hand drift over the soft material of her sweater. Her breath hitches as my hand strays higher, knuckles ghosting closer to the curve of her breast. I wonder if she’s wearing something lacey and delicate beneath. I bet she is.
Our gazes hold. This close, she’s more color than shape. Sea-glass green and blue so deep it almost looks black. Tidal pools as the surf rushes in. A million treasures hidden beneath the surface.
Dishes clink together farther in the house and another burst of laughter slips down the hall. I pull my hand back and clear my throat, then thrust the bottle of wine in her hands.
“Here.”
“Oh. Is this for me?”
“Also no. But you can carry it into the kitchen.”
She laughs and pushes off the door, nudging my shoulder with hers on the way to the kitchen. It does something stupid to the inside of my chest.
“That’s very generous of you.”
“I’m a generous man.”
She turns to glance at me, braid swinging between her shoulder blades. “I know for a fact that you are.”
“Nova,” I choke in warning as we both step into the kitchen. I glance around the open space, waiting for Beckett to descend on me with a steak knife. The last thing I need to be thinking about in a room full of her family is Nova’s preferred interpretation of generosity. “Behave.”
She snickers and places the wine on the island. Something that smells like thyme and butter is simmering on the stove, a basket of rolls on the counter. Oven mitts lie discarded next to the sink. Nova reaches for the bread basket and nods toward the back of the house. “Relax. Everyone is in the sunroom for dinner.”
“The sunroom?” I frown.
Nova shrugs. “Mom likes to eat under the stars and Dad likes to make her happy. Beckett installed a fireplace last winter. It’s nice.”
It’s better than nice.
A large stone fireplace anchors one side of the sunroom, the dancing flames reflected in the glass windows on every side. The whole space is glowing, both with the light from the hearth and the globe lights strung along the ceiling. Night presses in from the outside, condensation ringing the bottom of the glass in a halo of clouded white. And in the middle is a long wooden table, filled with bickering Porter siblings. Someone shouts something about asparagus and there’s an answering ruckus. A wooden spoon flies across the table.
I don’t think a single person notices when Nova and I walk in.
Nova steps past me and drops the rolls in the middle of the table, grabbing two quickly off the top before her siblings can descend on it.
“Look who I found lurking in the driveway,” she announces.
Mrs. Lucy Porter looks up from the head of the table, an easy smile on her face and her chin in her hand. I hand her the flowers and bend so I can press a kiss to her cheek. “Sorry I’m late. I got caught up.” I hesitate, then hold up the book. “I also stopped to get you this.”
She makes grabby hands. “For me?”
I nod and catch Nova’s eye on the other side of the table. She rolls hers and mouths Suck-up .
I shrug. It’s true. I’m happiest when the people around me are happy. I’m uncomfortable when there’s tension and I want to be liked. I’ve never seen any of those things as a bad thing.
“Sit, sit.” Lucy gestures to the chair next to her. “Sorry I couldn’t keep these barbarians from eating. Harper turns into a harpy when she’s hungry.”
“It’s mac and cheese night,” floats up from somewhere near the end of the table. It sounds like there are three different conversations going on, at least one of them at a decibel level that seems unnecessary for indoors. Harper and Vanessa are gesticulating wildly with their hands, and Mr. Porter is using his steak knife to illustrate something on the table. Evie is half standing from her chair, leaning over Beckett to nod and point. Nova tears apart a dinner roll and watches the back-and-forth with narrowed, calculating eyes. There’s a phone propped up against a half-empty dutch oven casserole dish, Evelyn’s dad in the tiny picture, his hands folded under his chin and his glasses low on his nose.
It looks like the floor of the stock exchange…but more aggressive.
“They’re talking about the last episode of Real Housewives ,” Lucy explains.
Beckett, sprawled in his chair on the other side of her, doesn’t look up from his plate. “It’s been forty-five minutes.”
I study him carefully. There’s a reason he chose a job where he spends a majority of his time in empty fields. “Hanging in?”
He nods and gestures at his ears. He’s wearing foam earplugs, sensitive to the level of noise in this tiny room. “Shockingly, I can still hear everything that’s going on.”
Lucy pats his bicep. “You know how the girls get when they’re all together.”
Beckett grunts.
It’s not just the girls though. Mr. Porter and Mr. St. James seem to have a lot of opinions about the women of New Jersey. They gang up against Harper and Vanessa, exchanging an air high-five through the phone after a very detailed and obviously rehearsed closing argument.
“Is your dad a lifelong fan of the housewives?” I ask Evelyn.
Evelyn rolls her eyes. “This is a recent development.”
“Perhaps if you and that husband of yours decided to communicate with your families better, we would have found common interests sooner,” comes the tinny voice from the phone. Evelyn’s dad presses his glasses up his nose with both eyebrows raised. I guess Layla isn’t the only one salty about missing the wedding.
“It’s my fault, Mr. St. James,” Beckett pokes his head into the frame, the tips of his ears red. “I couldn’t wait to marry your daughter.”
The table releases a collective groan. Nova boos and tosses a piece of her roll at Beckett’s forehead. Evelyn beams behind Beckett, and her dad chuckles on the other end of the phone.
“You’re not sorry.”
“No,” Beckett ducks his head. “I’m really not.”
Lucy passes me various dishes to load my plate and I sit back and observe. I have no idea what’s going on, but it’s clear that everyone is enjoying themselves. Mr. Porter tilts the phone so he can continue his conversation with Mr. St. James. Not just a family born but a family made too.
Nova keeps to herself, adding a quiet comment every now and again that sends everyone into a fit of laughter. My eyes keep cutting back to her—that damn braid over her shoulder and a peek of ink at the collar of her sweater. I’m looking at her more than I should. I know I am. But I want to know what makes her laugh. I want to catch all of those reluctant smiles, right as they bloom across her face. Pink on her cheeks and that scrunch in her nose.
“So, Charlie.” Lucy rests both hands on top of her brand-new book and fixes me with a look. The kind of look that someone perfects after they’ve raised a flock of children and taken exactly none of their shit. “Tell me how you are.”
“I’m good,” I tell her, reaching for another heaping spoonful of something that smells like buffalo sauce and heaven. Her face twists in comic disbelief and I laugh. “I heard this might be a welfare check.”
“Is that so?” She turns her face to her son. Beckett keeps pushing his noodles around his plate. She sighs and rolls her lips. “I just wanted to make sure you’re doing okay. You’ve taken on quite a bit.”
I shrug. “The farm basically runs itself. I mainly eat cinnamon rolls at the bakehouse. And occasionally dig fence posts.”
“That’s not true.” Beckett spears a piece of broccoli with his fork. “You organized Stella’s filing system. Which hasn’t been a filing system since I’ve known her.”
“And you charmed Layla’s dairy vendor into lowering their prices,” Evelyn adds, chin on Beckett’s shoulder. “You also patched the hole in the roof on the tractor shed.”
I almost killed myself doing it too. I don’t know what made me think I was qualified to replace shingles, but it didn’t stop me from climbing on top of the damn thing. I slid halfway down on a skid and managed to catch myself on the weather vane shaped like a candy cane. I’ve never been more glad for Stella’s impulsive thematic purchases.
“Do you like the work?” Lucy asks. “At the farm. Is it something you enjoy?”
“It is.” I like waking up and hearing birds in the trees. I like standing at the back window of the guest cottage and watching the fireflies dance. I like walking over to the bakehouse and having a cup of coffee with Caleb while Layla bustles around the kitchen. I like working the register and knowing every single person who walks through the door. I like bothering Beckett into talking to me. I like feeling like I belong, even if it’s not exactly the truth. “It doesn’t feel like work at all.”
“The best sort.” Lucy smiles, rubbing her fingertips against her nose the same way Beckett does. “Maybe you should consider a career change.”
“But then what would I do with all of my suits?” I grin and take the salad bowl Evie offers me. “Nah, this is temporary. I’m just giving Stella the break she deserves.”
“And what do you deserve?”
I pause with my fork halfway to my mouth. Conversation on the other end of the table has resumed, picking up volume. Evelyn is draped over Beckett’s shoulders with both of her arms wrapped around his neck, their fingers threaded together, both of their attention fixed on Harper and whatever point she’s trying to illustrate with a bowl the size of her head curled in her arms.
Lucy’s doesn’t waver, her chin resting against her knuckles.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“What do you deserve, Charlie?”
“I—I don’t know.” I laugh. I try to deflect from how lost I am with that question. “I certainly don’t deserve this dinner, I know that.”
I’m not just talking about the buffalo mac and cheese that tastes so good it should be illegal. I’m talking about the invitation, sitting here. Having a place carved out for me, no matter how temporary. Handed dishes and asked questions and folded into the easy interaction of a family that loves each other. It’s like sitting in front of a fire and feeling the brush of warmth. Being here at the edge of it has me feeling homesick for a place I’ve never been.
Lucy’s smile dims, understanding in the lines of her face. “Well then, maybe you should try to figure it out.”
“Your mac and cheese recipe?”
At the other end of the table, Nova leans over Vanessa to stick her fork in Harper’s bowl. All three of them descend into bright, cackling laughter. I yank my eyes away.
“No, Charlie.” Lucy hands me another bowl. “How to accept things without wondering what you’ve done to deserve them.”