13. CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ETHAN
“ W hat were you thinking?” Logan groans as he dips his roller brush back into the tray of white paint for what has to be the hundredth time. “The black is still seeping through.”
My brothers and I have somehow gotten ourselves roped into covering up what is arguably the worst paint job in history.
My mom tuts at Logan. “How was I supposed to know that when they said black was the new ‘it color,’ they were referring to an accent piece? What does that even mean?”
“I don’t understand how you painted all of this black without once taking a step back to really look at it.” Logan slaps his roller against the wall and drags another thick coat of paint in an upward fashion.
Carter breaks into a laugh, and I can’t help but join in. Logan is right. My mom, a jack-of-all-trades woman who can’t sit still long enough to enjoy a cup of coffee, decided on a whim last week to peel the wallpaper off every wall on the lower level of the house and paint each one of them black. It wasn’t until she finished the second coat in the kitchen that she noticed how small the color made the rooms look.
“You missed a spot,” my mom chides, pointing to the top corner of the living room wall that looks like every other section we’ve already painted.
“Knock, knock,” Jill calls over Logan’s huffing and puffing as she enters the house. “Oh. My. God. What the hell happened in here?”
“Language,” my mom snaps.
“Mom, there’s not enough white paint on this planet to cover that up,” Jill says, rubbing at her temple.
Logan sneers. “See? I told you.”
“Hush,” my mom snaps, pointing at the wall, silently indicating that he should keep painting.
“So, Mr. Casanova.” My sister shifts her attention to me, and with a sly grin pressed to her face, she asks, “How did last night go?”
“Casanova? Last night?” My mom turns to me, her expression full of questions. “What happened last night?”
Shoulders slumping, I pull my roller away from the wall and huff. Dammit. I’ve been here for two full hours, and neither of my brothers has brought it up. For the first hour, I was on edge, waiting. They witnessed the whole night. Carter even helped me get Kinzie into my truck after she’d broken her heel. But, thank fuck, they knew better than to mention it. None of us openly discuss our personal lives in front of our mom unless we’re interested in getting the third degree. Jill, however, is another breed.
Between gritted teeth, I say, “Nothing happened last night. Other than working with Jill behind the bar.”
“And breaking a few dishes,” Carter adds quietly, though not quietly enough.
“And spilling a hundred-dollar meal all over himself,” Logan chimes in.
I glare at each of them as I set the paint roller in the tray of paint.
“Oh no. You’re not telling me something. Spit it out,” my mom says, her voice laced with impatience.
Jill eyeballs me, giving me the extra second to share before she does what she does best and blabs.
When I don’t deliver, Carter and Logan laugh under their breath.
“Ethan took Kinzie home last night. And I don’t mean in the gentleman-like way you taught your pure sons. He went all caveman and tossed her over his shoulder, then took her back to his place.”
“Pure, my ass,” my mom snaps, glaring at my brothers, who aren’t even trying to hold it together. “You,” she says, pointing a finger at my chest. “You’re supposed to be the good one. Who’s Kinzie? Is this a new girlfriend?”
“Kinzie. As in Kinsley Grant. You know, his high school sweetheart,” Jill continues.
I shut my eyes. What the fuck was I thinking yesterday? I should have seen this coming. Jill loves to stir up trouble, especially when it’s at my expense.
“Kinzie?” Mom’s voice pitches high. She places her hands over her heart. “You two are back together?” Dammit. Her eyes are swimming with hope, and I’m about to let her down.
“No, we’re not back together.”
Logan coughs out a word that sounds a lot like bullshit but looks away when my mom turns to him.
“We’re not,” I say again. “She asked for a favor. That was it.”
“So,” Jill says, “you’re not taking her out on a date tonight?”
My mom gasps, beaming. “A date?”
Fuck. My sister has a death wish. “It’s not a date. I’m just taking her out for dinner. And how the hell do you even know about that?”
“Language,” my mom snaps again.
Jill smirks. “I may have run into her at the coffee shop this morning.”
“Was she still wearing that hot-as-fuck dress?” Carter sets his paint roller down and wipes at his forehead, leaving a smear of white paint behind.
“If you all don’t stop with the language…”
“You’re going to what?” Logan huffs. “Kick us out? Paint the house by yourself?”
“Maybe we all need to take a break,” I say. It’s the only way to ease the tension. Not to mention, I have no interest in having a conversation about Kinzie with these people.
“I don’t need a break,” Logan says, roughly wiping his hands down his coveralls. “I’m done. I need to get to the restaurant. We have a large order coming in today, and I told the driver I’d be there.”
“What crawled into your underwear?” Jill asks, still smirking.
“Nothing,” he says. And with that, he storms off.
Mom frowns and turns to Carter. “Is everything okay at the restaurant?”
With the wave of one hand, he swears all is good, then picks up his roller and gets back to work.
It’s exactly five o’clock when I pull up to Tessa’s house, dressed in faded black jeans and a snug gray button-down shirt. This isn’t a real date . That’s what I have to remember. I park in the driveway but stay in the truck, figuring Kinzie would want it this way. The less we interact in front of her sister, the better. But as the minutes tick by and there’s no movement inside the dark house, a trickle of worry runs down my spine. Why, I couldn’t even guess. She’s not in any sort of danger. But if I were a betting man, I’d throw all my money on Kinzie using this opportunity to make a point.
When ten minutes go by and she still hasn’t materialized, I cut the engine and dislodge myself from my truck. I don’t have Kinzie’s phone number. Hell, I don’t even have Tessa or Derrick’s, so I can’t check in with them either. So, reluctantly, I march myself up to their front door and knock.
When no one immediately answers, I rock back on my heels and wait. A minute later, I try again. Then again. But after standing by myself on the front stoop for several minutes, I take the hint and climb back into my truck.
Despite my best efforts to quell it, irritation floods my senses. Rationally, I get it. This very well could be retribution. An eye for an eye. Kinzie is mad. But my impractical side can’t turn off the frustration. My heart pulses with indignation.
We were babies when I left for the Marines. From there, I was forced to grow up quickly. Of course I handled things poorly, but I did the best I could with what I had.
Kinzie’s an adult. If she wants to stand me up and play these stupid games, then I should just walk away.
Only I can’t.
With a growl, I tear out of the driveway. I take a quick right at the corner, and then a left, making my way out of downtown Hope Island. When I reach the cemetery, instinct kicks in, and I turn my wheel left again, fully intending to head home, where I can sit and sulk on the deck of my boat. But mid-turn, my brain dives into a chemical conversation with itself, shooting neurotransmitters down my arm and into my hand, causing me to spin the wheel in the opposite direction. My turn goes wide, and I hit the curb as I adjust the wheel.
I know exactly where she is. If Kinzie planned to teach me a lesson and avoid me, she’s out of luck. We’re going to hash this out once and for all. One way or another.
Just past the old sign that reads Fletcher’s Farm, I turn and roll slowly down the long gravel driveway. When the house comes into view, I scan the scene until I see a small black sedan tucked between the house and the pole barn.
I pull up beside it and leap out of my truck. Kinzie will hear me out. And then I’ll leave. It’s that simple.
Only, it’s not that simple, because when she opens the door wearing a short floral sundress with white cowboy boots, her hair in soft curls, every thought in my mind evaporates.
“Shit,” she inhales sharply. “What time is it?” Without waiting for a response, she spins on her heels and goes back inside. “Shit. Shit, shit, shit.”
I follow behind her, but I don’t make it more than two feet before I stop dead in my tracks. Everywhere I look, there are stacks of cardboard boxes and oversized plastic bins threatening to spill over with one misstep. Mountains of paper, both loose and crumpled, blanket the floor. Piles of books, newspapers, garden supplies and a sewing machine sit beside a table saw in the center of the living room. On every flat surface, there are hand-carved animal figurines. There have to be hundreds of them, if not thousands.
“What the fuck?” I almost shout when I spy a five-foot grizzly looking squirrel staring back at me from where it sits between an old brick fireplace and a weather-beaten window.
“That’s Arthur,” Kinzie yells from the other room. “Maggie’s grandad carved him from an old oak stump when she was little.”
Blinking the image from my mind, I stride to the kitchen, where Kinzie is frantically throwing things over her shoulder.
“What are you doing?” I ask over the sound of heavy objects crashing to the floor.
“I can’t find my phone. It was here just a second ago.”
I cringe at the thought of losing something in a place like this. Why the hell would Kinzie want to live here?
“Found it,” she says, holding it up high and whirling around.
In a rush, she leaps over a mound of books and other unidentified objects, but misjudges the height, as well as her balance, and tumbles to the floor.
“Oomph,” she mutters, her legs and arms sprawled out.
Before I can wind my way through the mess to help her up, she’s on her feet again.
“Can you do me a huge favor?” she asks. “Can you shut off all the lights and lock the door? I’m going to be so late.”
“Wait,” I say, holding up a hand. “Where are you going? Did you forget about tonight?”
Kinzie frowns and puts her hands on her hips. “You were for real?”
“Yes. Yes, I was for real. Why else would I be here?”
She opens her mouth but closes it again, her brow furrowing, as if she’s contemplating a response to my question, but the chirping of her phone startles her.
She peeks down at it, her dark hair falling like a curtain around her face. “I’m sorry. I have an engagement to cancel. They hired me last minute, and I’m supposed to be there”—she taps her phone screen to check the time—“now. Raincheck?”
Without waiting for a response, she’s gone.
Being the good Samaritan that I am, and because I’m not sure what just happened, I shut off the lights and lock up, though I do it hastily, because Arthur and the several hundred other wood carvings give me the creeps.
When I get outside, I fully expect to see Kinzie peeling out of the driveway, leaving nothing but dust in her wake. Instead, I find her hunched over, cussing out the passenger side back tire, which is completely flat.
“Something wrong?”
She lifts her head, and at first, I think she’s about to cuss me out too, but between the space of one breath and the next, her scowl lifts into a partial smile.
“You don’t have plans, do you?” She gets back to her feet and brushes her hands against her bare legs, just below the hem of her dress.
One brow cocked, I scoff. “Seeing as how I was just stood up, I might be available. I’d have to check my calendar first to confirm.”
She squints at me, scrutinizing, then lifts her chin. “Never mind.” She pulls out her phone and types like she’s sending a message.
Huffing, I take a step closer. “What do you need?”
“Nothing.”
“Kinzie.” I say her name like it’s a thorn in my fucking side.
“I don’t have time to sit and chitchat,” she balks. “I’m kind of in a hurry.”
“Then tell me what you want. Do you need me to change your tire? Do you need a ride?”
She doesn’t respond. God dammit. This woman drives me mad. I go straight to her, yank her phone from her dainty hand, and repeat myself. “What do you need me to do?”
“Hey,” she squeaks. “I need to confirm my Uber.”
“Where do you need to go? I’ll take you.”
Pressing up on to her tiptoes, she reaches for her phone. But I have at least half a foot on her, so her endeavor is futile.
“No. It’s fine,” she grits out, swatting at the arm I have held over my head so she can’t get to her phone. “There’s a driver less than five minutes away.”
“Get in my truck, Kinzie,” I keep my voice low, but I can’t hold back the annoyance. “I don’t mind taking you. I obviously have nothing better planned for tonight.”
Kinzie drops back to her feet and studies me with her dark blue eyes.
This close, I can count all ten freckles on each side of her nose. The dusting of them along her ivory skin is the only physical difference between her and Tessa.
“Are you sure?” she asks, her voice losing its edge. “It’s in Morganville.”
“Get in my truck,” I say. “I’m not taking no for an answer.”
Kinzie exhales loudly and then, before I know it, she and I are on our way to a bar called Beer Brew Garage.