Chapter 7
Kylie
It’s only Tuesday, but it feels like it should be Friday.
Between the flat tire last night, sprinting outside this morning in my underwear, and the fact that Rook Slater has somehow lodged himself firmly in my head, I’m already running on fumes—and my workday has barely started.
Add in four thousand tasks that appeared on my to-do list overnight, and I’m hanging on by a thread.
Thankfully, I’m not the only one suffering. Martin looks like he’s one deduction question away from an orange jumpsuit, and because misery loves company, I appreciate the solidarity.
Sighing heavily, I work through crossed eyes to make sense of a return that stopped making sense an hour ago, and I fight an earnest battle not to look at the clock again.
There’s no point—I know that—because it only makes the spreadsheets feel worse and the time feel longer, but old habits die hard when you’re a glutton for punishment.
The last time I reset the metaphorical whiteboard with minutes since last loss of willpower, it was six thirty, and upon stupid inspection now, it’s six thirty-two.
God help me. This day is the equivalent of eternity.
My phone buzzes on a stack of manila folders, and I dive to answer it, eager for any and all respite.
And you thought it might be Rook for some reason too.
Of course, it’s not him—I don’t even think he has my number, and I’m clearly losing my marbles to even think he’d be calling me—but my grandmother instead.
“Hey, Gammy.”
“Pot roast is in the slow cooker. Should be done in about an hour.”
There’s no preamble on her end, and because I’m a walking zombie, my mistake doesn’t click without the full reminder.
“I also made a batch of my biscuits you love so much. What time do you think you’ll be here?”
Shit. I completely forgot about the serious-talk pot roast and the refusal to take no for an answer.
I meant to call her during my lunch break today, but I never got a lunch break.
Maybe I’d have remembered this morning if Rook hadn’t thrown off my whole morning routine too, but between him and taxes, I barely have two brain cells to rub together.
The thought of driving the forty-five minutes to her house, having dinner, and back again is nearly enough to break me. I can’t imagine how it’d feel in practice.
“Gammy, I’m so, so sorry I didn’t get in touch earlier, but I can’t tonight.” I cringe. “I’m still at work, and there are no signs of leaving thus far.”
Silence consumes the line and bleeds out onto my shoulders, doing one hell of an impression of a twenty-pound set of dumbbells. I feel awful, but feeling awful is better than feeling dead. At least, I think.
“You’ve been working late a lot,” Gammy eventually says. “Maybe a little too much, sweetheart.”
“Yeah, well, it’s tax season.”
“I know when tax season is,” she replies with the well-earned authority of a woman who’s lived through eighty tax seasons. “I also know when my granddaughter sounds worn so thin her priorities have started to jumble.”
I rub my temple, searching for an olive branch I can handle. “I promise I’ll come out this weekend for dinner. How about Saturday night? I’ll make sure my whole schedule is clear just for you. Maybe I’ll even sleep there.”
She pauses for a long moment. “All right, dear. I wish it were sooner, but Saturday will have to do, I guess. Everything else okay?”
“Yes,” I say automatically.
“And the people around you?” she asks. “How are they?”
My fingers still on the keyboard as my brow furrows in confusion. What is she talking about? Why the hell does she care how anyone else is feeling?
I’m too tired to question it aloud. Instead, I do my best to answer. “They’re fine, I guess. Alyssa is busy with school, and she’s the only one I really—”
“No, no, dear. I meant how are they…with you?”
“Gammy, not going to lie, you’ve been a little heavy on weird questions lately and very cryptic on the need to speak in person.
I don’t get it. Did you get intel from the CIA about a sleeper cell in Concordia or something?
Are you CIA? Make it make sense, please, and do it slowly, like you’re talking to a child. ”
“I just like to know that my girl is safe,” she says with a sigh. “That’s all.”
“Well, you don’t need to be worried,” I reassure. “I’m fine. I promise. My life consists of work, skate, and sleep. And every once in a while, I reward myself with a cube of cheese.” I offer a small laugh. One I hope puts her at ease since The Devil Wears Prada is one of her favorite movies.
It doesn’t work, though, her gloomy mood persisting through a soft hum of disapproval. “And what about men? Any gentlemen suitors trying to grab your attention?”
“Gentlemen suitors? Come on, Gammy.” I snort. “Your age is showing.”
“I just want to know if there’s a new man in your life, sweetheart. Someone trying to be helpful, perhaps?”
Helpful. The word lands strangely.
I think of the flat tire last night and the way Rook Slater came to my rescue and changed it with such ease and speed, it felt superhuman. Along with the trash can this morning, his attention to rescuing me is compounding at an exponential rate.
Putting it to Gammy like that seems like an exercise in my own torture, though, and with Martin now standing in the door of his office, waving at me like he’s floating in the ocean waiting for a life preserver, I don’t think complicating this conversation is in my best interest.
Keep it simple.
“I did have a flat last night at the rink,” I answer. “One of the guys who plays hockey there helped me. But that was it, and I’ve known him for quite a while.”
Known him to be grumpy and standoffish, but known him all the same.
Gammy goes quiet, and Martin’s arms turn manic. I hold up a hand and pump my palm toward him three times to suggest he cool his fucking jets.
“You got a flat tire in the middle of the night?” Gammy questions shakily. “That doesn’t sound safe, Kylie.”
“The flat tire wasn’t safe, but the guy who changed it was.” I think. “It was no big deal.”
“No big deal? Sounds like a recipe to end up with your face on a missing persons poster to me.”
“Maybe another time,” I say in a gentle tease. “This time, it led me right back to work for another twelve-hour day.”
“Just be careful, Kylie, okay?” She snaps back. “The rest of the world isn’t as benevolent as it seems. There are men out there who would hurt you. Who would take advantage of your looks and your kindness in ways you don’t like.”
The rest of the world isn’t as benevolent as it seems.
Those are Rook’s same words from last night, making it the second time I’ve heard the unusual warning in twenty-four hours after never hearing it before in my entire life. It’s unsettling, to say the least. My eyes unfocus, and the hair on my arms stands on end.
“Gammy, I promise I’m always careful.”
“That’s what your mother used to say too.”
It’s been years since Gammy has brought something up about my mother or her and my father’s tragic deaths that left me orphaned at a young age. She’s done her best to shield me from the truth—that they were murdered in cold blood—but this is a 180-degree reversal if I’ve ever seen one.
She’s not just mentioning it. She’s using it to emotionally manipulate me.
“Gammy.” My chest tightens. “That’s not fair, and you know it.”
“I know,” she says softly. “I know it’s not fair, but neither is life, sweetheart. You’re important to me. I love you. And if reminding you of the stakes of this world saves my granddaughter from harm, I’ll do it until I’m blue in the face.”
“I love you too,” I reply, and mean it to my freaking bones. My gammy is the world to me, but I can’t say this call has left me feeling anything other than worse for wear.
I’m tired. Worn thin. Anxious. And now I can add downright terrified to the list.
“You give me a call later this week so we can make plans for Saturday,” she orders. “Don’t back out on me, you hear? I’ll stalk you if I have to.”
“You could tell me the important things now, you know? Break the suspense.”
“No, honey, unfortunately, I can’t,” she responds, not giving a single inch of explanation. “See you Saturday. I’ll make chicken potpie.”
Before I can say anything, the line goes dead, and like a two-for-one special, Martin is now standing directly over my desk.
I’d have loved a moment to muddle through the emotions my grandmother left me with, but evidently, that level of self-care will have to wait.
“Oh, thank God, I thought you’d never get off the phone. I need the Fred Howard return again. He found some more income in his other bank account.” He rolls his eyes. “So now he needs me to find some more expenses.”
I snort, and he laughs.
“Yeah, that’s what I said. According to him, I keep a stockpile shoved up my ass.” He sighs. “Whatever. I just need to correct the income, and then you can file. We’ll deal with his upset later.”
“Ten-four. I’ll send it back to you now.”
Martin nods and retreats to his office, and I yawn into my free hand while I wield the mouse in the other. By the time Fred Howard’s business return is finalized and sent to his email—thirty minutes later—Martin and I are the only ones left.
I scream out to announce my departure, and he moans in reply. I don’t bother inquiring on his well-being any further—I’ve got myself to worry about.
It’s dark outside and my brain is fried, and no matter how much I wish I had the energy to go skate, I know with every ounce of my being that carbs and trashy reality TV is the only cure to this level of walking-carcass.
I hop into my Civic and start the engine, rubbing at my hands as the evening cold makes the heat struggle to get going. Giving the old girl a minute to warm up, I pick up my phone out of the cupholder with the urge to scroll, and a message appears on the screen.