Chapter 22 Ewan
EWAN
I hit the landing leading to my apartment, my smile growing wider despite the pain radiating up my leg. The grin that I can’t stop, no matter what I do. Because about three hours ago, I had the wildest thought of my entire life.
I should have listened to my wife…
My wife.
Yeah, go figure.
Pausing, I lean against the railing, holding my leg out over the stairs to try and stretch it out, rolling my stiff ankle.
My first full day out of the boot after nearly two weeks was not the success story I insisted it would be.
That stupid plastic torture chamber might have given my foot the chance to rest and do whatever other restorative magic it needed to, but apparently that came with muscle aches and pains I was not anticipating.
Maisey, however, knew better, trying to tell me that I should take the boot with me and ease back into regular footwear. But nope, I knew better.
Like I said, I should have listened to my wife.
Errr…girlfriend. Maisey’s not my wife.
Yet.
Still, I can’t help but smile at how that’s where my mind went so automatically. Or that no part of it scares me. The exact opposite actually. It excites me.
The cherry on top of a hell of a good day. One I can’t wait to tell her all about. Days like today I understand what my brothers mean when they talk about having it all. Because that’s exactly what this feels like.
Exactly what I thought when I hung up the phone this afternoon after getting the call that has the potential to change everything. My business. My life. Our future. To take everything to the next level, just like I told Maisey I’ve been hoping for.
Now I get to come home to her and share it all with her. I really do have it all.
Pushing forward, I grit my teeth and hide my hobble, not wanting to prove her right. I might be able to admit it in my head, but showing off the evidence is another story altogether.
“Maisey!” I exclaim, throwing the door to the apartment open. “You’re never going to guess who called! Auburn University! They—”
I cut myself off, stopping just inside the front door, an intense aroma greeting me. Inhaling deeply, I let the medley of herbs and spices fill my nostrils, my stomach already eager to get in on the action. I’d know that smell anywhere.
That’s my mama’s country fried streak.
My favorite.
I walk into the apartment, the small entry opening up to the large open concept kitchen, all pretense of hiding my limp gone. I’m too focused on the scene before me.
Maisey’s blonde hair is piled on top of her head in the messiest bun I’ve ever seen, a streak of batter smeared across her left cheek, an intensity in her eyes normally reserved for things like the egg on spoon race on the Fourth of July.
She’s so fucking adorable it’s taking every ounce of strength I have not to rush over to her, scoop her up, and kiss her until we both can’t breathe.
Followed very promptly by licking the smudge off her cheek.
Then licking the rest of her.
The fully dressed table catches the corner of my eye—complete with placemats that I didn’t realize I owned—and tells me I should hold off though.
That she’s up to something. Something that only makes me smile even harder.
Because just when I thought it wasn’t possible to love her even more, she manages to surprise me.
“Is that country fried steak?”
Maisey startles, spinning around to face me, her eyes as wide as the cast iron skillet in front of her. Her face flushes, tingeing pink, as if I caught her with her hand in the cookie jar.
“And collards, mashed ’taters, and fried okra.” She nods to each one of the sides on the table, simultaneously sounding proud and self-conscious. “And then I’ve got a cobbler to throw into the oven for dessert.”
Holy shit…
“You’ve been…busy…”
I know it’s the wrong thing to say as soon as the words leave my mouth. That my reaction should be appreciation for her efforts, not something suspicious.
“Sorry,” I correct myself quickly, stepping into her and hauling her into my side. Pressing a kiss to the top of her head, I linger, letting the sweet scent of her, mixed with the distinct aroma of my favorite meal, swirl around us. “This all looks incredible.”
“There’s a hitch in your giddyup,” she comments, not skipping a beat, leaving my compliment untouched. So much for that worry.
“Just tired, that’s all.”
Her brow knits and I can’t tell if it’s concern or she’s getting ready to scold me. “This is why I told you to take the boot. Muscle fatigue is a real thing. You could reinjure yourself. And then where would we be?”
“You did such a good job of nursing me back to health this last time,” I quip, tugging her into me again, expecting a laugh. Or maybe a smart-ass comeback about how I’ve met my quota.
Only, I don’t get either.
What I do get is a forced, half-hearted smile as she wiggles out of my arms, turning back to the stove. My heart sinks, the overwhelming feeling that I did something wrong taking over. Because something is suddenly…off.
“What about Auburn?” she asks, changing the subject.
Right…
“Remember how I said I had some irons in the fire about expanding the tour part of The Booby Trap?”
She nods, not looking away from the skillet. I hold on for a moment, waiting for more of a response, but get nothing. Not even a glance. To be fair, she’s cooking, with hot oil at that, so keeping her focus on that rather than me isn’t an indicator of anything.
“One of those things was a potential partnership with some of the local universities. Well, I got a call from Auburn today. Their Wildlife Enterprise Management program is looking for outdoor companies to partner with to give their students real-world experience.”
“Oh…wow…”
Wow is right. In fact, it was the exact word I’d used in my head when the call came through this afternoon.
“So…what does all that mean?”
“Details are TBD,” I say, leaning back against the island, needing to get my weight off my foot.
“But the idea is that as part of an internship or some program like that, they would help provide me with students who are looking to work in the outdoor excursion space. So, tour guides for camping, fishing, hunting trips. Maybe a booking and admin person? There’s a lot to figure out, but it’s the first, big step. ”
“Ewan…that’s…massive! Congratulations!”
She smiles, everything about her expression looking like it’s supposed to, but somehow still wrong. Put on. Like a recording instead of a live performance.
Disappointment washes over me, all of my excitement about coming home and sharing this with her flowing right down the drain.
Maybe I built up this moment too much in my head all day, but I expected more out of her reaction.
One of her cute little squeaks. A squeal.
Hugs, kisses, her jumping into my arms all excited that our future was coming together like we’ve talked about.
“Maisey…”
I reach for her, my hand grazing her hip, and she flinches. Snapping backward, I freeze, worry starting to replace my disappointment. Maisey has never flinched from my touch. Never.
What is going on?
“Dinner’s ready,” Maisey says brightly, looking back over her shoulder at me as if nothing happened.
Yeah, something is definitely wrong. Not just off, but wrong.
“Country fried steak, mashed potatoes, collards, and fried okra…” I repeat, watching as she pulls the battered steaks from the skillet and places them on a serving platter. Another item I was unaware I owned.
It’s an entire feast. A full-on, traditional Southern Sunday dinner feast. One that has every potential to put me into a food coma. Part of me wonders if that’s her goal.
“Yeah. I…errr…needed to think…” Beaming even brighter, she swivels, holding up the platter, showing off the beautifully golden-brown battered steaks. My mouth waters, the smell almost too much. “And so I thought, why not try cooking?”
Why not try cooking? Oh boy. This doesn’t sound good.
Fuck.
“Maisey, what’s going on?”
Maisey swallows, the muscles in her neck contracting slowly, like a snake moving its prey through its body. Trepidation creeps through me, moving faster and faster the longer she’s silent, standing in the kitchen, holding a plate of skillet-fried meat.
“Let’s go sit down,” she whispers. “We need to talk.”
We need to talk. The last four words any man ever wants to hear.
I take the platter, gesturing for her to lead the way.
I don’t care how much of a hitch there is in my giddyup, as she puts it; I can carry our dinner to the table.
More than that, concentrating on not dropping the food through the pain is a good distraction from the fact that the woman I called my wife in my head a few hours ago just told me we need to talk.
Settling ourselves at the table, we’re both silent as we make our plates, nothing but the clinking of utensils filling the air.
Every inch of me is screaming to know what is going on.
To ask if everything is okay. If we’re okay.
To reach across this table, haul her into me, and hold her, all while promising her that whatever it is, I’ll make it okay.
“I also got a call this afternoon,” she says, breaking the silence. Her voice is small, like she doesn’t know how to say this. So I simply nod, giving her the space to do what she needs to. “From InterCon MediTrust.”
“And you weren’t expecting that?”
“Not with a placement offer.”
I drop my fork, and the clang of it hitting the plate reverberates through the apartment, bouncing off the walls and seeming to echo off into space, making it almost deafening for a second.
A placement offer…
“Reykjavík.”
Reykjavík. Her dream city.
My heart stops. Right along with my breath, all the oxygen sucked out of the room with that one word. The only word that has that power. That could turn our world upside down like this.