Chapter 42
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Romeo
By six o’clock, I’d spent most of the day arguing with a supplier over a shipment of pavers that had arrived in the wrong fucking color, explaining to one of my crews that decorative gravel and river rock were not interchangeable, and listening to a homeowner insist the maple tree we planted three years ago was somehow our responsibility because squirrels kept climbing it.
Some days, owning a landscaping company made club business seem easy.
I shut down the computer in my office and leaned back in the chair, rubbing both hands over my face.
The shop had gone quiet nearly an hour ago.
My crews were gone, the equipment was locked up, and the last of the October daylight had faded beyond the windows while I finished invoices I’d ignored all afternoon.
Normally, I liked the quiet after everyone left. It gave me a chance to get shit done without somebody knocking on my door every five minutes with a problem they could’ve solved themselves.
Lately, quiet came with its own problem.
It left too much room for Virginia.
I reached for my phone and found a picture waiting from Fiona.
Granny stood in a kitchen beside a basket overflowing with tomatoes, one hand planted on her hip while she stared directly at the camera with an expression that said she had either grown every damn one herself or was prepared to take credit for whoever had.
Ma Belle: Granny wants to know if Nebraska has good tomatoes
I smiled as I stood and reached for my jacket.
Me: I’m a landscaper, not a farmer.
Her answer appeared before I made it out of the office.
Ma Belle: That sounds like an excuse
Me: Tell Granny Nebraska has excellent tomatoes.
Ma Belle: Have you personally grown one?
I locked the office door behind me.
Me: That wasn’t the question.
Ma Belle: Jasper.
I laughed as I crossed the yard toward my truck.
Me: Fiona.
Ma Belle: Have you ever grown a tomato?
I climbed behind the wheel but didn’t start the engine.
Me: I’ve successfully purchased several.
Ma Belle: Fraud
Me: Never claimed vegetable expertise.
Ma Belle: Tomatoes are fruit.
I stared at the screen.
Me: I liked you better before you became argumentative.
Ma Belle: No, you didn’t
She was right.
The Fiona I’d met in December had been careful with nearly everything she said. The sarcasm had been there from the beginning, but she used to pause before letting it loose, as though she needed to decide whether the person on the receiving end could handle it.
That caution had disappeared with me.
Now she insulted me regularly, called me on my bullshit without hesitation, and had apparently decided exposing my lack of agricultural experience was tonight’s entertainment.
I fucking loved it.
Me: Not even a little.
Ma Belle: Granny says you can’t be trusted.
Me: Granny liked me last time I was there.
Ma Belle: She didn’t know about your tomato deception
Me: I’ll win her back.
Ma Belle: How?
Me: Southern charm.
Ma Belle: She’s immune.
Me: Nobody’s immune.
Ma Belle: I am
I started the truck and let it idle while I looked at that blatant lie.
Me: Baby, you kissed me.
Her response took longer.
Ma Belle: That proves nothing.
Me: It proved several things.
Ma Belle: You’re impossible.
Me: And yet you’re still here.
I pulled out of the lot and set the phone in the console. The clubhouse wasn’t far, but the last message stayed with me during the drive.
Still here.
For months, I’d tried not to put too much weight on that. Fiona could’ve stopped answering at any point. She could’ve decided the distance was hard, the age difference was too much, or having a biker constantly inserting himself into her day was more trouble than it was worth.
Instead, she kept answering.
More than that, lately she’d started reaching for me first.
The kiss in Rosewood had changed something between us. Not because kissing automatically meant commitment. I’d kissed enough women in my life to know better than that. With Fiona, it had simply stripped away the last excuse either of us had for pretending we were only friends who flirted too much.
When I pulled into the clubhouse lot, another message was waiting.
Ma Belle: Unfortunately.
I smiled as I climbed out.
Me: You planning to stay?
The question was sent before I decided exactly what I meant by it.
I stood beside the truck, staring at the screen as the three dots appeared, disappeared, then returned.
Ma Belle: Where?
Me: Here.
Ma Belle: In this text conversation?
A laugh slipped out.
Me: Coward.
Ma Belle: You taught me
Fair enough.
I went inside.
The common room was loud without being chaotic.
Blade and Indie were arguing near the pool table over a shot neither of them seemed to have witnessed correctly.
Mimic sat at the bar ignoring both of them with the concentration of someone who had perfected that particular skill over years.
Gunner glanced up when I came in, gave me a nod, then returned to his phone.
I grabbed a beer and took an empty table near the wall.
Me: Fine. Different question.
Ma Belle: That sounds dangerous
Me: What are you doing for Christmas?
Her answer came almost immediately.
Ma Belle: It’s October
Me: I’m aware.
Ma Belle: Are you one of those people who starts decorating before Thanksgiving?
Me: Hell no.
Ma Belle: Good.
Me: My mama would disown me.
Ma Belle: Your mother has rules?
I snorted.
Rules didn’t begin to cover it.
Mama had commandments.
Me: About everything.
Ma Belle: I like her already
The idea of Fiona meeting my mother made me pause with the beer halfway to my mouth.
Mama would probably know before I finished introducing them.
La Croix women had an irritating gift for seeing things a man would rather explain in his own time. Wade liked to claim they could smell the curse from across a room. I’d always thought he was full of shit.
Now I wasn’t so sure.
If Fiona ever stood in front of my mother, I’d be lucky if Mama waited until Fiona was out of earshot before asking when I planned to make things permanent.
Me: Christmas is loud in my family.
Ma Belle: How loud?
Me: Too many people. Too much food. Somebody arguing. Somebody crying. Kids everywhere. At least three people threatening to leave and nobody actually leaving.
Ma Belle: That sounds kind of perfect
I leaned back in the chair.
There were some texts I could hear in her voice. That was one of them. Soft. A little wistful.
Me: What does yours look like?
Ma Belle: Granny cooks.
Me: Of course.
Ma Belle: Frank and Claudia come over with the kids. Georgie and Josie too. Everyone brings too much food even though Granny tells them not to.
Me: Sounds familiar.
Ma Belle: Kids everywhere.
Me: Better.
Ma Belle: Charlie usually crashes before dessert because he refuses to nap
I smiled at the name.
Charlie had become part of our conversations so naturally that I knew more about the kid than some of my actual relatives.
Dinosaurs. Chocolate milk. An ongoing refusal to wear matching socks.
Apparently, he’d recently decided forks were unnecessary for macaroni and cheese because fingers worked perfectly well.
Fiona talked about all the kids in her family with affection, but Charlie was different. Something always softened in the way she spoke about him.
I’d noticed months ago.
I’d never asked why.
There were still pieces of Fiona she kept tucked close, and I’d learned that pulling at them only made her hold on tighter. Whatever she wanted me to know would come when she was ready to hand it over.
Me: Smart man.
Ma Belle: He gets mean when he’s tired.
Me: Still smart.
Ma Belle: You would encourage him
Me: Obviously.
Ma Belle: This is why you’re not in charge of children.
Me: Says who?
Ma Belle: Me.
Me: We’ll revisit that decision.
I looked at the message after I sent it. We’d talked about kids before, but that conversation had been vague enough to hide behind. Someday. Somebody. A future neither of us had attached to the other.
This one sounded different.
Apparently, Fiona thought so too.
Ma Belle: We will?
My attention sharpened.
Me: You tell me, Cher.
Ma Belle: You’re the one making plans again.
Me: I’m asking questions.
Ma Belle: Very suspicious questions
Me: You answered.
Ma Belle: Maybe I’m curious.
Me: About?
Ma Belle: Things.
I laughed.
Me: You really love that word.
Ma Belle: It’s useful.
Me: It’s evasive.
Ma Belle: Says the man who refuses to tell me where the imaginary house is.
That stopped me.
I read the message again, grinning slowly.
She’d been thinking about the house after our conversation ended.
The giant kitchen. Library. Two porches. That fucking porch light that had reached into my chest because I understood exactly what she meant without needing her to explain it.
Me: Thought we established Nebraska.
Ma Belle: You established Nebraska.
Me: You added it to the weather app yet?
Silence.
My grin widened.
Me: Fiona?
Ma Belle: Maybe.
I laughed loud enough that Mimic looked over from the bar.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
His gaze dropped to the phone in my hand.
“Sure.”
I flipped him off and went back to the screen.
Me: You did.
Ma Belle: I was curious!
Me: About the weather.
Ma Belle: Exactly.
Me: Absolutely nothing else.
Ma Belle: Nope.
Me: How cold is it here right now?
Her answer took a few seconds.
Ma Belle: Fifty-four.
I opened my weather app.
Fifty-four.
Me: You’re stalking my weather.
Ma Belle: Don’t make it weird
Me: Too late. I’m flattered.
Ma Belle: I’m deleting it.
Me: Liar.
Ma Belle: You don’t know that.
Me: I know you.
The three dots disappeared.
For a while, neither of us sent anything.
The silence didn’t bother me. Somewhere along the way, Fiona and I had stopped treating every gap in a conversation as something that needed filling. We could leave each other sitting for ten minutes, an hour, sometimes longer, then pick up exactly where we left off.
I took another drink and looked around the clubhouse.
This was home.