22. Zee
Colt might not see it, but he’s very much like his brother. Even if Callan is so brutally honest, it’s painful. A trait the older sibling doesn’t share.
Colt’s quiet and watchful. Humorous when he’s relaxed but stoic. Ever the responsible adult. Callan’s still a kid, but I learn he’s unafraid to speak his mind when he feels safe.
I guess I should be honored considering I’ve known him ninety minutes and since I came into the kitchen, he hasn’t shut up once.
Tee has a similar MO so the white noise is comforting. This certainly isn’t my home, but Callan’s chatter makes me feel less alone on new turf.
“Coffee?”
“Please,” I say with a smile to the housekeeper, though nerves have me toying with my wedding band and engagement ring.
Colt carrying me over the threshold has only made this worse… in a good way?
Man, I don’t know.
It was a blip of normality in a field of bizarre chaos, which highlighted one truth—this kid that neither of us expected to have before last week, especially with one another, both of us are committing to them.
Mrs. Abelman’s grunt distracts me as she places a china cup alongside a matching dish of sugar complete with a silver milk jug in front of me.
It’s oddly…
Huh.
Of course.
British.
Just like Callan and Colt’s mother.
As I doctor my coffee with milk, I smile. “You should probably know that I’m type 1 diabetic.”
“I know for the future,” is her stiff reply, but the sugar pot is swept away as if by magic and plunked between Colt and Callan, who add four sugars a piece to theirs.
Ida Abelman’s an odd duck.
Cold and stark, she fits in with the Korhonens.
I get the sense Callan feels doubly ‘safe’ because she’s around. While she isn’t effusive, she pats him on the shoulder and speaks to him like he’s still a child, though she doesn’t stop him from cursing if he drops an F-bomb here and there.
For obvious reasons, her tone’s maternal.
Everyone knows about the custody agreement Clyde battered over his ex’s head.
Literally.
We all saw the bruises.
Like cowards, we let it go on as well.
Some community we are.
“I’ll do my research, of course, but how can I accommodate your dietary restrictions?”
“I tend to eat low carb, but that’s it.”
“We can talk later about routines you want to integrate and?—”
My brows lift. “Routines?”
“You’re the lady of Seven Cs Abbey,” Colt teases, his lips twitching though he doesn’t bother looking up from his phone.
“The chatelaine,” Callan corrects.
“The what now?”
“Chatelaine, Colt.” Callan jabs a finger at him. “It doesn’t take an IQ of?—”
“I only have a master’s degree, Callan. I’m too dumb to talk to you.”
The corners of Ida’s mouth flicker.
Slightly.
“Less infighting, you two.” She takes a dainty sip of coffee. “Callan, we know your IQ is high. We knew it before you were tested. Stop bringing it up.”
Callan’s sigh is long-suffering. “I don’t bring it up.”
“Objection,” Colt rumbles.
I cough out a laugh.
Ida smiles. “Sustained.”
“This explains so much, you guys.” Callan pouts. “It’s why I don’t fit in with people.”
“That’s because you prefer computers and horses to humans, Callan. Don’t whitewash the last eighteen years and pretend otherwise.”
Ida’s tone is so droll, I outright grin. “What’s your IQ, Callan?”
“159.” His gaze turns earnest. “It’s why real people don’t like me.”
Because I thought he’d be cocky and he isn’t, more distressed, I tut. “I’m sure that’s not true.”
“He has a habit of calling people idiots.” Colt’s brow furrows at something he’s reading on his cell. “That doesn’t help.”
I hide my smile behind my coffee cup. “What do you mean by ‘real people?’”
“Not online ones.”
“Oh, you mean most of your friends are online?”
“Yeah. Do you know what a chatelaine is?” Callan inquires. “I won’t call you an idiot if you don’t.”
I riffle through my memory. “They’re the women who ran estates, I think. They wore a chain around their waists that held the keys to the doors of their homes.”
Thankful I’m not an idiot, Callan beams with pleasure. “Correct!”
“Ten points to Zee,” Colt mocks, but he winks at me.
It’s more charming than I’d like to admit.
This whole thing is.
His ease with his kid brother. How Ida sits with us at the table and chides Callan for calling a ranch hand a moron earlier.
It feels like family.
Man, it’s been a long time since I had a glimmer of this.
Grand-mèretried. I’ll give her that. But Mom and Dad were keystones. The triplets never got to experience it in the same way Walker and I did.
This is also comforting.
It lets me sit back in my chair and relax more than I thought I’d be able to in enemy territory.
“As I was saying before Callan interrupted with his version of Jeopardy. We can talk later about routines you want to integrate.”
“Which routines in particular, Ida?”
“When you’d like to pick out menus?—”
“Menus?” I interrupt in confusion as Callan heads out to use the bathroom.
“We can agree on them a week in advance.”
I shake my head. “Grand-mère used to be this formal before she turned eighty. I truly don’t miss those days. You do what you need to do, Ida. I won’t be here for long so it’s not fair for you to change your routines for me.”
“That’s quite defeatist,” Ida remarks.
Awkwardly, I cast a look at Colt.
He’s still staring at his phone.
Just when I think he won’t say a word, he rumbles, “This might be business, Zee…” His gaze finally lifts. Our eyes lock. “But you must treat this like your home. This is where our child will be raised whether we’re together or not—even if it’s only part of the time. If nothing else, make yourself comfortable here.”
Before I can sputter a response, he stands. The movement is pure grace. Years of horseback riding are evident in his elegant posture. His strength.
“I need to change clothes and visit HQ,” he informs the room at large and nobody in particular.
I watch him go.
Unsure why I feel like I disappointed him but knowing I have, I wish with every foolish part of my being that I was back in his arms and he was carrying me upstairs to make me his for real.
God, my stupidity knows no bounds.
Just like always, he’s pushing me away… and it’s all my fault.