42. Zee
When Callan walks into the kitchen, he freezes in the doorway.
I study him then return to my task—frosting a cookie.
He steps toward me, his gaze contemplative. “What are you doing?”
“Use those IQ points to figure it out, Callan.”
“Okay, let me rephrase. Why are you frosting a cookie?”
“Because I want to.”
Directing a line of bright red frosting around the circumference of the sweet treat, I flood the perimeter when that’s done and use a scribe to smooth it out toward the edges. Because the frosting is thinner than usual, I have to work quickly and carefully—I don’t need my brother-in-law distracting me.
“Why though? Is it for a special event?”
“I like doing it.”
And it’s helping to lower my stress levels—I’ve been on edge since Colton was called in for questioning again yesterday.
I know Callan’s been just as stressed. We’re trying not to show it though—Colton’s the only one of us who’s been relatively calm about this whole affair.
His brow furrows. “I’m confused.”
“It’s a hobby, Callan. Jesus.”
“But you’re diabetic!”
“And? Type 1. I could eat them if I wanted to. Anyway, I used gluten-free flour for you.”
“For me?!”
No one could ever accuse him of having a massive ego.
“‘Course. Figured you’d eat as many of them as Colton.” I shove the plate of unfrosted cookies at him. “Have at it.”
He picks one up like it could explode in his hand. “So, why do you want to decorate them?”
“It relaxes me. What is this—twenty questions?” I point at the stool. “Sit. It’s rude to hover.”
He does as I order and continues watching me, one elbow on the counter, his fist propping up his chin as he eats. “What are you doing?”
“I just told you.”
“I mean, what’s going on with the stuff in the bag? The frosting’s wet?”
“Oh.” He’s interested. That I can handle. “This style is called wet on wet. See how the base isn’t dry? When you apply the frosting from the piping bag this way, the two melt into each other and it dries flat.”
“Why does it dry flat?”
“It’s a miracle.”
His nose crinkles. “That’s not an answer.”
“The flood,” I explain, pointing to the base with my scribe, “has to be the same consistency as the piping detail or it can cause little craters. But I can use this tool on my piping lines and make pretty patterns.”
For a few minutes, he’s quiet, just watching me complete the design. Then, he asks, “Did you get Mrs. Abelman’s permission to use her kitchen?”
I hum.
It had been less about getting permission and more about reassuring her that I had no desire to take over the cooking in its entirety—no, thank you.
“She must like you. She wouldn’t leave me in the kitchen when we had to bring in cakes for a bake sale. She did all the work and I got the credit for it.”
“Does that seem fair?”
“No, but I didn’t have to bake so that’s something.”
“Didn’t think you were a cheater, Callan.”
I look up quick enough to catch his scowl. “I didn’t cheat.”
“If you say so.”
His tone is disgruntled as he asks, “Have you thought about who you’re competing for at the Pigeonberry Festival?”
“Huh?”
“For the best pie. Mrs. Abelman always wins best jam,” he boasts.
“Good for her,” I reply, humor pricked.
“So?”
“So?”
“Who are you competing for?!”
I just smile at him. “I don’t think I have a choice.”
He scowls at me then grumbles, “What are you designing?”
“Shoes.”
He points to my camera setup. “Why are you filming it?”
“Accountability.”
“Huh.”
“Huh?”
“Not to post online?”
“Oh, I post it, but that pushes me into doing it. I find it relaxing but I’m not great at scheduling downtime. Posting online pushes me into practicing my hobby.”
“That’s illogical.”
“Who said I was logical?” I taunt, amused because he’s scowling more now. “Did you find out how Fen got loose yet?”
His brow puckers. “Colt’s been on me about that too.”
“Because he wants an answer?—”
“Are you pestering Susanne?”
I don’t stiffen intentionally, but Lindsay never uses ‘Zee’ and it’s pissing me off.
“I’m not pestering Zee, Mum,” Callan corrects with a sniff.
I knew I liked this kid.
Lindsay drifts toward the line of stools and lingers behind Callan. I’m used to Tee’s eyes on me, but this is a whole different audience.
It’s impossible to stop my cheeks turning pink over being the center of their attention.
The silence that settles among us is strange.
It’s probably why we all hear Colton’s voice from the front door as he slams it closed.
“You’ll get your ass home, Cole, or I’ll head to New York myself and drag you here… No. We made arrangements and we’re going ahead with them. You’ll— No. Cole. How many goddamn times do I have to tell you? I don’t care if you’re in the playoffs. Pretend to have the flu.
“Mum’s expecting you too.”
Lindsay clears her throat. “Cole’s?—”
“He thinks I started the fire.” I settle a measured look on her. “I’m used to it.”
“You’re willing to disappoint the whole family because of this?” Colt argues, breaking into our conversation. “I arranged the BBQ and a birthday party for you around the playoffs. I’ve changed the date twice! This one fits in with Callan’s graduation ceremony. You only have to be here twenty-four hours, dammit.
“You think it’s fair to cancel? She’s my wife. Whether you like it or not. Look, this is a big deal. It’s important to me.” He sighs. “It’s not as if I ask a lot of you.”
Callan mutters, “Cole’ll get to know you, Zee, and he’ll realize you didn’t do anything wrong.”
I hitch a shoulder. “He’ll think what he wants, Callan. There’s no changing someone’s mind and he hung, drew, and quartered me a long time ago.”
“It’s not fair though. You didn’t do it.”
“In the name of family unity—” Lindsay tuts. “—Cole should make an effort to come home. I’ll speak with him if Colt can’t get him to.”
“Thank you, Cole. I appreciate it. Honestly, once you get to know her, you’ll realize you were wrong about her. I’ll see you next week. Yeah. Great. Thanks.”
His footsteps echo down the hall, but his head is bowed over his phone as he steps into the kitchen. He jerks back when he finally sees us watching him. His lips form an easy grin as he finds my gaze and then strolls my way.
When he curves an arm around my shoulder, in front of his mother and brother, I can feel my cheeks grow pink again. He busses my temple and I don’t bother to hide how much I like that.
“Colton,” Lindsay greets, her gaze flickering between us. More than aware of this new update. “You persuaded Cole, then?”
“You heard that?” The question’s aimed at her, but I can feel his attention on me.
“We heard everything.”
“It’s fine, Callan. Leave it alone.”
Callan cracks his knuckles. “He better not give you any crap. If he does, Zee, I’ll handle him.”
“You’re gonna defend my wife’s honor, huh? Don’t you think you should let me do that?”
“Depends.”
“On?”
“How low you’re willing to go.”
“Callan,” Lindsay warns.
“What, Mum? Zee’s cool. I don’t think it’s fair to blame her for something she didn’t do.”
“Grief isn’t rational,” I tell him simply. “I’ve been the bad guy for long enough that it’s hard to shift the narrative in his head. Neither of you need to defend my honor. It’ll be fine. I’ll stay out?—”
“No,” Colton interrupts. “You won’t. This is your home. You won’t hide away. I’ll handle him.” To Callan, he orders, “Leave it with me.”
Callan sniffs but the conversation shifts tracks when Lindsay asks him if he wants to watch a movie with her. I can sense Colt’s surprise when he agrees, but it means that we’re alone in the kitchen once they’re gone.
“You know I won’t let him be hard on you, right?”
“I know that you don’t have to worry about it if he is.”
He leans against the island, meaning that he can look at me more easily. “Would you let someone talk shit about me?”
“You know this is different?—”
“No. It isn’t. Anyway, I’m going to tell him about the will.”
My hand cramps around the piping bag as I over-squeeze, and a blob of frosting floods the segment I’m working on. Turning off my camera, I decide it’s wiser to give it a rest before I ruin the design I’ve been concentrating on for the last forty-five minutes.
Wiggling my fingers, I ask, “You think this is the best timing?”
“Doesn’t matter if it isn’t. Cody and Cole need to know.”
“Callan doesn’t? He’s eighteen.”
He rubs his eyes. “I keep forgetting.”
“Easily done. He’s been eighteen for two seconds and under eighteen for eighteen years.”
My teasing has his lips quirking so when our gazes clash, I smile at him.
“You invite your family to the BBQ yet?”
My smile turns into a grimace. “I have.”
“Your grand-mère’s not coming?”
“Carson said he’s working on her and, to be honest, I don’t want to know how.”
Laughing, he chucks me under the chin. “It’ll be fine.”
“She has two choices.” I peep at him. “Tee said she’ll come.”
“That’ll be interesting.”
“One way of putting it.”
“I’m heading into town.” He picks up a sugar cookie. I can’t hide my delight when he hums in pleasure as he takes a bite. “Goddamn that’s good. So much better than Mrs. Abelman’s.” Before I can glow bright red, he drawls, “Do you want to come with me?”
“God, that’s the last thing I want to do.”
“All the more reason to rip the Band-Aid off. I need to head into the General Store. We can grab you some boots then we could get something to eat at The Coffee Shop.” He shuffles over to me. “Like a date.”
“Really?”
His elbow nudges mine. “You like the idea of that?”
“Of course I do. It’s what my teenage self dreamed of.”
“Your teenage self was pretty innocent if that’s how low you sank into depravity.”
“For us, that is depraved. A McAllister and a Korhonen? In Pigeon Creek? On a date?”
“True. Positively risqué.” He smirks. “How about it then? Let’s be depraved together.”
A tingle whispers through me. That smile… it’s so good to be in the shadow of it. To be the reason for it.
“Okay then.”