Chapter 8 #2
He barks out a laugh, and a bird scatters from a tree next to us.
“Not since we left and barely before that. Iverson was almost fourteen when we went to live with her. I had just turned eight. They both think I should be the one with zero contact.” His brows pull together like they were when he was on the phone. “She left because of me.”
His admission rips right through my ribs like a sharp, narrow blade. He’s saying it like it’s a fact. “Haven. I don’t know what happened, but I know that’s not true. You were just a kid.”
“I was a baby. Three young boys, and she said I was the last straw.”
I don’t like his mom. Not at all. “Your brothers are trying to protect you.”
He shrugs. “She’s my mom, and she took us in when it was critical. I won’t forget that. Not after going into the foster system. Like I said, we got lucky with the Baileys, but it was a stressful time.”
Stressful, says the grown man. To a kid who was seven and had just lost his dad? Terrifying. So his mom swoops in like a savior, but she’s someone his brothers don’t want to have in their lives.
I can’t imagine what that’s like. Mom and I only had each other, but she was the best mother I could’ve asked for. “You get caught between her and your brothers.”
“I don’t recommend it.”
“I’ll keep your secret, but I can’t argue with your brothers’ concerns. They care about you.” A little scared Haven burrows right in next to my heart. I want to hug the younger and older versions of him closer. His mom had a life that I dream about, and she abandoned it.
“They’re at a point in their lives where they need to care about themselves and the families they’re starting.”
He’s a good man. Seeing this side of him makes me less cautious around the commitment-phobe in him.
A warning bell should be going off, but it’s not.
Not when I’m enjoying the gorgeous weather with a guy like him.
“Someday, I strive to be where your brothers are and not unemployed, dumped, and bunking with an old bachelor bull rider who didn’t tell anyone he has a daughter. ”
His lips quirk. “I’ve heard that’s not recommended either.”
“Neither is his coffee, FYI. In case he ever offers you a cup.”
“That bad?”
“Unless you like it as hot as molten lava and as strong and bitter as battery acid.”
“You’ve only piqued my interest, Red. Is the cup also a dubious level of clean?”
My laugh is carried off on the breeze. He’s grinning, with those sexy crinkles at the corners of his eyes. The fishing rods are slung over a shoulder, and the backdrop of the river and grasses only enhances his outdoorsy ruggedness. “This is where we’re going to take your pictures.”
Surprised, he looks around and nods. “Sounds like a plan, Red.”
Haven
I load everything into the back of the pickup that I took out of it four hours ago.
“I can’t believe we actually caught something.” She sounds as stunned as she was when she first realized she had a fish on the other end of her line.
“ You caught two fish. Didn’t tell me you’re a pro angler.”
“I’m not, but then I never tried.”
I almost ask her when we can go again, but that might scare her off. My stomach rumbles. She only put her pole down during our small snack break and picked up her camera instead. She must be hungry too. “Now we need to eat these. How about a fish fry?”
Her smile falls. “I told Papa I’d work at the bar.”
“It won’t take long. Those beef sticks aren’t enough for dinner.”
“You mean those beef sticks that were labeled with Hennessy Beef?”
“Only the best for you, Red.”
She shoots me a mock scowl and takes her hat off.
Some of her coppery strands have escaped the hold of her ponytail and flutter around her face.
My reflection shines back at me from her sunglasses.
I look more casual than I feel. If she joins me, it’d be at my place.
She’s been there before. It’s not a big deal.
Good fish fillets shouldn’t be kept waiting, and she’s the one who caught them.
She should enjoy her work. So yeah, I’m using our trout as my bait.
She tucks some stray strands behind her ear. “I should get going. Clean up a little before work.”
Damn. “All right. Let me know when we can take my pictures.”
“Wednesday.”
She planned it already? Is she looking forward to it? As much as I cringe when I think about saying cheese or some shit in front of her, I like having a set date to see her again. “See you then, Red.”
I might’ve added a suggestive purr, but I can’t help it. I want her to like me, and it’s not like I’ve had girls for friends before. I’ve been friendly with them, but this thing with Prescott is different. Maybe it helps that she’s basically passing through.
Her lips part before she shakes her head and starts for her driver’s door. “See you then, Hennessy. ”
The way my last name rolls off those ripe lips is going to stick with me when it’s not convenient.
After she drives away, I get in my pickup and take off home.
What am I going to do with the fish? Hunger grumbles in my stomach again.
They’re both okay-sized trout, about what I’d expect this time of year.
If I fry them up, I’m just going to think about her, and I’ve been doing too much of that lately for a guy who isn’t interested in long-term relationships.
At my house, I unload all of the fishing gear in my garage and let Meadow out to use the bathroom. She runs around my feet, delighted I’m home.
“Hey, girl.” I wait until she’s done on the lawn before I let her into the house.
My gaze tracks across my clean house. I replaced the flooring shortly after I moved in and installed new windows.
The doors have been replaced too, and the walls hold a new coat of paint.
It’s an old place, and it could use more remodeling, but it’s clean and tidy.
For all the guests who aren’t going to see it. Especially one tall, curvy redhead.
Meadow’s paws tap across the floor, and loud, sloppy sounds of her drinking water fill the air. I set the backpack and cooler on the counter.
My doorbell rings.
Did I miss a note from my brothers about stopping over? Even then, they just knock before opening the door and shouting for me. They know I never have anyone over. I check my phone on the way to the door. Nothing.
I open it to Prescott twisting her hands together. She’s taken her sunglasses off, and her blue eyes dart around.
“I mean, I have to eat dinner anyway,” she says with no other preamble .
A wide grin overtakes my face. She changed her mind and ended up on my doorstep. “I’ll make it quick.”
It’s the only thing I’d do quickly with her.
Meadow runs to her, droplets dripping from her chin.
“Look at you,” Prescott coos, uncaring about the water splatter and squats down. “Such a pretty girl.”
“Go ahead and spoil her while I get some fish fried up.”
I work in the kitchen, dragging dishes and batter ingredients out. When she’s done petting Meadow, she ducks into the bathroom right off the hallway and returns. She creeps to the table, looking all over like she’s trying to be subtle about gawking.
“I’m using my dad’s recipe.” I’ve never cooked it for anyone before, but it’s the only one I’ve ever made.
“Is it a secret?”
“Only in that nothing’s measured.”
“Ah, the ol’ go-with-your-heart measuring spoons. My mom liked to use those.”
“What’s your secret family recipe?” I dredge the fillets and put them into the hot oil. Sizzling fills the air.
“Mom made a killer lasagna. And short ribs. Then there’s her birthday cake recipe.”
“Vanilla or chocolate?”
“Marble. Homemade marble cake is nothing like store-bought. Not with Mom’s recipe. What’s your favorite flavor?”
“Don’t really do birthday cakes.”
“What?” She stands and charges to the opposite side of the counter where it wings out from the wall. She has to duck to see me from under the cabinets mounted overhead. “How do you not do birthday cakes?”
“Our birthdays were always low-key.” Her attention prickles over me, and the back of my neck heats. Time to get off this topic. It’s one I’ve never explored, and I don’t want to. “Care for a drink? I’ve got whiskey, of course. Vodka and gin. A beer?”
“The distiller drinks beer?”
“If it’s fermented, I’ll drink it. But I won’t pay five bucks for a bottle of kombucha.”
“Especially since a distiller can make his own.” She waves off the topic. “Back to the cake. Your birthday isn’t a big deal? When is it?”
Too close. “In a few weeks. It’s on a Saturday this year.” I made sure I’m working that day. It’s too close to the wedding for Durban and Campbell to get distracted. “You could say the wedding is a birthday gift.”
Her expression turns dismayed, and she leans farther over the counter. “They’re getting married on your birthday?”
“No, the week after.” I’m not sure what’s upsetting her. There’ll be guests and cake. For the wedding, but it’s not like I’ll be sitting home alone. “It’s just my birthday.”
Her jaw drops, and a squeak leaves her. “Just your birthday? Are you going to tell me next that it’s only Christmas?”
I give my head a shake and turn the fillets over. “Holidays are a big deal for you, aren’t they?”
“Yes.” She sticks her index finger in the air. “First, Mom would always rouse out of her doldrums to put on a big shindig. Special cake. Wrapped presents. Good food.” She rolls her eyes and moans. My gut clenches. “The best food. She cooked so much, and it was usually just the two of us.”
What food? If I make it, can I get that moan again? “Good food. What else?”
She sticks up a second finger. “Holidays were some of the only days I got off from work. When I did photography, holiday shoots were before the holidays, so I usually never had to work. And I never scheduled sessions on my birthday. Those were to be spent with my mom.”
“She sounds pretty special.”
“She was. Fuck cancer.” She adds a third finger. “And then when I got into influencing, I kept it up. No matter how much I chased views and content and algorithms, I kept the no-holidays rule, including my birthday. Mom said she was proud of me.”
“Good.”
“Thanks.” Fleeting sadness passes over her face before her earlier holiday fervor returns. “So if I’m still here—and judging by my tips, I will be—you’re getting a marbled cake for your birthday. A birthday cake for a fish fry. No!”
I almost startle at her shout. “No?”
“What’s your favorite meal?”
I fight with my brain to keep my thoughts off her body and on her question. She’s flush with excitement, and while the fried fish smells divine, my hunger is less food-related.
Her. She could very well be my favorite meal, and I don’t know it. “Anything beef.”
“You can get that all the time, Hennessy beef. What don’t you usually make for yourself?”
“Ribs.”
“Ribs and birthday cake.” She crosses her arms. Don’t look at her tits. Don’t look, goddammit . “Who would you want at your party?”
My gut clenches, wiping away the urge to dive headfirst into her generous cleavage. “No one.” Everyone showing up, just for me? Making a big deal out of what’s usually a normal day, other than the dozen cupcakes I pick up from Dee’s Sweets? I shudder. “No. No party.”
“Okay,” she says lightly, like she’s coaxing me out of a ditch. “It’s fine. Food only.”
“And you.”
Her lips curve up. “Well, I have to cook.”
“And you have to eat with me.”
“I’m not going to fight you when it comes to ribs and cake.”
“Good. I don’t want the drama.” Which used to come with birthdays.
Some sort of conflict or nothing, no in between.
One more set day with Prescott. What about the time from the photo shoot to my birthday?
Three weeks I can fill with Prescott. I think back to our conversation. “We still need an old movie.”
“Then I would have to think of something else.”
I watch the breaded fish cook. I’m not giving up. Something she said earlier comes back. “I haven’t had lasagna in years.”
“How many years?”
“Does the box stuff from the store count?”
She makes a gagging motion. “No. Ew. Okay. I’ll get the ingredients, and I can cook for you.”
“At Silas’s place?”
Color leeches from her face. “I feel like Papa would have words.”
I pull the fillets out and onto a rack to drain the oil. Then I move the pan and shut the burner off. The whole time, I’m suppressing a grin. The only place she can make that lasagna is right here, in this kitchen. For me.