Chapter 12 #2
I wince. Damn. “I’ve got the ranch.” Look at that. Mom’s made me a good liar.
She sniffs. “Sure. Listen, my building manager’s giving me a hard time about a rent increase.”
My stomach falls like a brick. She’s not calling to check on me or my brothers. She needs money. “That sucks.”
“It does.” She lets out a dramatic sigh, and I steel myself for the ask. “Can I borrow the difference? I’m supposed to get a raise at work, and then I can take care of the increase on the apartment that asshole refuses to maintain.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “How much?”
“Two hundred.”
That’s not the most she’s asked for, but the number doesn’t make sense. “They raised your rent that much a month?”
“Well, you know, they worked out a little payment system for me. I got a little behind.”
What about the money I sent her last month? I shake my head. I learned a long time ago not to ask what she did with it all. She doesn’t drink, gamble, or do drugs. The rest isn’t my business. “All right. I can send you some.”
“When’s Durban getting hitched? ”
I rub between my eyes again. “You’ll have to ask him.”
“So they are getting married,” she says in a gotcha tone.
“No, Mom,” I say patiently. “I’ve told you before that anything you want to know about him or Iverson has to come from them.”
“And after all I did for them.”
They would argue differently. “Hey, I’ve gotta go. I’m meeting someone for lunch.”
“You’re going to send that cash first?”
No questions about my life? “Sure. Give me a few minutes.”
“You know, I’m going to be in Billings for some training next week. You should meet me there. Buy me some lunch.” She makes it sound like she’s joking, but I will buy her lunch, and she’ll take the receipt to get reimbursed. Still, I can’t resist.
“Tell me when and what time.”
“Yep.” She disconnects.
I stare at my screen. It’s an image from right out my front door. Sweeping pastures, my red barn, and foothills in the background. Then I notice the time.
Shit. I grab my hat and charge down the stairs and out the door. Within five minutes, I’m turning down my driveway. Her car’s by my garage, and the knots from my mom’s call loosen.
What would this be like every day?
Honey, I’m home. You probably don’t want to ask about my day. Here’s some money.
I toss my hat on the front seat and push a hand through my hair. This is just a simple lunch. A homemade meal. Part of our swap.
I enter my place to a savory, garlicky smell that’s never emanated from my kitchen before and instantly feel lighter. Meadow lopes up to me, and I stoop to scratch her head. Then I go in search of Prescott. When I turn out of the living room, I stop, my mouth dry.
Prescott’s bent over the oven, ass in the air, all round and full. “Look at you, you gorgeous, cheesy wench.” She does a little wiggle that sends lust straight to my groin.
Her jeans shorts ride up in the back, and I’m never going to get the image of her thighs out of my head.
She sets the pan on a hot pad, drops the oven mitts by a tray of breadsticks, and dusts her hands. Her hair is piled in a floppy bun on top of her head. She turns, sees me, and adopts a big smile. “Just in time.”
“I had a call. Sorry.”
“No worries. You were working.”
“It was my mom.”
Her pink lips form a perfect O . “Bad?”
The call was average. “She’s trying to get out of me what’s going on with Durban and Campbell.” But not with me.
“You held strong?”
“She’s the one who taught me how to skirt around the truth.”
“Which is why you don’t want to feel like you ever have to lie otherwise.” She spins around to inspect her work. “You know, like not leading anyone on. You’re upfront.”
“That’s not…” Hell, is it? Prescott has daddy issues, and I have mommy issues. It’s not like we don’t know that. But I don’t like hearing it out loud. I’m my own guy. “Smells delicious,” I say instead. “Looks just as good.”
She does that wiggle again, and I almost groan. “I hope you think it tastes even better. I use more cheese than the original recipe calls for, but I’m a hussy for melted cheese. ”
What else is she a hussy for? Can I find out? “Let me wash up, and I’ll help— Oh. You already set the table.”
She’s been in my home, finding what she needs. Something about that sticks with me, sinking in like a soothing heat. When I return, the lasagna and breadsticks are on the table. She set our same spots that we ate in last time. Our chairs are farther apart than last time. No more kissing. Got it.
“Go ahead and sit. I’ll dish up.” She cuts through the steaming lasagna, and I snatch a breadstick.
Warm and fluffy, the flavor is perfect. I should’ve waited, but I can’t regret it. “Where’d you get these?”
“Made them.”
“No shit?”
“It’s easy. I can show you.” She puts a square heap of food on my plate.
“I don’t bake, Red.” My stomach growls, and I drag the breadstick through the red sauce and chomp off another bite. Fuck me. Eating her cooking is going to be as dangerous as putting my mouth on her. There’s nothing I won’t do to get a sample. “’S good.”
I take my fork and dig in. Goddamn. This is a party on my taste buds.
I like quality, homemade food after all the canned food I grew up on, but when I cook at home, it’s a lot of meat.
I don’t bother even cooking many veggies unless I can throw them in with the beef, pork, or whatever protein I’m making.
I chow through my first piece and soon dig out a second, adding another breadstick. The self-satisfied smile on her face is enough to tempt me to eat the whole tray.
She finishes before me and wipes her mouth. “Oh my gosh, that was good, if I do say so myself. Mind if I snuggle the kittens for a while before I head back to town? I washed everything while the lasagna was cooking, so you can just toss your plate into the dishwasher.”
She’s leaving? Already?
Disappointment fills the rest of my stomach, and I can’t add another bite. It’s not all about me. She’s spent hours here, and she probably worked last night. She probably works tonight too. “I feel like I need to tip you for this.”
“Kitten cuddles are enough. I can bring Meadow outside with me.” She puts her silverware on her plate with her napkin and pushes her chair back.
She’s not here to entertain me, but I like talking to her, and I’ve already missed the rest of her time here. “What if I choke on a breadstick?”
My gut’s going to burst, and I’ll need a nap, but I grab another breadstick and take a bite.
It works. She doesn’t rise. “You need me around for the Heimlich?”
“Maybe mouth-to-mouth,” I say around my mouthful.
Her laughter tinkles through the room. She selects another breadstick. “What if I swallow wrong?”
I catch the groan before it leaves me. To make things worse, I’m enraptured as she slips the breadstick between her lips and bites through it.
“I’m good at mouth-to-mouth,” I say gutturally.
She cocks a red brow. “The Heimlich would be what I’d need.”
I recline in my chair, food forgotten. “I just so happen to be good at wrapping my arms around a woman and thrusting.”
Her throat works, and she tries to swallow, then sputters and coughs. The breadstick drops to the floor.
Shit. I get up, and she holds a hand up, using the other one to press against her lips. When she’s breathing normally, she shakes her head. “Hennessy, you’re going to get me in trouble with that mouth.”
“It’d be my pleasure—and yours.”
Her gaze turns alarmed before she starts giggling. “I don’t know whether to be scared or hope I choke for real.”
“No dying on my watch, Red. I like your company.”
“That’s a shame. I only put up with you.”
I smile and recline again, secure that she won’t need life-saving measures. “I’m a hard guy to be around.”
“Must be those muscles. They get hard to look at.”
“I understand.” I can’t stop my gaze before it dips down to the barest hint of cleavage teasing me from her collar. “I happen to like some soft padding.”
She barks out a laugh, and I flinch. I wasn’t joking.
“Anyway,” she drawls. “I really should get going. Papa wants to talk about touring studio spaces in Billings next week.”
“You made your decision?”
“No.” She gives me a wry smile. “Papa’s offered to help cover expenses until I’m set up, and it’s hard to tell him no when he wants to help.”
She’s getting the support she didn’t get growing up. We go quiet, but the urge to talk about my phone call with my mom rises. I can’t go to my brothers. They’ll just tell me that I should quit answering, and they don’t understand that I can’t.
“Speaking of Billings.” The delicious lunch I just ate turns to a lead ball in my gut. She’s going to tell me to quit answering too. “My mom’s going there for some training, and she wants me to meet up with her.”
Prescott studies my face. “Are you looking forward to it? ”
“No.” My answer leaves my lips before I think about her question. “Maybe?”
She nods but doesn’t respond. If she’s waiting for me to talk, it’s not necessary. I don’t have anything to say about Mom, the phone call, or Billings. But I’m glad I told Prescott. A weight is gone that was there before.
“Want to make another swap?” she asks softly.
Anything. “Name it.”
“I’ll tell you about my visit to Billings, and you tell me about yours.”
Another give and take. More importantly, the acid in my stomach calms at the thought. “It’s a deal, Red.”