Chapter 2
Kaleb
I know who she is.
Watching Brooke Braham glide down the seashell driveway, I take in her silky dark hair. The curve of her hips. The way her small, sandaled feet seem to float without touching the ground.
Yeah, I’ve read her bestselling self-help book. Heard a few of her podcasts, too, and sometimes I skim through her column when Lucy sends links she thinks I should read. Topics like “Forgiving parents’ frailties,” and “When moms aren’t wired for mothering,” and “When your sister’s smarter than you are.”
Pretty sure Luce made up that last one.
The rest of them feel fucking heavy, which is why I replay Brooke’s words as she walks to my truck.
Sparkle tits?
Drunk dancing with nipple tassels?
That’s a totally different Brooke Braham.
“Kaleb?” It’s tough not to glance at her chest as she opens my passenger door. “You’re my tow truck driver?”
“Yeah.” My inner jackass wants to ask if she sees any other tow trucks around, but I don’t. That’s the difference between me and my grumpy-ass brother. Unlike Jake, I’m not an asshole. Mostly.
Brooke stands gripping the top of my door, sea mist dusting her hair like diamonds. Her eyes seem wary as she watches me, waiting for…for what?
Guess I should say more than yeah . “Your assistant said you need a car re-keyed.”
“That’s right.” She bites her lip. “We’ll need to tow it someplace to do that?”
“It’s a newer Audi?” When she nods, I break it to her gently. “The good news is that it’s quick to program a new key fob. The bad news is that only an Audi dealer can do it.”
“Oh.” She does her best to look stoic, but I don’t miss the deep fatigue in her sea-gray eyes. “Where’s the closest dealer?”
That’s another bit of bad news. “Salem,” I admit. “About two hours from here.” I hate how her face falls. This woman’s going through it, whatever it is. “But the good news is we don’t need to drag the car there. They can program a new fob based on your purchase records, registration, anything proving you’re the rightful owner.”
I already ran the VIN number to know the car’s paid off in Brooke’s name. I might look like a dimwit grease monkey, but I’m always six steps ahead.
“I have all the paperwork,” she says. “Maybe my assistant can run to Salem. Or—I should Uber there myself.” Brooke bites her lip again. “Sorry. I sound like a pretentious snob. What kind of helpless ingrate has an assistant for basic tasks?”
“Someone who needs one?” I tilt my head to study her. “And can afford it.”
“Right.” Brooke draws a breath. “I’ll figure it out. I’m a self-sufficient woman.”
Okay.
“Look.” I’m guessing a self-sufficient woman won’t like this idea. “I’m actually driving to Salem right now to pick up a repo.”
“Repo?” She stares like that might be small-town slang for corpse or maybe trunk of sex toys .
“Repossessed car. I buy ‘em at auction to fix up and sell.”
“I see.” It’s clear she doesn’t. Based on our text chat just now, I’m guessing her day’s not going great.
Maybe this will help. “I’ve got enough time to drag your car to my shop, so it’s not blocking the high school crew team from getting their boats out for practice at three.” Because yep, I checked on that. “We’ll get your car moved, then I’ll take you to Salem and have you back home with a new key in hand before dinner.”
“Oh.” She bites her lip again, and I wonder what that’s like. If it’s as soft and plush as it looks. “I don’t want to trouble you.”
Studying her face, I try to gauge her hesitation. It’s tough, since I get caught up admiring the shape of her mouth and how her eyes match the ocean where it rolls over bubbly gray rocks on the shore. I watch it each morning from the kitchen above my shop. The ocean, not Brooke’s mouth.
I should stop staring.
“Look, if you’re worried I’m a predator, I’m happy to provide references.” I continue as she blinks in surprise. “I’m not planning to ravage you in the backseat unless you ask, and even then, I wouldn’t.”
There’s another quick blink from Brooke. “Why not?”
I tip my chin toward the rear of the truck. “You see a backseat?”
As she gapes, I keep going. “You can send your assistant with me to Salem if you’re busy, but we’ll need a notarized letter stating she’s legally permitted to re-key your car. And we’ll still need to move it in the meantime, since the high school crew team?—”
“Has practice at three. Got it.” She seems to decide something then. “I’m not afraid of you. And I handle my own automotive issues.”
“Great.” Then we don’t have a problem. Besides my perfectly normal biological response to how her shirt’s getting see-through in the mist. “Grab what you need and we’ll?—”
“Wait.” Brooke glances out toward the road. “Is Salem northeast or southeast of here?”
“Northeast.” I look at my watch, doing traffic calculations. “We’ll take 101 to Newport and cut over on Highway 20 to?—”
“Not by Obliot Cape?”
“No.” What an odd question. “How come?”
“Give me five minutes, okay?” She uncurls her fingers from the top of my truck door. “Thanks for your patience, and please know I plan to compensate you fairly for your time.”
“No prob—” That’s all I get out before she shuts the door and hightails it back up her walkway.
I do my best not to admire her ass cupped in faded jeans that probably cost more than my new air compressor. As she slips through the front door of her mansion, my phone rings. A glance at the readout tells me this won’t take long.
“Hey, asshole.” It’s my standard greeting for any Spencer-King sibling, though this time it’s Jake. “What do you want?”
“You going to Lucy’s for dinner tomorrow?”
“Yeah, sure.” Like I ever miss a family supper. “I’m bringing salad.” There’s a new one I’m trying with kale and avocado. I still need fresh lemons and some of those sliced almonds seasoned with?—
“Mom’s coming.”
All the breath leaves my lungs. “Yeah?”
“Luce just told me.”
I grip the phone tighter. “That’s…surprising.”
Maybe not for Jake. He’s seen our mom twice since she got back to town. Me, not so much.
“I know you’ve been kind of a chickenshit about seeing her again,” he growls when I don’t elaborate. “And I get that. Fuck knows, I do. Maybe this way’s better.”
Better? Like there’s a good way to re-meet the mom who spent your childhood cycling in and out of rehab, then vanished. For the past few years, the whole family thought she was dead.
A wet knot twists in my chest as I force my reply. “Fine.”
Jake senses I’m not thrilled with this turn. “Mom’s caseworker gave the okay,” he says. “She asked me to spread the word that we shouldn’t bring beer or wine or?—”
“Yeah, got it.” Goddamn it. “Uh, look, I’ve got a full schedule at the shop. I might have to work late today and tomorrow.”
Big brother mutters something I miss. “Fuck you, motherfucker.” It’s tough to miss that . “You’re not chickening out on this,” he growls. “We’re all fucking going, got it?”
Ladies and gentlemen, I present Jake Spencer-King’s version of a motivational speech. Touching, I know.
“I’m not chickening out.” Mostly. “I’m serious. I’m leaving for Salem in three minutes.”
Or sooner, since Brooke just breezed out the door of her mega-mansion. She’s punching some keys on her high-tech alarm, leaving me ten seconds to tie up this call.
“Look, I know this sucks.” His gruff voice softens. “Mom’s been gone so damn long, and we’re all getting used to the new normal. It’s shitty for all of us.”
“Yeah.” I’m not getting into this now. “I’ll see what I can do.”
I watch Brooke float down the driveway. She’s slipped on a navy-blue raincoat, dark hair flowing out the sides of her hood. She holds an overstuffed tote with a banana and a baguette poking out the top. What the hell?
“Remember what Mom always said?” Jake’s jockeying to reach my inner nice guy. “She’d say, ‘I’m counting on you older guys to look after the littles. I need you to be my brave boys.’ Maybe it’s like that.”
My throat squeezes tight as Brooke grabs my passenger door. “I believe that’s called parentification.” I drag my gaze off Brooke and stare through the windshield. Her eyes sear holes in the side of my head as she gets into the truck.
“The fuck?” Jake’s confused. “What are you talking about?”
“Parentification.” I feel Brooke staring, but I don’t look over. “A process of role reversal where parents expect kids to support the family system in ways that aren’t developmentally appropriate.” I twist the key in the ignition as my big brother grumbles.
“Whatever,” he says. “Be there at six.”
Gotta give Brooke Braham props for not grilling me right out of the gate. She waits until we’ve dragged her car to my shop and gotten six miles outside Cherry Blossom Lake, windshield wipers squeaking on slick glass.
“Kaleb.” She rolls my name on her tongue like a peach Lifesaver. “That’s a Hebrew name, right?”
“Dunno. I’m not Jewish.” Maybe she wasn’t fishing for that. “My mom liked the name.”
And there’s her opening to psychoanalyze things with dear ol’ Mom. She must’ve heard my parentification quip, right? I feel Brooke watching, expecting I’ll spill my guts to a total stranger.
“If I’m not mistaken, ‘Kaleb,’ means ‘faithful one,’” she says instead. When I glance over, she shrugs. “My sister briefly studied to be a rabbi. It didn’t stick.”
“Oh.” Should I acknowledge Brooke’s loss? A collie catches my eye on the left, racing through rain-whipped grass as it chases my truck from behind a fence. “Kaleb also means dog.”
Great one, dumbass.
But Brooke lights up like she’s fascinated. “You’re a dog guy?”
“I don’t have one, if that’s what you’re asking.” Why do I sound like a dick? “Always wanted a dog.”
“What’s stopping you?”
“Dunno.” I give it some thought. A famous shrink maybe wants a response like, I’m desperately afraid to get attached . “Guess I’m waiting for the right dog.”
“That makes sense.”
Does it? Because now I’m considering it.
“So.” Brooke folds her hands on her lap in the passenger seat of my rig. “I can’t help noticing you seem tense.”
“We just met.”
“True.”
She shifts in her seat. “We’ve got a long drive ahead of us,” she says in a voice like melted butter. “Anything you want to talk about? Maybe a recent conversation that’s troubling you?”
Hell. My phone call with Jake, that’s what she means. I stare straight ahead, watching a herd of elk contemplating an ill-advised road crossing. “Sure.”
“Excellent.” She’s using her soothing shrink voice. The one from her podcast that gets callers spilling their secrets. “I’m happy to listen. It’s a judgement-free space, so fire away.”
“Those nipple tassels you mentioned.” I tap the brake and hit my flashers, alerting oncoming cars to the elk. “Do you glue them on, or is there some kind of clip?”
Brooke goes quiet. I glance over to see if I’ve pissed her off. Gray eyes assess me, unruffled.
“My tassels came with double-sided tape,” she says, crossing her legs and leaning casually on the armrest. “But you can also use bondage tape, which is nice because it’s reusable and sticks to itself.”
Whoa. I dart a glance at the passenger seat to see Brooke smiling, cool as a cucumber.
Me, on the other hand? That mental picture isn’t helping me to get cool and collected.
And now I’m at risk of being the creep who’s popping a boner in the cab of a tow truck. I shift to hide the evidence as I grip the steering wheel.
Maybe I just need to work more to ruffle her. “Does it take practice to get them twirling around?”
“There are lots of instructional videos online.” She answers like we’re discussing the weather. “The basic movement involves vigorous bouncing. Once you’ve got the tassels circling, it’s a matter of maintaining. A bit like spinning a hula hoop.”
“No kidding.” There’s a melty sensation in my neck. It takes a second to notice it’s my shoulders relaxing. “My niece tried to break the world hula hoop record. I guess it’s a hundred hours or something nuts like that.”
“How old is your niece?”
“Twelve, going on forty-five.” A smile tugs my mouth, but I stop. Probably shouldn’t have worked my preteen niece into a chat about pasties. “Harper made it about six hours with her hula hoop. Then she got bored and had to pee.”
“It’s impressive she tried.” Brooke Braham is so fucking stoic. “You’re close with your family?”
“Yep.” Right on cue, my phone pings. Then pings again. And again . It’s gotta be one of my siblings, but I can’t look while driving.
“Would you mind checking that?”
“Your phone?” Brooke tilts her head in surprise. “You trust me to look?”
“I’ve got nothing to hide.” Not entirely true, but my secrets don’t show on my phone. “Emergency calls come in on that line, so if someone needs a tow?—”
“Yeah, sure. No problem.” She picks up my phone from the console. In the corner of my eye, I see her laugh. “It’s from someone named Lucy.”
“My sister.”
“I’ll read it out loud.” She clears her throat. “She wrote, ‘Dude! Erika Gentry saw Brooke Fucking Braham in your truck!!!’ That’s followed by three exclamation points.”
Dammit, Lucy. “Welcome to small-town life.”
Still smiling, Brooke clears her throat. “There’s a second text that says, ‘Please say she’s my new sister-in-law? Pretty please?’ And there’s a third message that says, ‘Seriously, Kaleb. You know her? My goddamn idol?’ Oh! A fourth text just came through that says, ‘Please tell her I love her sooo?—’”
“You can stop there.” Hell. “Could you reply, please?”
“Of course.” Surprise tints her voice. “I’m ready.”
“Fuck off.”
Her head snaps up. “Pardon?”
“That’s the text to Lucy. ‘Fuck off.’”
Brooke winces. “Really?”
“Trust me.” I glue my eyes back to the road. “In Spencer-King lingo, it means, ‘I love you’ and also ‘butt out.’”
“That’s handy.”
“It can be.”
She types out the words and there’s a swoop as she sends it. Almost instantly, the phone pings again.
“She says you’re an asshole.” Brooke reports this with cheer. “She also says she’s making white chicken chili for dinner tomorrow because she loves you and to please bring enough salad for twelve.”
“Would you please reply with a thumbs up emoji, followed by a middle finger emoji, followed by the words, ‘can’t you see I’m driving?’”
Brooke starts typing again.
“Sorry,” I mutter. “Didn’t mean to treat you like my secretary.”
“That was fun.” She hits send on the message, then sets my phone back in the console. “Your sister tracks your phone’s location?”
“We all track each other. Family rule.” I glance over. “Does that answer your question about whether we’re close?”
“It does.”
I let another half-mile swish past in a spatter of raindrops and slick asphalt. “I liked your last book.” In the corner of my eye, I see Brooke jolt.
“You read How’s That Working for You ?”
“Yeah.” I should really say something this time. “I’m sorry about your sister.”
“Thank you.” The words hang between us, punctuated by the rubbery grunt of my windshield wipers. “Why didn’t you say you knew who I was?”
“Didn’t see the need to.”
There’s another long pause. “Thank you.”
“For?”
“Not making things weird.” She gives an awkward laugh. “You really read my book?”
“You’re surprised?” I hit my turn signal to pass a tractor lurching along the shoulder. “Dudes who drive tow trucks and have grease under their fingernails don’t read self-help books?”
“I have plenty of readers from all walks of life.” She uncrosses her legs and recrosses them, left knee bumping the armrest. “Just surprised it took this long to come up in conversation.”
“Guess I got distracted by the nipple tassels.”
She laughs again and I like it. There’s something about it that sounds like a thousand sparkly agates tumbling through sunlit waves. “I’d like to revoke my apology from our phone call earlier.”
“For sexually harassing me with your text?” I grin. “No apology necessary.”
“Good, because I’ve taken it back.” Her tone’s turning playful now. “You’re clearly enjoying it as a diversionary tactic.”
“I’ll enjoy it even more when I pull up that mental picture in the shower later.” Shit, that was a step too far. “Sorry,” I say quickly. “I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t know why I did.”
“I do.”
I shouldn’t be surprised. “Why?”
“Because,” she says, crossing her legs again. “You believe—misguidedly, as it happens—that you can redirect our conversation from subjects uncomfortable to you by introducing subjects uncomfortable to me .”
Gripping the wheel, I steer around a pothole. “You think so, huh?”
“The problem with your plan,” she continues, “is twofold. One, I don’t get uncomfortable easily.”
“I could have guessed that, based on some of your callers’ questions.” And now I’ve admitted I listen to her podcast. “What’s the second thing?”
“You like talking about your family.”
“Not true.” It might be true. How did she do that? “Fine.” I glance at Brooke Braham and her smile isn’t smug. Just calm and collected and sexy as hell. “My family’s messy, okay? And there might be some shit going on, but —” I hold up a hand, sensing a question before she can ask it. “No, I don’t want to talk about it.”
Not yet , I could add, and maybe she hears it.
“Fair enough,” she says.
And you know what? She doesn’t push.
Silence settles over us, but it’s nicer this time. Not aching to be filled. The rain’s clearing off, pooling sugar-spun sunbeams on puddles. Off to our right, pods of plump sheep clump beside a muddy pond. Green fields roll into foothills lush with live oak and tidy rows of wine grapes.
Guess I won’t bring wine to family dinner tomorrow. If I go at all. I’m still on the fence about that one. Brooke’s right that there’s family stuff weighing me down.
But her sister’s dead and it dawns on me then I’ve spent this whole damn drive talking about myself.
“Do you want to talk about your sister?”
She flinches and I almost backtrack. But what did she just say?
You like talking about your family.
Maybe Brooke does, too.
She clears her throat. “She died in a car accident on Highway 101.” Her voice slips out soft, but clear. “South of Cherry Blossom Lake.”
A lightbulb flares in my brain. “At Obliot Cape,” I say slowly. “That’s why you didn’t want to go that way.”
“Yes.” She folds her palms together and tucks both hands between her knees. “I carry a lot of guilt about her death. I’m processing all that for my new book.”
“You’re writing about your sister’s death?” I don’t think I could do that.
“I owe it to my readers to work through my grief in a way that helps others.”
“Really?” Sounds like a lot of pressure to me.
“Mostly, I owe it to my publisher.” She makes a face. “The clock’s sort of ticking on this book. I’ve missed two deadlines and they’re breathing down my neck, but with compassion. Which almost makes it worse.”
“Why’s that?”
I catch her shrug in the corner of my eye. “It’s hard to feel indignant when someone’s sending flowers and delivering meals. Paying for a waterfront writing retreat so I can nurture my muse.”
She says the last part like she’s mocking herself. “I can’t imagine it’s easy to unpack your own grief on a public stage.”
“You’re a private grief kinda guy?”
My fingers tense on the steering wheel. “Something like that.”
In the dashboard compartment, my phone buzzes again. “Want me to check that?”
“Yes, please.”
Brooke grabs my phone and studies the screen. “Just junk. I mean, unless you’re expecting a text about penis enlargement.”
“I think I’m good.”
“Hmm,” she says, and it stirs something inside me. “Want me to block and report?”
“Feel free.” The subject of sex floats around us like fog. Sexy fog, the kind that smells like woodsmoke and sage.
“Wait.” I remember something now. “Didn’t you say in your book that people who’ve suffered a loss should steer clear of romantic entanglements for a minimum of one year?”
“Whoa.” Brooke stares at the side of my head. “You really did read my book.”
“You thought I was lying?”
“No, I—” She shakes her head. “Why did you bring up chapter twelve?”
That was the section. “Just wondering,” I say. “About your plans for a fling with the hot lumberjack.”
“God.” Brooke buries her face in her hand. “I can’t believe I texted that. For the record, I was joking.”
“Yeah?” I’m not sure I believe that. “Too bad for the lumberjack.”
“There’s no lumberjack. I swear.” She shifts in her seat. “But yes, I stand by that advice. When you’re processing major upheaval like the death of a loved one, there’s imminent risk in mixing in the emotional turmoil of romantic entanglement.”
“It sounds hot when you say it like that.” I wonder how she’d judge my situation. Learning your dead mother isn’t likely counts as major upheaval. “For what it’s worth, I do think you’re right.”
“About?”
“Dating and grief.” I’ve said too much. “Probably best to get your shit together before dragging someone else into it.”
Brooke laughs. “May I use that as a chapter title?”
“Be my guest.”
She starts to shove my phone back in the cubby but stops. Frowning, she draws her hand back. “There’s something in here.” A fan of dark hair falls over her face as she peers inside. “It’s a rock.”
Before I can speak, she fishes a hand in and pulls it out. There’s a flash of green in my peripheral vision. My heart drops like a stone plopped in a puddle of oil.
“How pretty.” She rolls it around in her hand. “I’ve never seen one quite this color.”
“Oregon jade.” My voice sounds raspy and rough. “It’s found in only a few places around the state.”
She holds the rock up to the light. “Cherry Blossom Lake must be one of them.”
“No.” I grip the wheel tighter. “It’s found along the Rogue River. Also, down in Gold Beach.”
“It’s beautiful.” She tumbles the shiny green lump in her palm as my throat pinches tight. “Does it have any special significance?”
The squeeze in my throat gets tighter. “Not really.” I keep my eyes on the road, praying she can’t read my face. “Found it lying around and tossed it in the truck. I can’t fit my hand in there to fish it out, so?—”
“Right.” The catch in her voice makes me look. A blush stains her cheeks. “I noticed you had really big hands.”
Peeling one off the wheel, I flex my fingers. “All the better for twisting your gasket.”
“Oh.” Her cheeks go from pinkish to scarlet. “What’s a gasket, anyway?”
“A mechanical seal filling the space between mating surfaces,” I explain. “It prevents leakage from two joined objects under compression.” I glance over at Brooke and grimace. “That wasn’t meant to sound dirty.”
She laughs and drops the jade in my cupholder. It rattles around, then settles.
But my heart keeps racing.
There’s a long stretch of silence that’s just enough time for my mouth to detach from my brain and start running. “I’m processing major upheaval myself.” Why did I just say that? “My drug-addict mom was declared dead a while back, but she reappeared last month and surprise! Not dead.”
“Oh my God.” Brooke blanches. “Kaleb, I’m sorry.”
I didn’t say it so she’d feel sorry for me. Why did I say it again?
“I just wanted you to know you’re not the only one processing stuff. What did you call it again? Major life upheaval.”
“Right.” She’s shaking her head in my peripheral vision. “That’s a lot, Kaleb. Thank you for sharing it with me.”
“Yeah. No sweat.”
So now we’ve established we’re both going through shit. Now what?
“You hungry?”
“Oh!” Brooke seems relieved by the subject change. “I brought snacks.”
That’s right, the bag. “Bananas and bread?”
“Plus three kinds of cheese, some prosciutto, this local honey I found in a shop on Beachcomber Road?—”
“Those are some fancy-ass road trip snacks.”
“I wanted to say thanks for taking me all this way.” There’s the hint of a blush in her voice again. I’d see it in her cheeks if I glanced over again. “We can eat anytime.”
“Let’s wait ‘til we hit Salem.” The subject of food leads me back to her book. “That chapter in your book where you talked about your mom’s chili—I liked that a lot.”
“Yeah?” Brooke tilts her head. “What did you like about it?”
“How close your family sounds.” A little like mine, so maybe that’s it. “But mostly how you saw it as a coping strategy. Like maybe your mom isn’t great at unpacking big feelings, but feeding her kids is how she says, ‘I love you.’”
“Nailed it.” There’s that chuckle again, throaty and soft like a velvet mallet. “Want to know a secret?”
I’m not sure I do. It’s a burden to hold someone’s secrets. “Sure.”
“I don’t actually love my mom’s chili.”
“What?” I snap my eyes off the road for a second. Brooke looks like she’s just confessed something big. “I was less scandalized by the nipple tassels. You said in the book that you love the chili.”
“I love the gesture ,” she says, and that makes sense. “The tangible, edible sign of love from my mother?” She shrugs as my eyes drift back to the road. “But the chili itself is just so-so.”
“That makes sense.” Food and family go together for Spencer-Kings, too. “Do you have to eat it a lot? Like, does your mom make it every Sunday or something?”
A pregnant pause says I’ve stumbled on something again. “It’s been a while,” she says softly. “After Grace died? Things felt rocky with my family and—well.” She clears her throat. “I’m on the road a lot. Traveling for work. I don’t see my parents much.”
“Okay.” I’m sensing she’d rather not talk about it. Who knew chili was a fraught subject? “You have brothers, right?”
“My older one’s a workaholic lawyer in Irvine.” She picks up the jade and rolls it around in her hand. I wonder if she knows she’s doing it. “My younger brother lives in San Clemente with twin two-year-olds. And our parents live in Pasadena.” There’s another pause, a silence seeped in tension. “I really should see them but—it’s complicated.”
There’s no need to say more about complicated family stuff. I’m sensing a kinship with Brooke Braham. A connection I can’t quite explain.
Maybe that makes me say it.
“You should come.”
She drops the rock back in the cupholder. “What?”
“To family dinner.” Did she think I meant come like—uh— “You could judge how my sister’s chili compares with your mom’s. I’m bringing salad, and my brother makes kickass cornbread.”
She seems stunned into silence. “You’re inviting me to family dinner?”
Is that weird? “It’s not a big deal. Lucy’s hosting.”
“Your sister, Lucy.” There’s a smile in her voice I read easily now. “The one who texted, asking if I’d be her new sister-in-law.”
“Pretty sure she’s kidding.” I’ve made this awkward, haven’t I? “No pressure. We’re pretty low-key, but if it’s weird showing up at some stranger’s family dinner?—”
“I’d love to come. Not come come like—” She laughs and I don’t miss the sass in her voice. “I’m back to sexually harassing you, huh?”
“I promise not to report it.” Guess I’m not the only one with sex on the brain. “Or tell the lumberjack you’re talking dirty. It might break his heart.”
“We wouldn’t want that.” She chuckles. “My imaginary lumberjack lover is a sensitive soul.”
Guess we’ve got that in common.
God, Brooke’s hot. And funny and sexy and smart and?—
The words from her book float up through my brain. I should tattoo that whole chapter on my damn arm.
“Whatever you do, please avoid romantic entanglements while processing major life upheaval. You’re raw and unstable and it can only cause heartache drawing others into grief’s gravitational pull.”
“It’s casual.” I’m telling myself more than her. “Family dinner? Just an awkward gathering of siblings and our back-from-the-dead mother. Bring your assistant if you want.”
“Thank you. I will.”
“Tomorrow at six.”
“I can’t wait.”
Gripping the wheel, I cross over the bridge stretched tight across the Willamette. My gaze drifts right and I spot her. A white-haired woman in a ragged blue coat. She shuffles along, pushing a shopping cart, her gait uneven and weary. I’ve never seen her before, but I know her.
Not her, exactly. Someone like her.
She stumbles out from the overhang, pushing her cart filled with blankets and soda cans. My brain powers up like a pressure cooker, spurting out thoughts of my mom on the streets.
“I’ll text you the address,” I say, wondering if Brooke hears the strain in my voice.
What did I just set in motion?