Chapter 3
Brooke
“ I s this okay to wear?”
I turn as Maxine walks through the door of my study. She’s wearing dark jeans and a chunky sweater the color of ripe eggplant. Her red hair falls loose down her back, and a funky coral necklace completes the look.
“You’re perfect.” I hook an earring through my left lobe. “Kaleb said it’s super casual.”
“I already love Oregon Coast dinner parties.” Max brushes lint from the arm of my cream-colored sweater. “You look great, as always.”
“Thanks.” I glance at myself in the mirror. I’ve paired gently faded jeans with brown ankle boots, plus beach glass earrings I found in a shop on Beachcomber Road. “All set?”
“Let me get the guest list straight first.” Max starts ticking off fingers. “We’re having dinner with your tow truck driver, his divorced sister, their mom who returned from the dead, a hula-hooping pre-teen niece, and a cousin whose dad went to prison for stealing the family land?”
I run through the roster in my head. “Correct.” I slip out my phone and consult our app for tracking callers’ names on my podcast. It comes in handy for things like this. “There’s also a brother who owns a brewery and another brother who’s a fishing boat captain with a fiancée who works as the celebrity assistant to Shirleen Judson.”
“Holy shit.” Max gives me googly eyes. “Shirleen won’t be there, will she?”
“I don’t think so.” Much as I’d love to meet the sex siren of seventies cinema, I’m already overwhelmed by the crowd.
Kaleb assured me it’s not his full family we’re facing. There are several more brothers, at least two of whom don’t live in Cherry Blossom Lake. I didn’t get the full story there.
“Will the tow truck driver’s father be there, too?”
“He didn’t say.” That’s another slice of the story I don’t have. Might be a sticky subject. Having one spouse be dead and then not dead would put a crimp in a marriage.
“I won’t ask about that.” Maxine makes a note on her own phone. “But thank you for gathering all that intel. You must’ve really grilled the guy.”
“Not really.” I’m still surprised by how easy it was to talk with Kaleb. “He volunteered most of that without any prompting.”
“You have that effect on people.” Max squints at my sweater with a frown. “Okay, don’t take this the wrong way, but?—”
“Is there a right way to take it when you stare at my boobs and scowl?” I look down at the front of my sweater. “Oh, crap. You can see my bra, huh?”
“I mean, if you’re looking to make a unique fashion statement, you nailed it.”
“I’ll change.” Good thing she didn’t let me leave like this. “My bras are all falling apart. I’m down to just one ratty black one and another with a busted strap.”
“I’m happy to go shopping for you,” Max calls as I head for the hall. “Or order something online, maybe La Perla?”
“That’s okay.” I rush to my bedroom and locate a dingy gray bra that must have been white at one point. It’s missing a hook and the left strap’s broken. I can safety pin it. Might be my best shot, since I had my heart set on this sweater.
It takes a few minutes to swap out the black bra for the safety-pinned one. By the time I greet Max again, she’s waiting in the hall. “Better?”
“Yes.” My assistant’s still frowning. “I mean it about ordering bras for you. I’m happy to help.”
“I can’t have you do that.” How many times in my podcast and columns have I preached the importance of self-sufficiency? For women especially. It’s kinda my thing. “I can buy my own bras.”
“I know you can. But maybe you don’t need to?”
Ignoring the pang in my chest, I start for the door. A graceful exit, except for the part where I march through a tangle of ribbons.
“Gah.” I flail like a fish on a line as I free one arm from the balloon bouquet. “Who sent these?”
“Take a guess.” Max plucks a card off the corner of my desk. “Preston Publishing again.”
I study the words, feeling the blood drain from my face.
Congratulations!
Way to go!
You’ve got this!
My prize for last night’s update that I’d managed to finish a chapter in the new book. I know they mean to be encouraging. It just feels like a kick in the knee to get kudos for writing about Grace.
The sister who’d still be alive if it wasn’t for me.
“Brooke?”
“Yeah.” I look up to see her brow furrow.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m great.” I manage a perky-bright smile. “We should go.”
She picks up the small vase of flowers she grabbed as a hostess gift. I’m toting a bottle of elderflower soda, which I bought with Kaleb’s mom in mind. Alcohol-free, but still bubbly and bright.
As I trudge to the car with Max on my heels, my heart gives a shiver at the thought of seeing Kaleb again. “By the way, I might need to duck out early.”
“No problem.”
“I’ve got an early call with the PR strategist at Preston Publishing.” I use my new key fob to unlock the car door. “Apparently, last week’s promo video went viral.”
“No kidding? That’s great.”
“I guess so.” Feels weird to capitalize on a clip about restoring family harmony when I haven’t seen my own in a month.
The last time I visited Mom and Dad, they sat me down at the table. “We’ve already told your brothers this,” Mom began, and my heart rolled up in a ball.
“Is one of you sick?” I searched both their faces for signs of the worst. “What’s wrong? I’ll pay for treatment. I’ll?—”
“We’re thinking of selling the house.” Dad took Mom’s hand and looked at me sadly. “We’ve lived here since you kids were little.”
“But—” I stopped myself there, not sure where to start. “Grace’s bedroom.”
“We know.” Dad drew a breath and looked down at the table. “We’ve kept it the same for so long. Youngest kids always bounce home, and you know how Grace liked to do that.”
“I—” For once in my life, I didn’t have words.
“The rest of you kids will always have someplace to land.” Mom swallowed hard, her eyes holding mine. “It just won’t be this house.”
“Of course.” I couldn’t believe it, but also?
I could.
“It’s time for a change.” Mom glanced at Dad, and I nodded along, reading the subtext completely.
This house holds too many memories.
Nobody wants to come home anymore.
It’s not the same since Grace died.
And maybe the words they’d never say. They might not even think them, but I would. I do every day.
It’s your fault Gracie’s gone.
Max snaps my thoughts back to now. “You’re sure it’s okay I’m coming?”
“Of course.” I glance at my car’s GPS display, following the line to Lucy Spencer-King’s home. “Kaleb insisted.”
“If you say so.” Max picks at her cuticles. “It’s one thing for Tow Truck Guy to want the legendary Brooke Braham at a family function where he’s seeing his back-from-the-dead mom for the first time,” she says. “But her assistant?”
“I swear it’s okay. Except if you call him Tow Truck Guy.”
She laughs and consults her app again. “What can you tell me about the cousin? The one with the father in prison?”
I love this part of Max. How she takes time to know all our podcast guests, equipping herself to make small talk with anyone.
“Kaleb didn’t say much about Hazel,” I admit. “Her father is their uncle. I think he’s the one who convinced the Spencer-King siblings their mother was dead.”
“Nice guy,” she mutters, making a note. “I’ll steer clear of talking to Hazel about dear ol’ Dad.”
“Probably smart.”
She looks up as I pull to the curb. “Wow.” Max whistles low as I check the address to be sure I’ve got the right place. “Nice house.”
The big Victorian towers over a row of more modest homes. It’s huge and homey, but small compared to the massive homes fringing my side of the lake. Warm light spills from the windows and I’m suddenly glad we’re here instead of our cavernous, rented McMansion.
“It’s just the sister and her kid living here?”
“I’m guessing her fiancé, too.” I glance from the ocean to the city’s namesake lake. Nice views. “The sister’s fiancé, not her twelve-year-old’s. Peter something.”
“Got it.” Max taps her phone, then tucks it in in her bag. “Ready?”
“Yes.” Mostly to see Kaleb again, but chili sounds great, too.
I step from the car as the house’s front door swings open. A pre-teen girl bounds out in jeans painted with cheerful red flowers. She’s flanked by a woman with Kaleb’s blue eyes and a dish towel in one hand.
Then Kaleb steps out and Maxine sucks in a breath. “Damn,” she whispers. “Is that Tow Truck Guy?”
“Kaleb,” I whisper back as we start up the walkway. “That must be Lucy and Harper.”
We’re close enough now for our voices to carry, so I call out a greeting. “Thank you so much for having us.”
“Oh my God, Brooke Braham !” Lucy leaps off the steps and folds me in a hug that’s warm and sweetly familiar. It might be the scent of her soap, or the primal squeeze of a sister’s embrace.
“Sorry,” she says, but she doesn’t let go. “I told Kaleb I’d play it cool but screw it. It’s not every day a woman meets her idol.”
“It’s nice to meet you, too.” I shut my eyes and lean into it, savoring the uplifting squeeze. Gracie hugged just like this, her lithe little frame wrapping me in love and a hint of vanilla.
As Lucy lets go, I blink back tears. “Thank you for inviting us.”
“Are you kidding? It’s my pleasure.” She turns to Maxine and sticks out her hand. “I’m Lucy and this is my daughter, Harper.”
The girl trots to her mom’s side. “Thanks for being our guest.” What a polite kid. “My aunt Sam saw you in an interview and said you’re both really pretty.” She surveys Max with a nod of approval. “She’s right. You have foxy hair.”
“Harper.” Lucy shakes her head. “That was probably not meant for sharing.” She looks at me with a mom’s fond eye-roll. “That’s Peter’s sister, Samantha. She’s already here.”
“Can’t wait to meet her,” Max says.
Kaleb shifts closer, and a buzz of awareness rolls down my spine. “You gonna let them come inside, Luce? Or you want to keep mauling them on the porch?”
“Sorry, sorry.” Lucy steers us through the front door, stepping over a pile of black garbage bags. “Oh! I almost forgot. Those are for the clothing drive, Kaleb.”
“Got it.” He hoists one in each hand like they’re weightless. “I’ll throw them in the car now.”
I try not to stare at his arms as he moves. The heft of the bags makes his biceps flex, and it’s doing strange things to my stomach. “Clothing drive?” I shrug out of my coat as Lucy’s warm house enfolds us in blankets of good smells.
“For the local women’s shelter.” She waits by the door as Kaleb bounds back up the steps. “He runs it every year.”
“Let me take that.” He plucks the coat from my hand, sending a shockwave of heat up my arm. “I like your sweater.”
“Thanks.” I hand off the bottle of soda, which Lucy asks Harper to stick in the fridge. There’s a pile of sneakers by the door, so I start to toe off my boots.
“You don’t have to go shoeless unless you want to,” he says.
“You’re sure?” I glance at my hostesses’ feet. Lucy’s in flip-flops, while Harper wears flowered Doc Martens. “I don’t mind.”
“You’re good.” He taps my ankle with the toe of his boot, and I’m conscious of how big his feet are. “Trust me—no one wants Jake taking off his shoes at the dinner table.”
Max turns from hanging her coat and puts out a hand. “You must be Kaleb. We spoke when I called for the tow. I’m Maxine.”
Kaleb’s sister spins around. “I’m so sorry,” Lucy says. “I thought you two had met already. I’m a shitty hostess.”
Kaleb shoots her a mock-stern look. “Cursing in front of your kid and your idol and her guest?”
Harper pipes up beside him. “Yeah, Mom. Swear words make me skip school to sell guns from my bedroom.”
Lucy sighs and leads us into the living room. “I promise we’re not normally this weird.”
Kaleb leans close to my ear. “She’s lying,” he says as I stifle a shiver. “We’re always this weird.”
Lucy and Max sail ahead, chatting like old friends. At the edge of the kitchen, Lucy introduces Max to a man whose posture and pricey-looking shirt scream big-city wealth. Lucy’s fiancé? Must be. He stands with a woman whose smile lights the room and whose scars snake from her cheek down the front of her shirt.
“Call me Sam.” She shakes Max’s hand and cheerfully elbows Peter. “My brother didn’t tell me I’d be crashing the family dinner.”
“We’re crashing together.” My assistant smiles. “I’m Maxine, but please call me Max.”
Looks like she’s in good hands. Speaking of hands?—
“You good?” Kaleb’s hand brushes mine as he searches my eyes. “Tell me if you get freaked out by all the people. I can trip the fire alarm or something.”
I laugh and brush hair off my face. “I’m good. I’m used to big crowds.”
“Good.” The corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiles. “I’m glad you came.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” The hum of his voice stirs something inside me. “Be forewarned, though. The Spencer-King orbit drags people in like a black hole.”
“Sounds ominous.”
It doesn’t though. It sounds…nice.
“Let me know if gravity shifts.”
It just did, or maybe that’s the pull of his eyes. They’re the deepest blue, nearly navy, like the shade of the night sky when there’s barely a moon.
A woman breaks off from a pack near the sofa, striding toward me in tall boots. Her shiny dark hair twists up in a glossy topknot, and she smiles as she holds out a manicured hand.
“I’m Cassidy,” she says. “Can I get you a drink?”
“Brooke,” I say. “Water would be great.” This must be the fisherman brother’s fiancée.
“We brought several kinds of sparkling water.” Cassidy closes one eye like she’s picturing the contents of the fridge. “Plain, lemon, and the one they call pamplemousse because that’s fancier than saying, ‘this tastes like we dissolved a grapefruit Tic-Tac in fizzy water.’”
“Way to sell it, Cass.” Kaleb smiles good-naturedly. “I’m sticking with plain old tap water.”
Cassidy turns back to me. “Personally, I’m drinking fizzy water with a squeeze of lime. If you want something else, Mason makes this great ginger beer at the brewery.”
She nods toward a guy at the end of the table. He’s wearing a shirt that says Big One’s and an affable smile. Must be Mason, Kaleb’s brother. I’m tempted to pull out Maxine’s app. So many people to keep straight.
“You look overwhelmed.” Cassidy smiles and steps closer. “Pretty sure I had that deer-in-headlights look the whole first month I dated Jake.”
“Oh, we’re not—” I glance at Kaleb, who lifts one dark brow.
Right. She didn’t suggest we’re dating.
“The fizzy water with lime sounds great,” I say. “Thank you.”
“I’ll be right back.” Cassidy scurries away, pausing to kiss a bearlike man who’s talking to a woman in head-to-toe Prada.
“That’s Jake,” Kaleb murmurs. “Our oldest brother.”
“And he’s talking to your cousin?” I guess.
“Bingo.” Kaleb shrugs. “It’s still kinda new. Cousin Hazel dropped out of our lives for a while, but we’ve recently reconnected.”
A lot like their mom, I think but don’t say. “You guys do these dinners weekly?”
“It kinda varies.” He leans back on an elbow, propping himself on the counter. “Don’t worry. You don’t have to meet everyone at once.”
I wasn’t worried, but I thank him anyway, surveying the faces as laughter rings through the room. The space feels open and airy, filled with voices and warm kitchen smells. I do my best to pick out who’s who from how Kaleb described them. I don’t see anyone who looks like Kaleb’s mom, so maybe she hasn’t arrived.
“Here you go.” Cassidy hands me an icy cold glass. “Allow me to be completely uncool for a sec and tell you I love your work. Podcast, books, advice column—I’m a huge fan.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that.” This family must really love reading.
She leans on the counter, one manicured nail tapping her own glass. “My sister will be jealous. Zoe’s a librarian and absolutely loves your stuff. She’ll die when she hears I met you.”
Kaleb winces, watching my face.
Cassidy blanches beside me. “Oh, God. Brooke. I didn’t even think.” She touches my arm. “Your sister?—”
“It’s okay.” It really is. “I can hear the words ‘sister’ and ‘die’ in the same sentence without sobbing in the coat closet.”
“Still. I’m sorry.” She bites her lip. “I actually purchased one of your sister’s photographs.”
“You did?” I glance at Kaleb, who must not have known this. “Which one?”
“It’s a photo of Kneef’s Lighthouse. My boss saw it in a gallery and fell in love.” The breath leaves my lungs, but I hold it together as she talks. “I didn’t even realize Grace Braham was related to you. Such a talented artist.”
“She was,” I manage, my voice a dry croak. “Which photo?”
I can already guess, and Cassidy confirms it.
“It’s this beautiful image of the lighthouse in fog with wet rocks in the foreground and the ocean looking all wild and frothy.”
“Her first photo of Kneef’s Lighthouse.” I draw a shaky breath. “She took that almost ten years ago.”
“That’s right.” Cassidy shifts her drink to the other hand. “I think it’s some kind of collector’s edition.”
“It is.” And worth quite a lot, making Shirleen Judson one of the few who could have afforded it.
Cassidy must guess I need a subject change. “How’d you meet Kaleb?”
“He came to my rescue yesterday morning.” I glance at the man, since he’s watching with guarded interest. “Drove me all the way to Salem to re-key my car.”
“That sounds like Kaleb.” She gives him a fond elbow bump. “They called him Mr. Fixit growing up. Jake says it started when he was three.”
Kaleb frowns, and I’m not sure why. Some strange, protective instinct inches me closer to his side. “You were handy from an early age then?”
The clench in his jaw loosens. “That was my mom’s nickname for me.” His voice comes out raspy and rough. “Mr. Fixit? Haven’t heard that in a while.”
Cassidy touches my arm. “Sorry, gotta run.” She nods to her fiancé, who’s waving her over. “It was nice meeting you, Brooke.”
“Nice meeting you, too.” I shift closer to Kaleb as she scoots past. We watch as Cassidy slips out of earshot.
Kaleb speaks first. “Is your family this nuts?”
I laugh past the pang in my chest. “Sometimes. By now, my mother would have gone around the room showing everyone my childhood photo album.”
Another reason it’s tough to go home. Nearly every image has Grace and me together, both of us making silly faces. Or maybe flopped on her bed, one of us painting the other’s toenails.
I glance at Maxine, who’s still chatting with Peter’s sister.
“Looks like something more than friendship blooming.” I nod to the pair and Kaleb looks over. “Any need to worry about Max with Samantha?”
There’s a pause long enough to make me nervous.
Please say I didn’t just out Max to a homophobe.
“Sam’s great.” Kaleb looks thoughtful as he studies them. “Runs a wildlife sanctuary about an hour from here.” His gaze pulls back to mine. “Maxine’s a good egg?”
I laugh with relief. “The best. Sam’s in great hands with her.”
“Good.” Kaleb nods. “Sam survived a bad accident. She deserves only good things in her life.”
“Max is fantastic. I couldn’t ask for a better assistant.”
Kaleb cocks his head. “Why do you do that?”
“Do what?” I look down to make sure I haven’t mounted his leg. “What did I do?”
“You say ‘assistant’ like you’re embarrassed to have one.” He looks back at Maxine. “Like you’ve farted in public or rubbed one out at the dinner table.”
“Oh my God.” Did I really do that?
And did he really just say that? “I guess I feel silly sometimes,” I admit. “Having an assistant.”
“Why?” He looks honestly curious.
“It seems so elitist. So… entitled .” From the look on his face, he doesn’t get it. “So much of my platform is about women empowering themselves. Being strong and self-reliant.”
“And you think providing a job—I assume you pay Max well?”
“Very.” Her holiday bonus last year was a new car.
“You think employing someone, treating them well, and having help to run your business—you think that’s something to be ashamed of?”
The mention of shame heats my face. There’s plenty of that to go around. “I guess not when you put it that way.” I take a sip of my water. “Do you have a lot of employees at Spencer-King Auto?”
“Eight.” He tips his head toward Cassidy. “Her sister’s fiancé’s dad is one of them. And now that I’ve said that out loud, I hear what a small-town hick I sound like.”
I laugh and set my glass on the counter. “You sound like a guy who takes a personal interest in his employees.” What else can I ask about Kaleb’s work? “How much of the hands-on repair stuff do you do?”
“Not as much as I used to.” He catches me watching his hands and I blush. “I still keep my hands busy.” He flexes his fingers, and I blush even hotter. “I’m lucky to have a great head mechanic. She keeps everything running when I’m tied up doing tow truck runs or handling business crap.”
“Your head mechanic is a woman?” That’s so freakin’ cool.
“Erika’s insanely good.” The pride in his voice makes me smile. “I’ve also got two part-time mechanics who are single moms.”
“That’s—” Math’s not my strong suit. “—nearly forty percent of your workforce is female.”
He shrugs like it’s not a big deal. “I started a scholarship program at the local tech school, helping low-income women become mechanics. There’s a shortage of females in the industry.” He sips from his water glass as he scans the room. “I’ve hired several women from that program over the years.”
“I love that.”
He’s shrugging again, shoulders rippling with muscle. “It’s not a big deal.”
But it is a big deal, especially to me. Uplifting women is my life’s work. Is Kaleb’s interest tied to his mother? He’s lending a hand to women at risk, women who otherwise might slip through the cracks.
Before I can ask, Harper bounds over. She’s brimming with pre-teen energy and holding a jar of transparent stones. “Mom says she’s slowing down dinner to give Grandma time to get here.” She doesn’t notice how her uncle stiffens. “Something’s wrong with her feet.”
“Her feet.” Kaleb frowns.
Harper gives us a shrug. “They’re cold, Mom says. I dunno, but check this out.” She hoists up her jar. “Grandma brought these last week. She found them on the beach near Spencer’s Rock.”
Kaleb stares at the jar for the length of a breath. Then his eyes shift to mine. “Harper sells agates to help pay for piano lessons. That reminds me.” He slips a hand in his pocket and pulls out a nubby green stone. “Here’s one for your collection.”
“Whoa.” Harper turns it around in her hand. “What is it?”
“Jade.”
Recognition zings through me. That’s the stone I saw in his truck.
“Nephrite jade,” he says, “not the fancy kind in gemstones. This kind’s found in Oregon.”
“Cool.” Harper’s transfixed. “What does it mean?”
“Mean?” I’m missing something.
“Uncle Kaleb has this book.” Harper pockets the stone. “Grandma gave it to him when he was little. They’d look up all the rocks and what they’re good for.”
“It’s kinda woo woo.” Kaleb looks sheepish. “It’s stuff like using black tourmaline to repel negative energy or citrine to support inner calm. Like I said, a little out there.”
“I think it’s neat.” I nod toward Harper’s pocket. “What’s the significance of jade?”
“For human connection.” Kaleb’s throat clicks as he swallows. “It’s the stone of peace, love, and compassion.”
“Cool.” Harper looks at me. “I’d put it in my tumbler except it’s broken right now.”
“That’s too bad.” Should I offer to buy her a new one?
“It’s sad,” Harper says, shifting a look to her uncle. “It keeps breaking. Mom says I should save for a new one, but I think Uncle Kaleb could fix it.”
“Harper Ann!” Lucy shouts from the kitchen. “I told you not to bother your uncle.”
Harper sighs and looks at Kaleb. “Am I bothering you?”
“Nope.” He tips his drink to hide a smile.
“See?” Harper shouts. “He wants to fix my rock tumbler.”
Lucy swipes a curl off her forehead. “Just like you want to get your butt back over here to finish chopping green onions?”
“Burn.” Kaleb chuckles. “Go help your mom. Rock tumbler’s on the side patio?”
“Yeah.” Harper takes off for the kitchen. “Thanks, Uncle Kaleb.”
“No sweat.” He turns to me. “Want to come help?”
I glance at the rest of the guests. Everyone’s chatting, shooting friendly smiles my way. I should probably mingle, but the urge to keep talking with Kaleb wins out. “Do you really need extra hands?”
“Nope.” He grins and shoves off the counter. “Just saving you from my family staging an impromptu book signing.”
“Lead the way.” Not that I mind signing books. But I really like chatting with Kaleb. Besides, he’s the one who brought me. “I’ve never seen a rock tumbler before.”
“Oh, it’s a thrill a minute.”
I follow him down the hall, waiting by the door while he runs out to grab his toolbox. Then we head through the garage and out a side door to a small, covered patio where a cylindrical machine sits next to a grayish puddle. A black cord snakes past a bucket of unpolished stones.
“That’s a rock tumbler?”
“Yep.” He squats on the ground beside it. “Probably just a stretched belt. That’s what happened last time.”
“You fix rock tumblers as well as cars.” Handy guy, Kaleb Spencer-King. I spot a paint-spattered folding chair and settle into it, sipping my water with lime. “Want me to hand you tools or something?”
“Sure.” He sets the box at my feet and flips it open. “Here’s your first test—want to hand me the pliers?”
“Very funny.” I grab what I’ve learned is a wrench, along with some pinchy things I’m pretty sure are pliers. “One of these, right?”
“You can set ‘em right there.” He flips over the machine, then grabs the screwdriver. “Before you ask, yes.”
“Yes what?”
“Yes, I’m tense about my mother coming tonight.” He catches my eye like he’s waiting for judgment. “I’m sure you’ve already diagnosed me with mommy issues or some shit like that.”
“I make it a point not to diagnose people at parties.”
His shoulders relax with a self-conscious chuckle. “Is that even a thing—mommy issues? You always hear about daddy issues, but not really the opposite.”
“Thank misogyny for that one.”
Kaleb twists at a screw or a bolt. I don’t know the difference, but he clearly does. “How so?”
“Society tends to victim blame when it comes to issues impacting women.” So much for lighthearted party banter. “Notice you rarely hear men being accused of having daddy issues? It’s almost always women.”
“Huh.” He pulls off a metal plate and sets it aside. “That tracks.”
We’ve uncorked the bottle of my human fascination, and I can’t seem to stop it back up. “Instead of pointing at toxic fathers and saying we need to do better, we make the issue about women. Women who struggle with relationships or wear certain clothes or seek out male attention—we say they have ‘daddy issues.’ Like they’re damaged goods instead of victims of irresponsible parenting.”
“Maybe I’ll make ‘mommy issues’ a thing.” He gives me a wry grin. “Next time a guy gets bristly with his wife buying new tires, I’ll diagnose it on the spot.”
“That’ll go over well.”
He chuckles a little, on a roll now. “Or some guy mouths off to Erika?—”
“That’s your lead mechanic?”
“Yeah.” He scratches his chin, leaving a smudge of grease that looks stupidly sexy. “Actually, scratch that. Erika doesn’t need me to step in. She’s got a card she hands out to sexist assholes who ask for her boss.”
“What does it say?”
“It says, ‘My boss wants me to tell you I graduated from auto tech school with higher scores than he did, and I have an ASE Masters Certification. If my gender is a problem, the door’s right behind you.’”
“I love it.” And I like Erika already. “You want to talk about stuff with your mother?”
“Nope.” He tips the tumbler to one side and peers into the sludgy abyss. “Was just letting you know why I might be a little edgy.”
“Thank you for that.” I feel like I owe him an admission of my own. “I’m writing this book about grief. About my sister.” That part he knows already. “I’ve already missed the deadline twice and I can’t seem to get it together. To put my butt in the chair and my hands on the keyboard and just write.”
“That’s gotta be hard.”
There’s the understatement of the year. “On the bright side, I’m inventing all kinds of creative forms of procrastination.”
“Example?”
I don’t want to admit this. “Teaching myself origami.”
“Origami? Like—folding paper cranes?”
“And other stuff. My sister had this great book when we were kids.” I found it in a box in the back of her car, tattered and dogeared and speckled with neon blue nail polish. “I’m not very good at it yet, but I waste a lot of time practicing.”
“I’ve got plenty of avoidant strategies, if you need more.”
“Fixing rock tumblers?” I guess, and he grins.
“Also going for long runs on the beach.”
I cross my legs and catch his eyes on my calves. “That’s healthier than my other coping strategy.”
“Which is what?”
“Eating ice cream,” I admit. “Tons of it.”
“Nothing wrong with that.”
“Tell that to my pants that don’t fit anymore.”
He looks up and lets his eyes travel my body. “You look fucking fantastic to me.”
“Thank you.” A shiver rolls through me, and I grip my glass tighter. “Got any other coping strategies to offer?”
“Getting outside works for me.” He digs something from his toolbox that might be a socket wrench. “I had this tire swing as a kid. When I felt upset, I’d go out there and play by myself.”
“Sounds like good therapy.”
He doesn’t look up from the socket thing. “Can’t say I’ve ever seen a real therapist.” He shrugs and cranks on a big metal bolt. “But I’m a big fan of tire swing therapy.”
“Tell me about it.”
His gaze shifts to the thin rubber belt he’s adjusting. “It was up on this ridge, on the edge of my grandparents’ property. I’d spend hours spinning when Mom had one of her episodes.”
“Episodes?”
He keeps his eyes fixed on the tumbler. “She suffers from bipolar disorder, plus schizophrenia and acute anxiety. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you about self-medicating habits that lead to addiction.”
He doesn’t, but I’m grateful he’s sharing. “That’s a lot for a family to handle.”
“The tire swing was my escape. It’s still there, actually.”
“No kidding?”
“Not the original. That blew down in a storm, and then our uncle sold off the land and—” He stops, clearing his throat. “We got it back. Part of it, anyway. And I rebuilt the tire swing for Harper, but she’s getting too old to use it.”
These stories he’s sharing, they feel like a gift. “That’s really sweet.” It’s probably my turn to open up. “I went skydiving once. To procrastinate writing the preface for a colleague’s book.”
“Helluva way to procrastinate.” Kaleb chuckles. “I’ve never even been on a plane.”
“No kidding?” Now I’m worried I sound like a privileged snob. I can take care of that. “It was a tandem jump,” I continue. “That’s how they make you do it your first time. They strapped Grace to this handsome, twenty-something instructor, and me to a guy old enough to remember the Orville brothers’ flight.”
That earns me another chuckle. “Sounds like a cool thing to share with your sister.”
“It was.” A pinch of nostalgia tweaks my heart. “I’m a nervous farter, so?—”
That’s all I get out before Kaleb bursts out laughing. “I can’t believe you just said that.”
“What? Women fart, too.” I’m not embarrassed. “Anyway, I got scared when it was time to jump, and nature took its course?—”
“While you’re strapped to Orville?”
“Exactly.” My sister laughed so hard she fell off her seat. “My instructor kept glaring at the pilot, thinking he did it. And I felt bad about that, so over the roar of the engines, I yelled at the top of my lungs, ‘That was me! I take responsibility for passing gas!’”
“Oh, Jesus.” Kaleb can’t stop laughing. “There’s a title for a chapter in your next book.”
“Right?” I’m glad I’ve got us back on a lighter note. If Kaleb’s facing his mom in there, the least I can do is help shift his headspace. “Tell me some other procrastination strategies.”
“Sand sledding,” he says. “We’d do that in the dunes as kids. I still go sometimes when I’m stressed.”
“Sand sledding?” I’ve never heard of it.
“Same as you do in the snow, but in sand dunes.” He’s putting the tumbler back together now, plugging it in before switching it on.
The engine whirs to life.
“Nice.” He wipes his hands on a rag before turning to face me. “Have you tried pypo boarding?”
“What’s pypo boarding?”
“Also called skimboarding. Or they spell it with an ai in Hawaii, p-a-i-p-o, but for some wacky reason, we spell it differently here, p-y-p-o.” He looks up and swipes at his forehead. “Maybe you’ve seen it on beaches in California?”
“Maybe.” To be honest, I have no clue what he’s talking about.
He gets to his feet, biceps flexing as his arms form a circle. “You have a thin, round board like this, about three feet across.”
“Okay.” I should not be ogling this man.
“You take it out to a long stretch of beach where you’ve got maybe an inch or so of water and you chuck it parallel to the waves.” He puts down his arms and I wonder if he just noticed me staring at his biceps. “Then you jump on and catch a ride.”
“That sounds fun. Probably much healthier than binge eating ice cream.”
“I could take you sometime.” He squints at my face and leans closer. “You’ve got a little grease right here.”
“Where?” I swipe at my cheek with the back of my hand.
“Other side.” I must miss again because Kaleb stops me. “Here.”
His thumb glides cool and firm on my right cheekbone. The touch makes me gasp.
“Sorry.” Kaleb drops his hand. “I should have asked first.”
“No, it’s just—” There’s a sweet bite of tension between us. “I haven’t had much human touch lately. My sister was so huggy and—you caught me by surprise, that’s all.” My throat feels thick and fuzzy. “Guess I didn’t realize I’m touch-starved.”
“Touch-starved, huh?” He smiles. “Need me to call the lumberjack?”
A laugh bubbles out of me, but it’s breathy and tight. “Maybe later.”
Something’s snapping between us, electric and bright. We’re standing so close I could bury my face in his chest. Or put a hand to his face, the rasp of his stubble massaging my palm.
His eyes hold mine, intense and searching. “I know your book says it’s a bad idea,” he says softly, “but I want to kiss you right now.”
“Do it.” My hands catch the front of his shirt, closing the distance between us. “Please.”
His lips graze mine, softer than I thought they’d be. He tunnels a hand through the back of my hair, tilting my head for a gently sweet kiss.
Then sweetness gives way to something more primal. His tongue skims mine and I moan. My fingers twist through warm flannel as my body angles toward his. He’s muscle and sinew and surging with need, pressing me back to the side of the house.
With a groan, I hook one leg behind his. This is nuts, but I can’t seem to stop. The man kisses like a god, which just fucking figures. Does he have to be good at everything?
“Fuck,” he growls, breaking the kiss. His blue eyes look wild and hungry. “That’s too goddamn good.”
I know what he means and I know that we shouldn’t. So why do I pull him back down? “Don’t stop,” I murmur, and he doesn’t.
His hand cups my ass, pulling me tight to the swell in his jeans. His tongue grazes mine and I let go of his shirt, gliding my hands to his shoulders. Muscles bunch beneath my palms, ropey and coiled with heat. He feels like?—
“Uncle Kaleb!” The door bursts open, and we spring apart like teenagers.
Pressing a hand to the side of the house, I paste on a smile for Harper. “Hey there.”
Her eyes swing from me to her uncle. One edge of her mouth ticks up. “Mom said to tell you we’re eating now. Everyone’s here.”
Kaleb stiffens. “Everyone?”
“Come on.” She grabs his hand and tries to tug him toward the door. It’s like trying to drag a refrigerator. “Come on, Uncle Kaleb,” she scolds, dropping his hand as she huffs toward the door. “Mom gets mad when we don’t all sit down together.”
A muscle ticks in his jaw, but he doesn’t speak.
“You’ve got this.” I say it softly, so Harper doesn’t hear.
He looks in my eyes, then turns to his niece. “Give us a sec.”
With a dramatized sigh, she bounds back through the door. Kaleb draws a shaky breath.
Turning to me, he drags a hand through his hair. “That was a bad idea, huh?”
I can’t tell if it’s really a question. Is he looking for denial or absolution?
I give him the truth. “Probably,” I admit. “I don’t like labeling any basic human response as bad or good, but—yeah.”
“Okay.” Eyes locked with mine, he takes another deep breath. “Okay, we can do this.”
Then he turns and starts walking, hands clenched in fists, leaving me there with my heart thudding hard in my ears.