CHAPTER 7
Evander
I’m finally home.
I walk to my bedroom and toss my wallet and keys into the antique bureau-top tray.
I strip out of my clothes, carefully hanging my suit on the custom mahogany valet stand. I use a damp cloth to spot clean the blotches of road salt on the trouser hems, the price I’m paying for pushing Phoebe’s car from the curb.
I wipe off my vest, too, where she’d sniffled and mumbled, and then I use the cloth to wipe the salt from my loafers as well.
I smile, thinking of Phoebe. She’s cute. She’s always been cute, in a na?ve, freckled-faced kind of way. That’s probably why noticing how beautiful she’s become left me feeling off-kilter today.
It happens. Girls grow into women. Boys into men. And she’s all grown up now. We’ve all grown up.
That’s a crock of shit and I know it.
It wasn’t just today that I noticed how much she’s changed. The truth is, I saw it earlier this year, when she took care of me after I broke my leg.
Every once in a while, I’d catch her looking at me with something that went way beyond professional or neighborly concern.
I’d have to break eye contact with her when that happened.
I’d start bitching about my cast or start arguing with her about how I was perfectly capable of going on a nice, ten-mile hike in the woods or some shit.
At least that would stop her from looking at me with those big, knowing eyes.
The last thing I’d ever want to do is lead her on.
I head into the bathroom and turn on the shower.
What color are those eyes, anyway? Amber? Hazel? Gold? I did see flecks of green in there when she looked up at me today. And when the sun hit her hair, I noticed reddish-blond streaks in the messy curls.
I step into the shower.
Those freckles of hers are the show-stoppers, though. They’re a light-hearted touch to an otherwise classically lovely face. She’s got creamy skin. A heart-shaped chin and a delicate pout of a mouth. Her cheekbones belong on a movie star instead of a small-town rancher’s daughter.
And the girl can certainly fill out a pair of nursing scrubs. I homed in on that fact even as I writhed in pain on an emergency room gurney after getting thrown from a horse.
My bone was broken, not my eyeballs.
I let the steaming hot water cascade down my head, neck, and back. I use my palms to slick the hair from my forehead, tilting toward the spray.
Pretty face. Gorgeous eyes. Rockin’ bod. And a set of reindeer antlers. Which brings me to the absolute best thing about Phoebe Travis.
She’s the kindest, most cheerfully generous person I’ve ever encountered. She’s fun. She earnestly cares about other people.
If I didn’t know better, I’d assume she was on mood-altering medication. But it’s just who she is, who she’s always been. The woman was in an accident today and apologized for troubling me.
I finish my shower and towel off, thinking that whoever she ends up with in this life better be insanely good to her. I’m talking over-the-top devoted.
Because that’s what she deserves.
It would come in handy if the guy could stand up to her dipshit brothers, too—the boxer, the MMA fighter, the pro quarterback, the baseball catcher, and the hockey star.
Or however the Travassholes are making their livings these days. I’ve lost track.
Basically, Phoebe needs a man who’ll worship the ground she walks on and then go bust her brothers’ balls.
Good luck with that, pretty Phoebe.
Chuckling, I throw on a pair of comfortable jeans, a cotton T-shirt, and a cashmere crewneck sweater.
I light the fire, run the coffee machine, and settle back into my leather Chesterfield sofa.
Just as I raise my cup of home-brewed Italian espresso to my lips, there’s a loud banging on my front door.
Gee. I wonder who it could possibly be?
The door flings open, bringing a rush of frigid air into my house.
“Hay… .bales.”
It’s Cal. The two words come out as a sinister hiss behind my back.
“Fuckin’ hay bales, man,” Declan adds.
I take a sip of espresso, enjoying as much of the hot elixir as I can before I’m dragged into the wedding chaos.
Dreamily, I wonder if it would have been better if my plane had ditched into the North Atlantic that morning. I imagine clinging to a jagged piece of crash debris while bobbing in the Newfoundland Basin. Anything would be better than whatever this fresh hell is.
Cal and Declan circle around the sofa and stand between me and the fire. Both look defeated and deflated. They’re empty shells of the men they once were.
I try not to laugh, but I can’t help myself. I snort into my espresso cup.
My brothers do the “I see you” thing in unison, pointing two fingers to their eyes and then to mine.
“Get up,” Cal barks.
“He wants the hay bales arranged in a decorative pattern.” Declan’s eyes widen with confusion. “I don’t even know what the fuck that means, bro.”
“Put down the coffee and come with us,” Cal says, his voice humorless. “If you want to live.”
I sigh. I get up, put on my boots, and walk with my brothers to Finn’s house. I step inside to see him running around in a frenzy. There’s all kinds of arts and crafts shit strewn everywhere in his living room.
“You weren’t like this with Victoria,” I whisper to Cal.
“Nope.” He shakes his head slowly.
Cal and Victoria got married in the summer. Yes, he was slightly freaked out on the actual day of the wedding, but mostly he was just happy to marry the woman of his dreams.
They had a small gathering by the lake at sunset and then hosted a laid-back reception with good music and great food. There was zero anguishing over party favors or hay bale positioning.
“Where’s Emma?” I ask.
Declan leans in and whispers, “She escaped. She and Jasmine are over at Dad’s. All the women are watching Christmas movies.”
“How long has he been like this?”
“The whole time you were traveling. It’s been a nightmare,” Declan says.
“Why the fuck isn’t he working with the wedding planner I told him about?”
“Because he’s a control freak,” Cal says, pretending there’s no irony in that insult, since Cal is the king of control freaks.
“I’m going in,” I tell them.
“We got your six,” Cal says.
“Godspeed,” Declan says, pushing me forward.
I walk toward Finn, knowing that this is the kind of shit I’ve been trained to handle. My SEAL specialty was close-quarter combat and methods of entry. I’ve got what it takes to manage one large and overly involved Groomzilla.
I reach Finn, grab him by both the shoulders, and lock my eyes on his. “What needs to be done next, Finlay?”
He blinks, focusing. “The chairs.”
“What chairs?”
“The reception chairs need to be wrapped in tulle.”
“Ah, of course. And where might these chairs be?”
His brow furrows. “In the indoor training arena! The staging area for the reception! Where else would they be?”
“Of course. My bad.”
I look around. Evergreen boughs, white pillar candles, and crystal cylinder vases are stacked everywhere. A giant tangle of glitter-encrusted twigs covers the dining table. Hundreds of useless silver balls in a variety of sizes have rolled all over the hardwood floors.
And a giant-assed hot glue gun has dripped all over the kitchen island, which is going to be a complete bitch to clean up.
But at least I don’t see any decorative gourds, because that’s where I draw the line—one gourd and I’d have to burn the place to the ground.
I give Finn’s back a reassuring pat. “We’re on it, brother.”
Cal and I make our way to the arena, leaving Declan with Finn, a situation Declan isn’t happy about. If looks could kill…
“You were right. It’s an emergency,” I tell Cal.
“Told you.”
“It’s like a heat-seeking missile hit a Hobby Lobby in there.”
“Yeah.”
About an hour later, I give up. I’ve tried my best, but Cal is far better and faster than I am at wrapping chairs in tulle. His fabric is straighter, his twists are tighter, and his bows are fluffier than mine.
“Welp,” I say, placing the fabric sheers on the folding table. I stretch out my arms and yawn. “I’ll be back. I’m going to check on Emma.”
“Liar. You’re never coming back.” Cal’s squinty eyes follow my progress to the huge double doors, and he yells, “Does ‘no man left behind’ mean nothing to you?”