Chapter 14
The problem with avoiding someone you basically live with is that it’s virtually impossible, especially when you have a meddlesome, revenge-seeking aunt with an ax to grind.
“Tabitha, please don’t do this!” I beg as I chase her across the sun-soaked yard to the barn, fallen leaves crunching underfoot.
“What was that? I can’t hear you over all the dates you’re setting me up on,” she replies coolly, undeterred from her mission.
“It was one dinner! And I thought it was a business meeting; you’re the one calling it a date. But you know what? I’m not going to read into that, because we have a relationship based on mutual respect. Right?” I ask pointedly.
Tabitha doesn’t miss a beat. “Nuh-uh, I don’t think so. Besides, fair is fair. You meddle in my love life, I meddle in yours.”
My cheeks are on fire, and it has nothing to do with the above-seasonal average temperature today, one of those random fall days that feels more like the end of August than October.
I’m noticing the change in seasons, which is a stark reminder of how long I’ve been here already.
It’s been almost a month, and I still haven’t told Tabitha about our new family dynamic.
I haven’t had a real conversation with my parents about the situation or discussed with Lyla what happens next.
But it hasn’t been a complete waste of time.
Parker and I have come a long way in the last few weeks—from hostile enemies to grudging adversaries to …
what exactly are we now? Friends? More than that?
Friends generally don’t push each other up against kitchen appliances and look at each other like they want to rip each other’s clothes off.
But Parker was honest last night about his concerns—even though he didn’t say much, I heard him loud and clear.
And whatever we are, we’re not enemies anymore, so I plan to respect his wishes.
Granted, sending his boss storming into the barn to demand an act of chivalry typically relegated to a boyfriend is not a great way of showing him that.
“Shhh!” I hiss desperately, grabbing her elbow. “Please, for the love of god—Tapioca!”
It’s a last-ditch attempt, my Hail Mary.
And it works.
Tabitha stops dead in her tracks, facing me with an all-knowing grin. “Well, well, well,” she says smugly. “This is gonna be good.”
My eyes fall shut. I’ve raised a red flag, but even if I have to suffer the humiliation of explaining myself to Tabitha, at least I can spare Parker.
Tapioca is the code word we came up with years ago, and we use it any time we need to share something that must, under all circumstances, stay just between us.
It’s our version of going off the record.
No matter what it is, we have to respect it.
I close the distance between us, lowering my voice as much as possible in case Parker is nearby on the other side of the barn door. “Okay, fine. There may have been a moment between Parker and me last night. And at the bar.”
Her eyes widen like she’s just heard the best news of her life, so I continue quickly before she can start weaving any fantasies in her mind.
“But it won’t lead to anything because we both agreed it wasn’t a good idea.
” Not true, strictly speaking, since I had a very small role in last night’s conversation in the kitchen, but I’m trying hard to hold onto what little dignity I have left.
“We agreed to stay friends, and I’m trying to give him space, so you can see how you marching in there expecting him to drive me around would be a little awkward,” I finish, throwing my arm toward the barn.
She frowns. “You two were never friends.”
“Well, we’re going to be.”
I know I’ve made a mistake before she says, “Perfect! He won’t mind doing his new friend a favor then. Oh, Par-ker!”
I groan as she sings her way into the bright barn, afternoon sunlight pouring in from the windows above the concrete walls of every stall.
I never should have gone with Parker to the bar the other night.
Tabitha likes to stir things up, but at least she’s been in a better mood since she started to make progress with her commissions.
Something rustles directly above our heads. I tilt my chin—and push Tabitha out of the way as a bale of hay careens toward us.
“Are you trying to kill us?!” I shout.
Parker’s confused face peers over the edge of a hole in the ceiling, a few seconds later. “Shit, sorry. Thought the barn was empty. You okay?”
“I … yes. We’re fine.”
“Almost done?” Tabitha asks, completely unbothered by the near squashing.
“Give me a second, I’ll be right down. Stand back, I’m sending a few more down.”
“That was close,” Tabitha says, steering us to stand against an empty stall—all of the horses are outside enjoying the weather—and we watch three more hay bales drop from the ceiling in succession to bounce on top of each other before rolling onto the concrete floor—the previously spotless floor, which I just finished sweeping an hour ago.
“That was karma,” I mutter as the trapdoor slides shut, scowling when Tabitha laughs at me. Heavy footsteps clunk down the wooden staircase to the hayloft.
“What’s up?” Parker asks when he comes into sight, his eyes locking squarely on Tabitha. He’s wearing a T-shirt that shows off the muscles of his arms, which I force myself not to look at. I wait for him to look at me, but he doesn’t.
“We’re in a bind,” Tabitha tells him, looping an arm around my shoulder. “Sloan needs to gather supplies for the event this weekend, but I won’t have my Jeep back until tomorrow. You don’t mind driving her into town, do you?”
Finally, his eyes cut to mine, the panic evident. I try to communicate a silent apology, but he looks away.
“I’ve still got a lot to do today.”
Well, that was … blunt.
He bends, grabbing a bale by the strings, hauling it in front of him, and depositing it at the side for the evening feeding. Tabitha slides me a look, as if she thought that was going to be an easy yes before trying again.
“Oh, come on, surely you have time to take a break to go for a drive?”
“Not really.”
“What if—”
I widen my eyes, pleading with her to stop.
“You know what?” she says, taking mercy on me, “You’re both grown adults, I’ll just leave you two to figure it out.”
She breezes back into the daylight, humming a tune that’s a little off-key and a lot snarky.
Parker says nothing.
“Sorry about that,” I say. “Obviously, I’m not expecting you to drive me around.”
He frowns, not looking at me, and I half expect him to say no. “I need the truck back by seven, but you can have it until then.”
“Oh,” I say, surprised. “Thank you.”
I stand there, waiting for the keys and awkwardly watching as he returns to work, hauling the hay bales into a neat stack against the wall for the night feed later.
Why does he have to make all manual labor look so damn easy?
Distracting myself, I grab a broom propped against the wall and sweep the loose hay.
After stacking the last one, he turns to me and wordlessly fishes his keys out of his pocket, tossing them at me. I fumble but manage to catch them.
“Do you need any help?” I ask. He still won’t look at me, and an uneasy feeling uncoils in my stomach.
“With what?” he asks.
I shrug. “Anything. You said you had a lot to do today.”
“I’ll manage.”
He disappears into the feed room. I follow, leaning against the doorframe as I watch him bounce around the room doing one thing after another, anything to keep his hands busy, to keep him from having to look at me.
“Is everything okay?” I ask.
“Why?”
“You don’t seem like yourself.” Not like him from the past few days, anyway.
“What makes you think you know me?”
I freeze mid-sweep, looking up because I’m sure I heard him wrong.
Except when I see his face, I know I haven’t.
This isn’t the Parker who opened up to me in his truck outside his dad’s house or sat with me outside a closed diner and told me I can do anything I put my mind to.
This is the Parker I met at the bus stop, the guy who wrote me off before we even met—closed, distant, unyielding.
The fridge—last night’s crime scene—may as well be wedged between us.
He’s redrawing the line we almost obliterated, but I’m okay with it.
He doesn’t want to risk his job? Fine. I’ve been down this road with Caleb, and business and pleasure do not mix.
It looks like we’re going right back to square one, as if last night never happened.
In that case, I’ll do the same. Nothing more than a fever dream.
I stuff the laughing, supportive, sexual-tension-laden version of Parker from last night as deep into the recesses of my mind as I can manage, along with the most gruesome murder stories that gave me nightmares, in exchange for the pitchfork-hiding, shoe-ruining, insult-throwing version next to me.
He wants to go back to fighting? Well, sir, consider my gloves off.
The broom clatters against the nearest stall as I shove it away from me, about to head out the door and away from him, when I finally register the stack of hay and stop in my tracks.
That feeling in my chest condenses into a bowling ball of dread as I thunder up the narrow stairs to the hay loft and lay eyes on the space, only to find it worse than I expected. Way worse.
Fuck.