6. Lottie
six
Lottie
Relief washes through me for the tiniest second—until I see who’s in the passenger seat.
My mother.
Of course.
Ham climbs out first, dark circles under his eyes, his feet dragging.
Exhaustion radiates from him, which has become his default mode lately.
Mom slides out after him, smoothing down her blazer.
She lifts her chin like she’s stepping onto a stage instead of our driveway.
Some days I wonder what it would be like to have a normal mom, who doesn’t expect everyone to adore her. “Lottie,” she calls over to me.
Before I can respond, Mom’s gaze snags on Tyson. Her eyes narrow, then flick to Ham like she’s uncovered a conspiracy. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, is this about what I said about hockey guys?” she demands.
“No,” Ham groans. “I invited Ty to hang out.”
Ty clears his throat, and I hold my breath. The awkwardness is so thick I turn my head, pretending to be interested in Crunch chewing a leaf.
Mom stomps her foot—actually stomps it—before turning her politician stare on Ty. “Well, I suppose I should apologize for what I said. My comment about hockey was ill-advised.”
“It’s fine, Senator Halloway.” Ty gives a soft smile. “I barely heard anything about it.” I pinch back a smile that’s begging to slip out at him. There is no way he hasn’t heard, but he’s playing the game—kissing up to my mom like everyone else.
“It is not fine. Someone needs to be fired for leaving that mic hot,” she mutters, stepping forward and sweeping past us. “Where was that mic when I just apologized? That would have boosted my likability numbers, but no, that never makes it to social media …”
I cover my forehead with my hand. “Mom, please stop talking.”
She shoots me a glare, but then spins on her heel, striding toward the porch, muttering about how hockey is “too violent for her wholesome image …”
Ham’s gaze drops to the hammer in my hand, and his jaw tightens. “No, Lottie. Stop whatever you are doing with that, and hand it over. Right now.”
I flick my wrist in a playful gesture, swinging the hammer toward him with zero intention of handing it over. “I have to fix the gate before Dad eliminates my goats—”
“You almost broke your finger last time.” Without waiting for me to give it to him, he plucks it from my grip and turns to Ty. “Come on. Let’s fix the gate before we need to call an ambulance.”
Without another word, they head down the hill together. Mom disappears inside, still muttering something about how “that hockey boy is sure cute but not good for branding.”
I stand with my hand on my hip, warmth spreading up my neck.
It shouldn’t bother me.
Ty is just a friend.
A friend who plays hockey—something my mom hates. But my gut tightens. I can’t help wishing she could pretend to be nice to him.
He’s a good… friend.
Breathing heavy, I head down the hill toward the guys. I didn’t mean to pass my chore off to them. I’m capable of fixing a little wire. Ty glances up when he hears my footsteps, and his expression softens, and suddenly my knees become putty. “You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah, I’m used to my mom.” I wave vaguely. What else is there to say? She’s a full-time job, and Ham is right here, hearing everything too.
Ham takes all of three seconds to pound a nail in, securing the wire.
Then he leans on the post to test it with his body weight.
It holds. He turns to me. “It should be good for now.” He hands the hammer back to me and grins.
“Do you mind putting this back for me? I need to make sure the barn is cleaned out. I offered a stall to Maddie. Did you know that she got invited to the parade because she’s an Olympic medalist? ”
“I didn’t know that.” A smile tugs on my lips as I always enjoy my time with her. “That’s amazing for her. It will be so fun to catch up. I don’t think I’ve seen her in forever.”
“Yeah, she’s coming on the third with her RV, and I offered her a spot to park it since parking in the city is a mess. I want to make sure we are ready for her.” With that, he turns on his heel and struts away.
Ty doesn’t follow. If anything, he shifts his weight, planting his feet more firmly on the ground.
He stays close to the fence, elbow leaning on the post. I mean to glance quickly, but when our eyes meet, they lock.
There’s a magnetism that keeps us entwined.
He’s always had the kindest eyes—I seriously could stare into them for hours.
Yet all I hear is my mom’s voice in my head: a hockey guy is not good for your image!
Something twists inside me. Because she doesn’t see him. Not how sweet, patient, or unexpectedly good he is.
And I don’t know why that makes me so angry.
“Hey,” he says lightly, finally breaking eye contact, sweeping his gaze to the ground for a beat. “I saw your mom’s name in the parade lineup. Are you helping her?”
“Of course. My mom’s favorite past time is recruiting voters at the Fourth of July parade. I so miss the little parade in Mapleton. This one’s a whole other deal—so overwhelming.” I tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear. “What about you?”
He gives me his signature lazy grin, the one that surfaces after a full day in the sun.
“Yeah. The team’s doing a PR thing. The league gave us all five hockey sticks to sign and give out to fans.
I guess since there are fifty players, the math adds perfectly up to 250.
Each stick is numbered, and the media’s going to be all over it. ”
“Wow. I bet you’ll be popular.” I pause, running my tongue over my bottom lip as the sun beams overhead. “I, ah, I’m sorry about my mom. For someone always scolding me about decorum, I don’t get what she has against hockey—”
“It’s fine,” he cuts me off, waving his hand dismissively, but I won’t stand for it.
“It’s not fine.” I raise my voice in a defensive tone. “It’s your career, and you’re amazing at it. There’s nothing wrong with your job. Plus, you’ve been friends with Ham and me for years. She needs to be respectful.”
Ty nods, which feels out of place—like a mistimed salute—as he goes quiet, turning his gaze from mine, as if it suddenly hurts to look at me. “What did I say,” my voice goes softer; the air has shifted in a single second.
He shakes his head. “Just that word.”
“Respectful?”
“Friend.”
The single word lodges in my chest like a sharp edge. He tugs up one corner of his lips, then shrugs.
“Well, we aren’t enemies,” I blurt, my heart thumping against my ribs.
Our eyes lock again, and my insides completely freeze. “Lottie, we haven’t spoken in five—”
“Lottie!” My mom’s shrill cry from the front porch slices through the air. “I need help finding something to wear to the parade.”
Scowling, totally annoyed she’s intruding on my conversation, I yell back, “Just pick a suit!”
“Well, yes, of course I’m wearing a suit, but I need help ironing it.”
I stare at her, counting to ten in my head so I don’t explode.
Somedays I wish she could hear herself. When I look back at Ty, he tips his head like he’s wearing an imaginary hat.
“Go ahead. I’ll catch up with Ham. I’m here for a couple of weeks, and I’m sure I’ll see you around.
” Without giving me a chance to reply, he hurries off, and I roll my eyes as I scurry back to the house to help my mom.
Ironing?
Seriously.
At what point do I put my foot down and say, “This isn’t part of my job.
” ? I guess that’s one of the huge caveats to living with your boss—the tasks never end.
I hustle through the front door, shoving it to slam behind me, and stomp up the old wooden stairs, sending a prelude of my mood echoing through the house.
I only slow once I pass through her bedroom door, where she’s already wearing her suit, spinning in front of the full-length mirror, admiring herself from every angle.
“Did you check the label to see if you can even iron that?” I force my voice to sound pleasant. “I would think it’s dry-clean only.”
“It was professionally laundered,” she says, her tone more nasally than normal. “I just said that to get you away from that man.”
“From Ty?” I tilt my head. That doesn’t sound right—he’s been around forever.
“Lottie,” she says in that commanding tone, “we need to talk about my image.”
Great. My favorite subject. “I know you care about it, and I do too, but seriously, we aren’t in public. If I talk to Ty on the farm, nobody sees it.” I dig way down deep in my belly for the strength not to sound defensive.
“This isn’t about talking to Ty—although, I do have a plan for him to help me too. This is about you helping me more.”
“How can I help you more?” I blurt. “I don’t do anything for myself. I haven’t even gone to so much as a book club, because apparently 'romance books' sends the wrong message for your Wholesome Values campaign. What else do you want? I literally can’t give—"
“It’s not about giving me more.” She lifts a hand, slicing through my spiral like a guillotine.
“It’s about showing everyone a little something extra.
You hide in the shadows, but you have the power to help me by stepping forward—take the press off me for a moment while it still remains all about me. ”
What is she even talking about. On what planet does that sentence even make sense? I blink. “Showing what?”
She turns to the side, continuing to admire her reflection in the mirror.
“This hockey blunder isn’t blowing over fast enough.
We had hordes of hecklers at the office tonight.
We need new news. Something that drowns out this whole hockey-comment-disaster situation.
” She waves a hand like the scandal is a fruit fly she can swat.
“I’ve done some research. In moments like these, celebrities like to announce fake relationships to boost their image. ”
I gawk at her. “Mom. You’re married. You can’t be in a fake relationship.”