Chapter Thirteen #3
The house is mostly wood and old things I’ve collected because I like objects that have already survived somebody else.
The dining table was an estate-sale wreck before I refinished it.
My couch is brown leather I bought used because I refused to pay furniture-store prices for something people put their asses on.
Old wrestling posters hang beside my academy graduation photograph, books crowd mismatched shelves, and three plants droop in the front windows because I forget they need water until they start looking like death.
Whiskey stops at the dining table. He studies the top without touching it.
“You did that?”
“Did what?”
“Refinished it.”
I pause. “How do you know?”
“Grain.”
I stare at him.
He shrugs. “Mama likes antiques.”
“I found it at an estate sale.”
“Nice.”
Something warm slips unexpectedly beneath my ribs.
I don’t like it.
“Quit approving of my furniture.”
“Can’t help having taste.”
“You own a cardboard castle.”
“Wren owns a cardboard castle.”
He wanders toward the photograph wall, and I immediately regret having walls.
There are too many pictures. Me at twelve holding a wrestling trophy. Sixteen beside Daddy’s patrol car. Academy graduation. One from a match with Sheila. Christmases. Birthdays. Daddy. Mama.
Whiskey stops in front of the photograph I knew would catch him.
My mother is sitting on the hood of Daddy’s old truck, laughing into the camera with blonde hair whipping across her face. I’m beside her at fourteen, all knees, elbows, braces, and too much attitude already.
“That your mama?”
“Yeah.”
“She looks like you.”
“I look like her.”
“Same thing.”
“No.”
He glances at me. “How old were you?”
“When?”
“When she died.”
My fingers hook beneath the duffel strap hanging over the back of a chair. “Sixteen.”
Whiskey doesn’t tilt his head or give me that soft sympathy face people use when they think grief might shatter me.
Thank God.
“How?”
“Cancer.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah.”
“Quick?”
“No.”
Worse question.
Better answer.
He nods like he understands that difference.
“Your daddy?”
“What about him?”
“Was he always like he is?”
I look at the picture instead of Whiskey. “No. He was protective, but not like this. After Mama died, it got worse.”
“Makes sense.”
“That ain’t an excuse.”
“Didn’t say it was.”
I look at him.
There’s no argument waiting, no defense of Daddy just because grief explains some of what happened afterward. Only understanding.
That might be worse.
“He lost her,” I say. “Then decided he wasn’t losing me.”
Whiskey studies the photograph another moment. “Except sometimes holding on too hard does the job anyway.”
I look away. “Getting philosophical again.”
“Dangerous habit.”
“Quit.”
“Trying.”
I grab my duffel and head toward the bedroom.
Whiskey follows.
“Why are you following me?”
“Nosy.”
“At least you’re honest.”
“Mostly.”
I open the closet and start pulling out what I actually need, filling the bag with jeans, shirts, an extra uniform undershirt, bras, underwear, socks, and enough toiletries that I won’t have to borrow Whiskey’s three-in-one man sludge.
He leans against the doorframe.
“You gonna supervise my bras too?”
“If needed.”
“It ain’t.”
“Shame.”
I throw a sock at him.
He catches it. “Violence again.”
“Get out.”
He tosses the sock onto the bed, then notices the framed photograph on my dresser.
Fuck.
I forgot it was there.
Whiskey comes off the doorframe so fast the lazy slouch disappears like it never existed.
“Don’t.”
Too late.
He picks it up.
The picture was taken at my engagement party. I’m in a blue dress beside Cal, his arm around my waist while I hold up my left hand because whoever took it wanted the ring in the shot.
Whiskey studies it long enough for jealousy to harden every line in his face.
“Who the fuck is that?”
I keep packing. “My ex.”
“You married?”
“No.”
“Engaged?”
“Was.”
He looks from the photograph to me. “You neglected to mention a fiancé.”
I turn. “You neglected to mention loving your baby mama. Call us even.”
His eyes narrow. “That ain’t the same.”
“How?”
“I got a kid with her.”
“And I almost married him.”
That somehow makes his mood worse.
Good.
“You still talk?”
“Sometimes.”
“How often?”
“None of your business.”
“Sounds often.”
“It’s Paradise. Everybody talks to everybody.”
“Who is he?”
“Cal Mercer.”
Recognition crosses his face.
“You know him?”
“Know of him.”
“Of course you do.”
“Firefighter.”
“Paramedic now too.”
“Daddy like him?”
I zip one side pocket of the duffel harder than necessary. “At first.”
Whiskey puts the photograph back on the dresser. “What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit.”
“Relationship ended.”
“Why?”
“Because they do.”
“That answer sucks.”
“Good thing I ain’t dating you.”
His gaze moves slowly over me. “Sure about that?”
Heat flashes through my body. I turn back to the closet. “Shut up.”
He smiles.
Then the front door opens.
I freeze.
Whiskey doesn’t.
He comes off the wall and moves toward the bedroom doorway before I’ve even identified the footsteps, his entire posture changing from jealous asshole to King in less than a second.
My hand goes automatically toward my right hip.
Nothing.
Because Whiskey still has my damn gun.
Then the second problem lands.
I locked that door.
“Twila?”