5. Systems Check
FIVE
SYSTEMS CHECK
Jules
I’ve been staring at my laptop for an hour.
Okay, it’s been like ten minutes. But still. How many flower arrangements does one need to look at? ’Cause Jackie has about a hundred pictures to scroll through, and the hooker actually wants my thoughts on every one. Seriously. Every. One.
Pick the colors you want and boom, done deal.
Let the florist come up with the final product.
I mean, that’s their job, right? And when did Jackie put all this together?
Makes me think those two lovebirds have been keeping this engagement quiet until I got back.
Which is uber sweet, but then totally annoying because I could’ve had more time to deal with this.
This is Jackie’s big day. If she’s going to trust me with this, then I’m going to make all her freaking dreams come true.
One freaking flower arrangement at a time if need be.
A long sigh escapes, but I continue clicking through Jackie’s PowerPoint.
I’ve already checked the other files on the flash drive I got from Trish today.
There’s one for bridal gowns, one for cakes, one for décor and one for bridesmaid dresses.
I’m definitely opening the bridesmaid dresses last. Just thinking of having to wear frilly, foo-foo shit in pastel colors has me sweating like I’m flying an F-15 Eagle at Mach 2 speeds.
Ah… good memories.
A knock on my door offers me a welcome break from maid of honor duties.
A knock is unusual. Unless it’s Jackie. She’s the only one on my list of personal guests that doesn’thave to call up before being allowed on the elevator.
But when I open my front door, the hallway is empty.
Just as I’m about to close the door and get back to bouquet ribbon wraps, my eyes catch on the box at my feet.
It isn’t a large box. Maybe eight inches square. Plain. No address. It isn’t even sealed, the flaps just folded in on each other to keep it closed.
This sets off my internal alarm. True, I’ve been known to late-night Amazon, the modern-day equivalent to QVC’ing, since I hate the mall with a passion.
But all of those purchases arrive through the mail, stamped with barcodes and labels from the good old United States Postal Service.
And they are most certainly always sealed.
This is glaringly unmarked.
Slowly, I squat down and lift the box. Light. Not even a pound. I take one more look down both directions of the hallway. No one.
I close the door, lock it and place the box on my counter.
Maybe I’ll just throw it out.
My unwashed Air Force Academy mug next to the box reminds me that I’m no wuss, so I take a deep breath and pretend the goosebumps on my arms are from the a/c of my condo and not the mysterious package. I spin the box on the counter a few times before wrenching the top open with one hard yank.
Confetti. Huh. Didn’t see that one coming.
I laugh at myself, embarrassed that I let a few dirty pictures and messages on my social media get me so riled up. This is probably more wedding-related stuff from Jackie.
But isn’t she off somewhere with Flynn?
I shake the confetti out, shiny, multi-colored moons and rocket ships floating down on my countertop. In the middle of the pile is an envelope. My hand reaches for it, and I curse myself when I see a slight waver in my fingers. I rip open the envelope and pull out… a newspaper article?
It’s a recent one about my co-worker Bodie and me, after our successful spacewalk that saved the International Space Station. I look back in the envelope and box, but there is nothing else.
Maybe one of my neighbors gave it to me as a welcome home.
But seeing as the only neighbor I actually knew and liked, Flight Surgeon Rebecca Sato, recently moved out of the building and in with her firefighter boy toy, that doesn’t make a whole lot of sense.
I open the cabinet under the sink, prepared to toss the whole thing in the trash when I catch the writing on the back of the article.
Enjoy the beer I sent last night? I bet it made you feel real good afterwards.
What. The. Fuck.
Holt
Sunday nights suck.
Granted, most of the time I don’t even acknowledge when the weekend comes.
One day rolls right into the next when you’re working on a ranch.
But since patching things up with my brother, and with Rose coming home from college on the weekends more frequently than she has in the past, I began to look forward to Fridays.
I’m enjoying more time with my siblings, whether that means putting up with Rose’s obnoxious humor or driving down to Clear Lake to see Flynn and Jackie.
Lately it feels like I have an actual life rather than just an existence.
But Sundays suck.
Because Sundays are when it all goes away again. Even now I hear Rose starting her stomp down the stairs, her heavy suitcase thudding behind her. I make my way to the foyer.
“All set to head back to your ridiculously expensive high-rise apartment?” I ask once she’s cleared the last step with a bang.
Rose quirks an eyebrow. “The ridiculous thing is that I, with no income, save for inherited oil royalties, can manage to live in a decent apartment, while you, with your oil money and hoity-toity organic, grass-fed cattle money, still live in semi-squalor.”
“Hey—I’m getting it fixed up. In fact, while you were packing, I set up an appointment with a contractor.”
“Contractor? You fixing to tear shit down?” She looks around the house. “’Cause we’ll actually need someplace other than the barn to hold the wedding.”
I run my fingers through my hair. “I’m not tearing shit down. But we need a new kitchen at least, for the caterers and all. And the guy I talked to said he has a connection to some expensive interior decorator who can design it.”
Rose crosses her arms over her chest. “Well, that’s a relief. Who knows what this place would look like if you tried doing it.”
“I do live here, you know? So, technically, I’m the one whose opinion truly matters in the long run.
” I point to her large, cumbersome suitcase.
“And you’re one to talk. I may be a guy, but even I know that that is one butt-ugly suitcase.
Brown leather with brown writing? Does it even have wheels?
What’s the point of a suitcase if it’s ugly and non-functional? ”
Rose sucks in a loud gasp of air. “Are you serious?” She gestures wildly toward the rectangular boulder of leather at her feet. “This is a vintage Louis Vuitton Damier Trunk!”
I cross my arms over my chest and stare at what I’m sure cost more than my truck. “It’s ugly.”
She throws her hands in the air, then hauls her vintage piece of crap upright. “I can’t even with you. You hillbilly?—”
“Hello?”
I freeze at the singsong greeting in a husky, femme-fatale voice I know all too well. The same voice that transfixed me from outer space, and the one recently used to kick me out of her apartment only hours ago.
Rose’s head peeks around my side. “Jules?”
“Hey there, pussy cat, what’s shaking?”
Slowly, I pivot on my tube-sock clad heel to see Jules, motorcycle helmet under one arm, backpack over her shoulders, standing in the open doorway.
“Wow, this is a surprise!” Rose looks at me. “Or is it? Maybe you thought I’d be gone by now?” She elbows me in the ribs.
“Jesus, Rose,” I say, rubbing my side, “I’m not sixteen trying to sneak a girl into the house. I had no idea Jules was coming.”
“Please.” Rose rolls her eyes. “At sixteen you were dreaming of horses and cows, not girls, you weirdo.” She looks at Jules and smirks. “He was a real cowboy-nerd.”
Jules snorts.
Rose holds up a hand to one side of her mouth, stage whispering, “Still is, really.”
I huff out a breath. “Okay, you done now?” I try glowering at my little sister, but it doesn’t make a dent in her smug attitude. But then, I didn’t really think it would.
I look at the biker goddess standing in my front door. “Why are you here?” I ask her, inwardly cringing at my rough tone.
She shuts the door, giving me a great view of the tight jeans hugging her slim hips and perfectly proportioned ass. She steps into the foyer but stops when she catches me looking pointedly at the boots on her feet.
“Sheesh, cowboy.” She rolls her eyes, but back-steps to lean against the wall so she can drop her helmet and unlace her boots. Her manly, black, studded biker boots that shouldn’t turn me on but do.
“I’m here ’cause I refuse to do this wedding stuff by myself,” she says, dropping one boot to the floor.
“By yourself?” She can’t be serious. “I have a freaking contractor coming to the house tomorrow for this damn wedding. I’m going to have to shell out some serious money to get this place visitor ready in just four weeks.”
She puts her hands on her hips and I try not to register how the move highlights her tiny waist. “Seeing as you have millions, I don’t see what the problems is, Mr. Moneybags.”
Rose steps around me, bumping me forward with her suitcase. “Well, this sounds super interesting and all, and I’m sure another set of hands would be helpful, but I gots to go.”
“You’re leaving me with her?” I know I sound like a wuss, wanting my sister to run interference for me, but with Jules, I’ll take all the help I can get.
“Yeah, I am.” She winks at me. “You’re welcome.”
Jules shakes off her last boot, leaving her in tube socks.
“Oh look.” Rose points with her free hand. “You two are sock twins.”
“And your suitcase is the color of shit,” Jules deadpans.
Rose pauses to scowl at Jules. “You two so deserve each other.” And with that, she lugs the suitcase out of the house and slams the door. I can hear the damn thing banging down the porch steps to the drive, probably cracking the decking with each thump.
When the sound of Rose’s departure finally fades, it’s quiet for a minute or two more while I look Jules over again, and she looks everywhere but at me.