Chapter 10
Eli: GODDAMNIT VERITY! STOP!! TEXTING!!!HIM!!!!
Curled up on Katarina’s couch, waiting for Ian to finish getting dressed, Verity Jennings read her first text message of the day and frowned.
Leave it to one of her brothers to ruin a perfectly lovely Sunday morning.
Seriously, she wouldn’t be surprised if they had a secret group chat, complete with a shared calendar, where the five of them divvied up the days of the week so they each had an equal turn trying to run her life.
Well, it wasn’t going to work. Not today, Satans.
Verity:Don’t all caps me. It’s rude.
Verity:And don’t use so many exclamation marks. Aggressive, much?
Tossing the phone aside, she got up and, rising onto her bare toes, stretched her arms over her head, then lowered to her heels. If she was going to deal with any of her brothers before nine a.m., she was going to need more coffee.
And possibly a pancake or two.
Verity padded into the kitchen, crossing to the single cup coffee maker next to the stove. Added a coffee pod, set a mug beneath it, then turned it on.
Kat’s apartment was the first floor of an old Victorian house on Chambers Street with original oak flooring throughout, a bright and sunny living room, a narrow, but functional galley kitchen with room for a two-person, bar-style table in front of a stained-glass window, two bedrooms, and a bathroom.
Sure, it could use some updating, but the green-tiled kitchen counters, dark blue toilet and tub/shower combination, fake wood wainscoting on the walls in the bedrooms and slight warp to the floors in each and every room, gave it a sort of nostalgic charm.
No matter that Urban—Verity’s eldest brother and owner of Mount Laurel’s best contracting company—said it was a dump.
Verity got out the ingredients for pancakes then went down the hall to Ian’s room.
Her seven-year-old nephew lay in the middle of his floor in a pair of Star Wars boxer-briefs and white socks, one of his Miles Morales graphic novels held in the air above his head, his lips moving as he read.
“Hey, bud,” she said, leaning against the doorway. “How’s that whole getting dressed thing going?”
He didn’t even look up from his book. “Good.”
“Well, listen, I’m not here to impede your progress or anything—”
“What does impede mean?” he asked, glancing over at her.
“Delay. Or get in the way of.”
“Oh.” He shrugged his bare, skinny shoulders and turned back to his book. “You’re not.”
“Great. I guess I’ll just leave you to it while I make us some pancakes—”
“Regular pancakes?”
“Are there any other kind?”
Ian blinked at her from behind his glasses. “There’s the kind you made that one time that were just bananas and eggs.”
“Yes. There was one time, one single, solitary time when I was persuaded by social media to broaden our culinary horizons and try a new recipe.”
One time over two years ago when Ian was still in kindergarten.
Get over it already.
“They weren’t good,” he said, sitting up. “They were really, really bad. And squishy. And they smelled funny.”
“They smelled like bananas. And taste is subjective.”
Although he was right about the squishy part. But once they were covered in syrup, the taste and texture improved immensely.
Even if they did taste like a banana omelet.
“Not that that matters,” she continued, “because I’m not making those pancakes. Just as I haven’t made those pancakes at any point in time since that morning.”
“You’re making regular pancakes?” he asked, eyeing her suspiciously. “With chocolate chips?”
She nodded. “And if you want to eat any of them, and they’re going to be so delicious you’re going to want to eat all of them, you need to at least put some shorts on.”
Another shrug as he shuffled over to his dresser, book still in his hand. “They won’t be as good as Uncle Toby’s.”
“First of all, ouch. Secondly, it’s his recipe. Plus, I make them with way more love than he does which means they taste even better than his. But if you don’t like them, I’ll eat all of them and you can munch on some ooey, gooey oatmeal.”
Looking horrified, he made a gagging sound. “Ew! No way! Oatmeal looks like brains!”
“So you’ve mentioned before,” she said as she headed out the door.
She stepped into the living room and grabbed her phone to see she had one new text and three missed FaceTime calls.
All from Eli.
Great. Now she had to respond to him. If she didn’t, he’d probably call Urban or Miles.
Or, knowing her run of crappy luck lately, both of them.
She FaceTimed him back.
He answered immediately, his furious, handsome face filling the screen. He was walking down a busy city street, probably near his downtown Oklahoma City apartment, the breeze ruffling his dark hair, earbuds in his ears, a pair of sunglasses hooked on the neck of his t-shirt.
“He’s too old for you.”
“Uh, good morning to you, too,” she said, pulling the flavored creamer Kat always kept on hand for her from the fridge.
His mouth flattened.
She was the bane of all five of her brothers’ existence.
Which was only fair seeing as how they were the bane of hers.
And there were way more of them.
“Good morning,” he bit off through gritted teeth. “Henderson is too old for you.”
She refrained, barely, from rolling her eyes because she was trying to prove to her brothers that she was an adult and as such, could handle their overbearing ways with grace, empathy, and patience.
“He’s twenty,” she said, adding creamer to her coffee.
“Too. Old.”
She took a sip. “He’s barely two years older than I am.”
“You’re underage. He’s an adult.”
She didn’t point out, yet again, that she was turning eighteen at the end of August. Or that she’d be meeting—and hopefully dating—plenty of guys who were two, three, or even four years older once she started school at Ohio State.
“The age of consent in Pennsylvania is sixteen.” She took another sip of coffee. Pursed her lips. “So no matter what Patrick and I decide to do, it’s legal.”
Eli stopped and stared at her, eyes wide and not blinking, mouth open, for ten seconds. Then twenty.
She frowned. Walked into the living room where reception was better. “You froze. Can you hear me?”
He blinked. Scowled. And started walking again.
“I’ll kill him.”
Her brothers. So overly dramatic.
She sat on the arm of the couch. “You do realize Patrick and I have never met in person, right? We’ve never been in the same room or, as far as I know, town or city at the same time. So far in our relationship—”
“Don’t call it that.”
“—there’s been no physical contact at all. He hasn’t sent me any unsolicited dick pics—”
Eli’s face grayed and he looked ready to puke, right there on the street.
“We’re not sexting or exchanging nudes,” she continued. “We’re just talking.”
“Well stop talking to him. Talk to anyone but him.”
“What is your problem with Patrick? He’s nice.”
“I told you no baseball players. Especially ones on my team.”
Eli and Patrick played for the Oklahoma Drillers baseball team—Eli in left field and Patrick at shortstop.
And Eli absolutely did tell her no baseball players. He’d made it crystal clear when she’d FaceTimed him a few weeks ago asking him to hook her up with one of his teammates that he didn’t want her dating a professional athlete ever.
That was when she’d met Patrick. He’d taken Eli’s phone and started flirting hard with her, despite Eli’s threats.
“You still haven’t told me why I shouldn’t talk to him.”
“He’s a cocky asshole who thinks everything he wants should be handed to him on a fucking silver platter. Including girls.”
Sipping her coffee, Verity gave him a raised eyebrow look over her mug.
“Including women,” he corrected.
Patrick was cocky. At least, he’d been pretty sure of himself those first few DMs he’d sent her on Instagram. But once he’d realized that she wasn’t about to fly out to meet him at some random hotel in whatever city he was playing in that night and fall on his dick, no matter how often he offered to buy her a ticket, he’d stopped trying so freaking hard to impress her with his stats and fans and piles of money.
He’d opened up a little and relaxed a lot. Like he’d stopped playing some role he’d been assigned, and started being himself.
She liked him. She liked his sense of humor and his Texas drawl. She liked his confidence and work ethic. She liked his pretty face and toned body.
And yes, she liked his attention.
It was flattering, having someone like him interested in her.
Flattering and an ego boost.
One she’d desperately needed after Reed Walsh—another cocky, pretty, tatted up blond boy, albeit closer to home—squashed it last month.
“Look,” she said to Eli. “Patrick and I are just talking. Not dating. Not hooking up. Just. Talking. I’m not sure when or if that will ever change. But if it does, that’ll be my decision. You know, the people who raised me did an excellent job. I’m fantastic. And it would be nice if one or two of those people started to trust me to make my own decisions.”
“I do trust you,” Eli insisted, looking suitably abashed.
As he should, since he was one of the people who helped raise her.
Yes, Urban was her legal guardian, but ever since the night their parents were killed in a car accident, all her brothers had taken care of her—even Eli, who’d only been twelve at the time.
And while she truly appreciated everything they’d done for her, she wasn’t a kid anymore and she was tired of being treated like one.
“I just don’t want to see you get hurt,” he added.
“I don’t want that, either.” She’d spent the majority of her life making sure that exact thing didn’t happen. She’d been smart about guys, never letting any of them get close. Never letting herself fall too hard.
Until she did fall, hard and fast. And yes, it had hurt.
Landing on your butt was never fun.
But she was better for it. Wiser.
“Look,” she told Eli, “I really don’t think Patrick’s going to break my heart.”
She’d have to like him a whole lot more than she currently did for that to happen.
She didn’t plan on liking any guy that much again anytime soon.
“And while I can’t promise you that my heart will never be broken, I can promise that I’ll always know my worth and I’ll never settle for less than I deserve.”It was the same promise she’d made to Miles last week when they’d attended Lily Kincaid’s wedding.
Right before she’d danced with Reed.
After which he’d left her standing alone on the dance floor.
She hadn’t seen him since.
“I’m going to hold you to that.” Eli stepped into what looked like a coffee shop. “But I’d still prefer it if you wouldn’t just talk to any of my teammates. It’s messing with my game.”
This time she couldn’t hold back an eye roll. “Really? You’re going to try and blame your crappy season and horrible stats on me? No, sir. I do not accept that responsibility.”
“My stats aren’t horrible,” he grumbled.
She bit her tongue. Literally.
Better than pointing out that his batting average had fallen to .180 and he had 8 errors this season.
The trade from the Braves to the Drillers has not been good for Eli.
“I’m sure your game is going to improve any day now.” She hoped so, anyway. “Just keep doing what the sports psychologist tells you.”
Someone knocked on the door—probably the lady who was moving in upstairs—and Verity stood. Mr. Roberts, Kat’s landlord, had asked if she could let the new tenant into the apartment since he had a family emergency and wouldn’t be home for her to pick up the key.
She crossed the room. “I have to go. Love you.”
“Love you,” he responded as she opened the door.
At least, that’s what she thought he said. It was hard to tell, what with the extremely loud whooshing sound in her head.
“Reed,” she said, refusing to stoop to his rude, scowly level by not being as polite and pleasant as possible, even if she was shocked to see him there. “Good morning.”
He glowered at her, his blue eyes narrowed, as if she was the one ruining his day.
He’d cut his hair. Well, not completely. The top was still long and knotted in a bun at the crown of his head, but the sides and back had been buzzed close to his scalp, the short strands a darker blond than the top.
She had the strangest, strongest urge to reach out and trail her fingertips over those short strands to see if they were as soft as they looked.
Ugh. What was it about this boy that turned her into such a ninny?
She curled her fingers into her palm. “Are you lost?”It was the same thing he’d asked her at the beginning of the summer when she’d shown up at his door unannounced looking for help getting her car out of a ditch.
If he remembered, he didn’t let on.
He also didn’t answer her.
“Okay, you know what? This whole glaring at me in silence thing has gotten old. So I’m just gonna go on and shut the door and move on with my life. Bye, bye, now.”
But when she started to shut the door, he pressed his hand against it, stopping her.
She gaped at him. “You did not just do that.”
“You don’t live here.”
“What?”
“You don’t live here,” he bit out, jaw tight, mouth barely moving. Irritated, it seemed, with having to repeat himself. Annoyed with life in general, and her specifically.
Whatever. He’s the one who knocked on the door.
“No. I don’t live here.”
She wasn’t surprised he knew that. It was a small town and they had known each other since kindergarten—even if they’d never really spoken to each other until this summer.
When she’d gotten her car stuck in the ditch, she’d known very well it was his trailer she was approaching for help.
Hand still on the door, Reed glanced behind her into the house. “Where’s the blonde?”
“Who?”
“The blonde chick who lives here. This was the address she gave me.”
“So sorry to disappoint you,” she said, her snarky tone a clear indication that was far from the truth, “but whoever you swiped right on lied about their address. Your hookup isn’t here.”
“What’s a hookup?”
She whirled around to find Ian staring up at her, still bare-chested and hair uncombed, but at least he’d put on a pair of gray shorts. “How long have you been standing there?”
He shrugged. Scratched the side of his nose. “What’s a hookup?”
Reed snorted, and she whirled back to him. Found him smirking as if he was sooo going to enjoy seeing her hem and haw, stammer and stutter like some old, uptight auntie.
“Sorry, bud,” she told Ian. “But that’s one of those ask your mom questions.”
Verity and her brothers always deferred the tricky questions to Kat. It was a sign of respect. It showed that they recognized her complete authority as Ian’s mom.
It also got them out of the hard job of trying to explain grown-up things to a seven-year-old.
Win-win.
Ian shrugged again, content as always to just go with the flow in whatever direction life—and the many, many adults in charge of his care—took him. Spying Reed, Ian tugged on Verity’s hand. “Are we getting ice cream?”
A few weeks ago, on her quest to pay Reed back for helping her get her car out of the ditch, Verity had invited him to get ice cream with her and Ian.
As it was also the only time Ian had seen Reed, he must associate him with the treat.
Kids’ brains. So fascinating, the connections they made.
“It’s nine o’clock,” Verity reminded him. When he just stared up at her in a and that matters to me why? way she added, “In the morning.”
“You said it was never too early for ice cream.”
“This is one of those rare, special times when I was wrong. Any time before noon is too early for ice cream. Unless it’s a scoop on a waffle. Then it’s breakfast.”
Ian thought that over, eyebrows drawn together. “Is it breakfast if we have ice cream on our pancakes?”
She really, really loved how this kid’s mind worked. “Absolutely.”
The extra calcium would be good for him. Growing bones and all that.
Ian inclined his head toward Reed. “Is he eating pancakes with us?”
“Absolutely not. He was just leaving.”
A dog barked and she glanced behind Reed to his truck parked in front of the house. His dog, a huge, brown and white boxer/lab mix, was sitting in the front seat watching them through the passenger side, his boxy head hanging out the open window, his tail and rear wagging with excitement.
Reed turned his head to look at him. “Titus. Quiet.”
Though he hadn’t raised his voice, the dog immediately went silent. Reed’s dog was obedient. Well-trained.
Well-loved.
And his name was Titus.
She hadn’t known that. She’d been with Reed and his dog at his trailer that night she’d knocked on his door. Had talked to Reed several times over the summer, but she hadn’t known his dog’s name.
For some reason, that bugged her even more than his reason for being here.
“You shouldn’t leave your dog in your truck,” Ian told Reed. “If it gets too hot, he’ll die.” He turned to Verity with wide, horrified eyes. “Will his face melt off?”
Face melting conversation number three hundred and twelve coming right up.
Toby had let him watch Raiders of the Lost Ark weeks ago and Ian was still stuck on that scene where Toht’s face melted.
“No parts of him will melt,” Verity assured Ian. “Reed left the windows open and there’s a nice breeze, and it’s not too hot outside yet. I mean, is it irresponsible, not to mention selfish, of him to drag his dog with him on this little jaunt? Absolutely. But, as I mentioned, Reed isn’t staying—”
“I didn’t want to leave him at my place today,” Reed said to Ian.
“How come?”
“My old man’s there. He doesn’t like Titus.”
Expression serious, Ian nodded. “You should tell that old man to leave, then.”
One side of Reed’s mouth tipped up, the closest he got to a real smile. A sight she’d only seen once or twice before, and each time, including now, it had the power to make her scalp prickle pleasantly. “Yeah. Good idea.”
“You can bring your dog inside,” Ian told him. “My mom won’t mind. And you can both have some pancakes.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Aunt Vee’s pancakes are good, but Uncle Toby’s are better.”
“Hey. I’m standing right here, you know.”
He shrugged, yet another male in her life not the least bit concerned about bruising her tender feelings.
“My pancakes are excellent. And, as I may have mentioned before, Reed. Is. Not. Staying.”
Sticking his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, Reed nodded toward the driveway as a white car pulled in behind the moving truck that was parked there. “You sure about that?”
She narrowed her eyes. The only thing she was sure of was that she didn’t like that smug, triumphant look on his face. She stepped onto the porch—and Reed practically leapt back so as not to be within touching distance of her.
God. One time, one, single, solitary, spontaneous time, you ask a guy to kiss you—which he did not do—and suddenly he’s terrified you might jump him at any available opportunity.
“Get over yourself, would you?” she muttered, unsure if she was talking to him or herself, but figuring it was a suggestion they both could use.
The blonde got out of the car. She wore sneakers, a pair of gray leggings and a light violet tank top, her golden hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail.
She looked familiar.
Very, very familiar.
But it wasn’t until the woman was climbing the porch steps that Verity realized where she’d seen her before.
Reed’s blonde chick and the bombshell Verity had caught sneaking out of Miles’s house a few weeks ago were one and the same.