29. Oh, Goody, You Can Count
OH, GOODY, YOU CAN COUNT
brAXTON
For the second time in twelve hours, there’s beating on my door. This time to my bedroom and, this time, I’m out of patience. I yank open the door and glower down at Emberleigh fucking Carrington.
“Get the fuck out of my house before I call the sheriff to report you for trespassing. And if you beat down my door, any door, I’ll handcuff you in the stables. Am I clear?”
She blanches, and for one second, I think she will cower. Instead, she stiffens her shoulders and straightens her spine. Again.
“One, I don’t like you. You’re an asshole and less than what my nephew deserves.
” She starts ticking off on her fingers.
“Two, I don’t care that I don’t like you and I sure as fuck don’t care that you don’t like me.
Colt is my priority—my only priority—and I.
Won’t. Leave. Him.” She accentuates every word.
If she weren’t such a bitch and so annoying, I’m sure I’d be hard with her little act.
“Three, I’ll have a court injunction on you playing house with my nephew by the end of the day if you make this difficult for him at all. Four—”
I slow clap until she looks from her fingers to meet my gaze.
“Oh, goody, you can count. My day just got better.” I lace the words with sarcasm.
I want not to be worried about her threat, but I know all too well that money, politics, and connections in this state mean something.
And in Highland Park, the Carringtons’ money and influence is far-reaching and deep-rooted.
I shouldn’t test her, but seeing her face flame scarlet from my insult is worth it. Fuck her.
“Four, I will not be intimidated by the likes of you, Braxton Ranger.”
“Well, if we’re going by full names, Emberleigh Carrington, challenge accepted.”
I slam the door in her face and scrub a hand down my own. Fuck, if this were foreplay, I’d be all over it. The problem is that this is the prelude to a nightmare that I cannot afford—not the money, not the time. None of it.
Me: Need you. Can you stop by and be the scary Ranger you are?
Bright: Do you know what time it is?
Me: Reread. I said “need.” Emerson’s sister is here and threatening to take Colt.
Bright: On my way.
I grab my jeans and throw on my work boots. I do my morning routine, all while holding, feeding, and staring at Colt. He’s handsome and fragile, and I am terrified. I do nothing well and take way longer than I should with each of the tasks.
I dress him and talk to him and walk out less than twenty minutes after my tête-à-tête with Emberleigh.
I refill my coffee mug and move through the house, not acknowledging the blonde’s presence. I talk to Colt. I make and eat breakfast and am throwing the skillet in the sink when my front door opens and in waltzes Brighton.
“Morning, Brax. Morning, Colt. How are my boys today?”
She’s in full cowgirl mode with her jeans and cowboy boots.
She wears her resting bitch face like a mask.
It slips when she sees me holding her nephew.
She enters the kitchen like she owns the place, grabbing her own mug and making a cup for herself.
She complains I don’t have the kind of cream she likes, but she continues nonetheless, cooing at Colt, touching his cheek and his chin, before raising her eyes in silent question to me.
I nod, ever so slightly, in the direction of the living room, before the two of us head for the door.
As we step out onto the porch, Emberleigh follows quickly behind.
“Excuse me?” she asks. Or demands.
“Yes?” Bright asks sharply, turning to level her with her gaze.
“And you would be?” Emberleigh asks, as if she has a place to question anyone under my roof.
“Brighton.” The answer is brief and dismissive and insinuates something that isn’t at all true, but I have to fight the smile that threatens to well up on my face. My sister is badass, and her take-no-prisoner attitude exists for men and women alike.
“Where are you taking my nephew?”
“I don’t see how that’s any of your concern,” Bright replies. She turns her back, laces her hand through my elbow, and leads me toward the stables. She mumbles under her breath as we stalk away, “Damn, Brax, you sure can pick ‘em.”
Emberleigh
I walk back into the house, before doing a double take and rushing back onto the front porch. My white Model X, which I parked right in front of the house, is gone. I blink and look again. It’s stupid, I know.
“Argh!” I scream and slam the door and rush to my purse and find that my keys are, indeed, gone. Oh, there will be hell to pay.
He wants a fight; I’ll bring war to his doorstep.
I grab my phone from my back pocket, scroll, and hit go. My father picks up on the first ring. “Em?”
The pain of that name slices through me. I may always hurt a little when I hear it. Emerson and Emberleigh, identical twin girls, “Em and Em” to my parents. Now there’s just me. And the piece I have left of my sister that just walked out the door with the jackass who foolishly underestimates me.
“It’s worse than I thought,” I begin, moving to the kitchen and making myself at home.
“Okay,” he hedges.
“We need someone somewhere to say I can stay with Colt as much as he can.” I reach for a coffee mug and begin making myself a cup.
“How fast?”
“Today. He’s threatening to have me arrested for trespassing, while at the same time stealing my car. Anything you can do… Anybody we can pull into this—now is the time.”
“I’ll call Jerry. What else do you need?”
“Don’t know yet, but I’ll keep you posted. I have no intention of leaving this house without Colt. So either we find someone to let us bring him home, or they need to say this is my home until the case is settled.”
“That bad?”
“I can’t even begin to describe him. And I won’t. This is about Colt. He’s my priority.”
“I will get back to you asap.” The click disconnecting us is his sign-off.
I take a long pull of my coffee. It’s weak, not how I take it, but it’ll have to do.
I climb into Braxton’s recliner, the one that made him frown when I did so yesterday, and text a friend of mine in Austin. Before he can reply, my dad has sent a one-word text.
Wainwright Carrington: Done.
Me: How done?
Wainwright Carrington: Move in.
Oh, my reticent father. Of all the moments to be stingy with his words, this is not that time. Yet, I know that he has said all that he will. I also know his word is good.
So when Robby responds with the name of a concierge service he recommends in Austin, I realize my day is looking up.
By one, I have everything done. The service has been here, done everything I’ve requested of them. They’ve even delivered new clothes, shoes, and toiletries.
The app on my phone tells me my car is not far away. At least I can grab my laptop.
It’s too damn hot for the jeans and boots that Braxton had on, same with Brighton.
A quick Google search turned up that Brighton is Dr. Brighton Ranger, his sister.
They have two more brothers—one in D.C. and another, who’s considerably younger, in Florida.
Instead of donning a similar outfit, I keep my denim shorts and throw on a new tank top and exchange my wedges for flip-flops.
I repocket my phone and head out into the sun to find my Tesla.
I find it all right, in a barn, backed up against a wall with metal horse accouterments hanging on the wall behind it.
I open the app on my phone, press the unlock button, and am relieved to hear the horn and see the mirrors unfold.
I wiggle next to the wall on the driver’s side and squeeze into my SUV.
Not that I could go anywhere if I wanted to.
It’s cornered in place by a tractor of some sort with a metal bucket piece that probably attaches, sitting next to it, dangerously close to the driver’s side bumper.
I’d like to be mad. He thinks he can steal a vehicle, hide it, and leave me with no way of escaping? I’ll consider this an invitation to stay. Serves him right since I’m not going anywhere.
Grabbing my cell, I shoot out a quick text as I hurry back to my room.
Me: What is going on? Are you heading here? Don’t keep me in the dark.
There is no response.