Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Emerson
I like the two-ponytail look, so I’ve kept it. I also like the overalls, and I took the second old pair I found with worn hems and cut them off. When I show up at Brooks’s house in the pickup, he does a double take. When I hop out, he does a triple take.
“What the fuck happened to you?”
My insecurity roars back. Is it that bad? Lane gives me smoldering stares. Have I convinced myself I look good when I live with a guy who has blue balls? “What’s wrong with it?”
He shoots me a perplexed look. “Nothing. Where are the designer clothes?”
“Discount designer.”
“Still designer. How’s the pickup running?”
“Good. It’s fun to drive.” I love it every time I hop in. I get flashbacks of standing next to Dad and shifting when he told me to.
“Auntie Em!” Hillary flies into my side like it’s been a year since she’s seen me. “How many eggs have you gotten so far?”
“A dozen.”
“Are they yummy?”
All I see are intense blue eyes across the table when I eat them. “Delicious.”
“I like your hair.”
I flip a ponytail off one shoulder. “I like it too.”
“And those.” She tugs at a frayed hem. “Can I have a pair?”
“I don’t know if this is peak sixth-grade fashion.”
She screws her face up. “I don’t care.”
I would’ve. I did, actually. I cared a whole lot.
It was made clear every day that I wasn’t a classy cowgirl like the Hawthorne sisters.
I didn’t have the brains to get the respect of the Palmer girls, nor did my parents donate to places across town.
The middle school years were not the best ones for my dad to tap out of being a parent.
Hillary doesn’t need to develop that debilitating insecurity. “You know what? I don’t care either.”
Surprised, I mean it. I rub at the center of my chest. After all she went through in Denver, if she’s willing to rock the hillbilly look, then I’m only going to support her. I will buy Hillary a whole wardrobe of overalls if that’s what makes her happy.
“I bought these used, but we can see what we can order.”
Her smile is wider than a rainbow, and she takes off toward a cat slinking across the yard. The cat notices and darts for the trees, but Hillary’s undaunted and follows it right in.
“You have another cat?” I ask Brooks.
He scratches the back of his head. “Don’t know where the damn thing came from.
Too wild to be dumped, but too tame to be a stray.
Maybe she was someone’s barn cat that they dumped.
I suspect she’s pregnant.” He shrugs. “I have a barn and a daughter who’s feeding her every day.
Be good to get some more mousers around here. ”
I do a three-sixty, taking in all the outbuildings that are on my five acres. “Not long, and it’ll be yours.”
“Thanks to you. By the way, I’ve gotta make another trip to Denver. I need to do the deep cleaning, and I’m not hiring out for it. Hillary’s going to help.”
The sale. The closing. The end to my marriage. “Oh, yeah. Thanks for letting me know.”
He lifts his chin toward Lane’s place. “He still cool about the chickens?”
“He said I could get turkeys, goats, and all the strays I want and he wouldn’t care.”
“You gonna keep testing him?”
I scowl. “I’m not testing him. I’m just showing him the real me.”
“You always did want a goat.”
“Saw a few for sale.”
He smirks and shakes his head.
“I’m heading to town for feed—”
“Because you thought he was going to make you get rid of them so you didn’t get much?”
I shrug. Brooks knew what I was up to when he helped place the shed. “Need anything?”
“Grab some for us.
“Will do. Hillary?” I call. “Want to run to town with me?”
Her face lights up. “Can I?” she asks Brooks.
“Wash up,” he says. Something our dad never reminded us to do when we’d been working with the animals.
“You’re a good dad,” I say quietly to him.
He only rolls a shoulder before I drive him away with the emotion. “Mind feeding her too? She’s been complaining about not getting to go anywhere.”
“No problem.” She’d like the bakery, and it’s the least I can do for Brooks’s help with the chicken shed.
Hillary sprints into the house, and when she runs back out, we load up.
“This is so old.” She runs her hands over the dash.
“Not one single airbag.” We’re lucky it has seat belts.
I push my hair back. I’m not all glammed up. Who am I going to see? And why do I care what they think? I should’ve gotten more compassion and less criticism as a kid. Hillary likes the way I am, and I put a whole lot more stock in what and who she likes.
“It’s so cute,” she says about the bakery when I park in front of it.
She chatters about her chickens when we walk in. My anxiety keeps trying to fill my head, but I breathe through it and concentrate on my niece. She’s happy.
I open the door and let her go in first. She continues talking, only she switches to how yummy everything looks.
A group of tourists is ordering, all women.
One turns around and smiles at Hillary. Her smile freezes when it hits me, and her gaze drops down from the denim cutoff overalls to my cowboy boots.
I’m not outlandish, but my brain doesn’t know that.
I’m back in class, in pants that are too short and a knit sweater that my mom left behind.
Her lips purse and she faces forward. The friend next to her looks back.
I stiffen and Hillary’s words about the muffin of the day fade.
The two women exchange a look, then lean their heads close and murmur. One chuckles.
My skin crawls, and I want to run.
Then there’re warm hands on my arms and a hot mouth at my ear. “Order whatever you want,” Lane’s deep voice caresses my eardrums. “My treat.”
I sway back into him and his heat just as my inner Miss Independent rises up.
I glance back and he looks just as good as he did this morning.
He skipped shaving, and a dark shadow dusts his jaw.
He’s in his black Foster House polo, and I don’t have to check him out head to toe to know he’s wearing jeans and boots.
I got to see him at the breakfast table.
A part of my day that’s becoming my favorite.
“I can get it.” I twist farther into him.
“But then I can’t spoil a couple of girls who deserve it.”
The women in front of me turn again at the sound of his voice. Lane still has his arm around me, and appreciation fills both of their faces.
I should be ashamed of my smugness. I should be treated decently in my own right—no hot guys necessary—but I’ll take it. I’m extra raw from their initial perusal.
“What are you going to get, Hillary?” he asks, oblivious to getting checked out.
While they discuss the merits of a gooseberry muffin, the first woman steps back.
I steel myself for the oncoming insult and cross my arms.
“Excuse me. Sorry to bother you.” She gestures to my overalls. “Where did you get those?”
Her friend turns. “I told her I would look like a cherry tomato in those, but you’re so cute in them.”
My brows rise and my thoughts spin to keep up. Where is the insult? Have they gotten so sophisticated I can’t hear it? “I’m sorry?”
“She made them,” Hillary proudly announces. “Cut ’em off herself.”
“But the hem’s so even,” the woman says, bending to inspect my thighs. “I could never get my cutoffs to look right.”
I’m too stunned to move back. Horrified that I turned a leg out so she can see more of my work, I stand straight. Lane splays his hand at my side, and I absorb strength from his touch. “Yeah, I found a few pairs in a thrift shop, but I wanted a cooler set for the summer, so I cut the legs off.”
The second lady tugs on her arm. It’s their turn to order. They both smile at me, and I still flinch, expecting a snide twist to the interaction. There isn’t one. Just open friendliness.
Impulsively, I step forward. “For what it’s worth, you wouldn’t look like a tomato, and who cares about uneven hems?”
The first lady elbows her friend. “I told her that too.”
I fall back with my niece and Lane. He places his hand on my hip again, and I do nothing to move it.
“I have a four-pack of red velvet already, FYI.” He gestures to a table with a bunch of men watching us. “Figured we could have them in the morning.”
The nerves that just calmed down fire up again. “You’re with the whole crew?”
“We like to meet here sometimes for a quick chat. That way, the guys who aren’t planning a full day of work don’t get wrapped up in it.”
“Uncle Lane?” Hillary asks. “Do you like the eggs?”
She winks at me. The girl loves being in on the marriage secret, but the endearment sticks in my ears, and I’d like to hear it again. Lane’s smiling. It doesn’t bother him at all that there’s another kid calling him Uncle Lane. This trip is already an emotional roller coaster.
The box of red velvet muffins sits in front of the empty spot in the booth. All the men have something in front of them to go, except Cruz. He’s grinning the widest, his elbow propped on the back of the booth as he’s half turned in his seat.
They all toss me a small wave. I give them an awkward one in return.
Lane smiles at Hillary, and it’s so open and kind, my heart stutters. “I love the eggs. How are Ethel’s?”
“Daddy makes the best egg bakes.”
“Can you steal his recipe for me, or is it too soon for me to ask you to break the law?”
She giggles. “I can ask him.”
“I suppose you can do that too.”
“Is there anything I can eat?” she whispers.
“I’ll ask about their gluten-free options.” Those choices are often unenriched and unfortified.
We order, and I don’t get more red velvet muffins. I should get my own, but it seems like a waste. He’s going out of town tomorrow. And he got them for me.
His manners don’t stop at picking up my new favorite breakfast. He carries the muffins and juice we ordered to a booth that’s right by the guys.
And the welcome doesn’t stop with him. Each Hennessy brother and Cruz stop by to chat with me and Cruz until they’re all gone and Lane’s sliding in next to me with that damn box of muffins I keep eyeing.
“Did we interrupt your meeting?” I ask.