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My brother’s wife.
CHAPTER 2
Juniper
Peering in through the glass window, I look at the meatloaf browning in the oven. It’s not the Crock-Pot roast with potatoes and carrots that had been on the weekly menu and I’m sure I’ll pay for that with caustic remarks about how bad dinner tastes later. Joshua and Preston won’t care that my ability to get the roast in the pot was impeded by poor Lila suffering a brain bleed.
Neither one of them will take kindly that I stayed up at the hospital all day when I should’ve been here making sure their proper dinner was on the table, but that’s my lot to bear. I don’t regret my decision because if a human being is going to undergo life-saving brain surgery, they should at least have one person to pray for them and be there when they open their eyes. At least, I’d hope someone would do that for me, but being realistic… Preston and Joshua wouldn’t have been there for me either.
When Lila awoke following the surgery, her relief upon seeing me was evident. She never would’ve expected Preston to sit and wait all day. Joshua’s a non-entity since he barely speaks to the woman who helped raise him. She’s beneath the air in his lungs that would be expended so it was no surprise to find only me there.
She uttered only one word, a question. “Callum?”
“On his way,” I assured her. Or so I overheard Joshua complaining to his father. It’s the only reason I knew Callum was coming in from Pittsburgh because Joshua would never dare discuss such a thing with me.
I do a quick check of the diced potatoes I have boiling to make a mash and I’ll whip up some gravy when I take the meatloaf out to rest. I’ve got candied carrots going in a pan, and that’s about as close to the original planned meal as I can get.
Most normal people would be pleased by my efforts, but Joshua and Preston aren’t normal. That father-and-son duo are the worst humanity has to offer and I’m imprisoned in this life under their thumbs.
The security panel in the kitchen chimes and I see Joshua driving his Audi through the iron gates. He’ll follow a two-hundred-yard-long winding driveway to our home.
Actually, his home.
More precisely, his home that he shares with his father and I’m residing here by virtue of our marriage.
This twenty-thousand-square-foot log home perched off Lakeshore Boulevard is where my husband grew up. When we got married, I simply moved in with him. The thing is so big, it has wings with stunning views of Lake Tahoe. Joshua and I live on one end of the home and his father and Lila live on the other. It’s definitely not how I envisioned married life, but if I look back on how I came to be here, I was groomed so slowly and sweetly, I practically locked myself in this cage and handed Joshua the key.
I take a few moments with my hands resting on the counter and practice my box breathing. My counselor highly recommends it for anxiety-fraught situations and sadly, my husband coming home from work—particularly today—is a stressful event.
I’m done with my fourth complete cycle when the mudroom door opens from the five-car garage. I move to the refrigerator and pull out a beer, twisting off the cap to have it ready as soon as he walks in the door. I have no illusions that this will mollify him but he’s going to drink a beer anyway, so I might as well have it ready.
Joshua steps into the spacious kitchen with its gleaming wood floors, raw, rough-cut log walls and copper-accented appliances. He’s my age—thirty-eight—and a very handsome man. His light brown hair is casually swept back from his clean-shaven face that shows not a bit of stubble this late in the day. He’s got a strong jaw, a perfect smile and crystal-blue eyes. He’s lean and angular, one of those men who can eat ten thousand calories a day and not gain an ounce, although he does nothing to work for that. It’s why he makes me so meticulously plan out every single meal in the evening and why he’ll be upset I’ve deviated from it. He knows he can eat all his favorites and nothing will stick to his gut.
Tonight’s pot roast was supposed to be a celebratory dinner. Joshua and his father opened a new hardware store on the southern shores of Lake Tahoe and it’s their favorite meal. Plain old pot roast, potatoes and carrots and they’re dining like kings.
Except I didn’t get the meal in the Crock-Pot, so it’s meatloaf instead.
They won’t care that I tried to get as close to that meal as possible with the same vegetables as well as protein, albeit cooked in a different way. This will be seen as a slight against them and ruin their celebration.
I’ll have to choose my words carefully tonight to avoid a major blowup by two men who love being angry, entitled sons of bitches.
Joshua’s eyes sweep over me critically as I hold the beer out to him. He takes it without a thank-you, bringing it to his mouth for a long pull. It’s not his first drink of the day nor will it be his last.
“What are you cooking?” he asks, eyes darting to the countertop where I’d normally have the Crock-Pot.
“Meatloaf, mashed potatoes and candied carrots.”
“That wasn’t what was on the menu,” he says. How can such a simple statement sound so dark and menacing?
“You know I didn’t have time to get it going before I left for the hospital.” My tone is calm, whisper light so he doesn’t take too much offense to my back talk.
Joshua sneers as he steps toward me. “Waste of your fucking time being at the hospital. Nothing you could have done for Lila, anyway.” He then leans in toward me, sniffs my neck. “Did you let him touch you?”
“Who?” I exclaim, taking a step back, but I know who he’s talking about.
“You did,” he says with a firm nod, advancing on me. “I can smell him on you.”
My mind whirls. I hugged Callum. Couldn’t help myself.
