“No, of course not.”
My shoulders drop in relief.
“She wasn’t random,” he continues.
I shoot out of my seat so fast the room spins. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
He shrugs, unaffected by my outburst. “You know Shelby. She’s not a random chick.”
A vein starts to pulse between my eyebrows. “As in Shelby, your service manager?”
He nods. “Yeah. Hot as hell, right?”
There’s no way we’re related. Not possible. “You’re not supposed to fuck your staff, dumbass.”
Shane is the head chef at Flat Stone, our in-house restaurant. His kitchen? Immaculate. Everything else? A total disaster.
“Chill,” he says, kicking his feet up on the coffee table and knocking over a stack of mail. “It was her last shift. We were celebrating.”
“With how often you stick your dick in someone, I’m surprised there’s not a few mini Shanes walking around.”
His brows raise. “Bruh, I keep my shit wrapped. Thanks for the advice, though, Dad.”
I rub my temples, trying to remember why I came here in the first place. “Are you busy, October thirtieth?”
His shoulders lift. “Fuck if I know, that’s forever from now, why?”
“Can you watch Goose? I have an important meeting at the Woodinville tasting room, and I might be gone overnight.”
He blows out a breath. “And you’re asking me? You would actually trust me with him?”
He sounds just as shocked as I feel.
“Mom and Dad will be on vacation, Gavin is busy, Elyse has a wedding, and Ariana is going to be in Pullman visiting Layla for Halloween. It’s you or it’s no one. Think you can keep him alive?”
He nods, his eyes wandering like he’s trying to convince himself. “Yeah, no problem. I got this.”
I already regret this decision. Shane is the least responsible of my siblings and probably the least responsible person I know.
After leaving Shane’s apartment, I take a full, deep breath. Fresh air never smelled so good. Once I’m in my truck, I cover my hands in a thick layer of hand sanitizer.
On the drive home, I pass by the gas station, the one I’m pretty sure Marisa bought all the food from that first night. Gnawing guilt twists my stomach. I didn’t handle that night well. In fact, I haven’t handled anything to do with Marisa very well. I don’t intend to be an asshole, it just happens. And then I feel even worse afterward.
We came to somewhat of an understanding a few days ago, but I haven’t talked to her since. It’s exactly what I wanted, yet I’ve found myself searching for her every time I walk out of my place. My eyes draw to her cottage like they’re being pulled by a magnet, looking for any sign of her. And there hasn’t been any.
I was convinced she had left until I spotted her at the market earlier. The second she saw me, she up and sprinted away like she couldn’t get away fast enough.
I would react the same way if I was in her shoes. I’ve been a grumpy asshole to her for almost no reason other than she’s a distraction. A beautiful, sunny, unpredictable, distraction. And none of that is her fault. It’s mine, and my issues, and my baggage, and my terrible anxiety. I’m like a feral animal around her, desperate for her approval and attention, but I snarl trying to get it. I’m a fucking mess.
Even on the very first day when I met her in the vineyard. Sure, I was upset because it was just one more thing I had to deal with, but then she walked out of that dangerous little car of hers, fresh faced and doe eyed, and I didn’t know what to do. And then she spoke, that honey-sweet voice of hers. I couldn’t peel my eyes off her, even though I wanted to. She had every warning written all over her. A beautiful, tempting, city girl, full of sass and sun, with no patience for my bullshit. It feels like the universe is dangling something I can’t have right in my face just to taunt me with it, because why else would that same woman be the very one staying next door to me?
It’s a cruel joke.
I make an illegal U-turn and head back toward downtown. At the very least, I owe her a meal. Maybe then I’ll be able to put a stop to the guilt and shame eating away at me.
Taqueria Los Volcanes is without a doubt the best taco truck in Red Mountain. There are four other taco trucks in town, and they’re decent, but I have a soft spot for this one.
“Hola, amigo,” Jose, the owner, says, poking his head out of the order window.
