Four fucking words that have the potential to ruin a perfectly good day. No way am I going to let that happen.
I find August in my recently called list and click his name. He answers on the second ring as chipper as a fucking daisy. Fucking morning person.
“Good morning, sunshine. To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?”
“Can’t sleep. Need an extra set of hands today?” He’s a firm believer in the old adage: Idle hands are the devil’s playthings. That guy works more jobs than I can keep track of. Not only does he bartend with me, but also he pretends to be a landscaper in the spring and a barista at a coffee shop down by the lake in the colder months.
In the summer, it’s the bike shop or the bait and tackle. Sometimes he even picks up shifts at the ice cream parlor.
I’d commend him on his hard work if I didn’t know the real reason he keeps so busy is to avoid being alone with himself.
“Seriously? I can always use an extra set of hands. Especially ones as big and strong as yours.”
I hate him so fucking much. “Swing by my place on the way. I’m riding with you.”
The moment I climb into his Jeep, August tips his baseball hat like an idiot. Seriously. Who does that? August, that’s who. Even from behind his sunglasses, I can tell he’s scanning the parking lot. “Where’s your truck?”
“Doesn’t matter. Nice shirt, by the way.”
I wouldn’t be caught dead in a lime green V-neck sweater. Looks like his sister is still picking out his wardrobe.
He takes his hand off the gear shift and leans back against his door as he slides his sunglasses up to his forehead. “Where is your truck, Elliott James Grant?”
So much for distracting him. “Loren borrowed it, all right?” I do my best not to look at him, but then I do, and it annoys the shit out of me. “Don’t give me that look.”
“What look?”
He knows damn well what look. That wide-eyed, raised brow, smirky-mouthed look.
Now that smirk is growing into a full-blown grin. “I find it very interesting that you don’t even let me drive your truck and we’re related by blood. But you let this chick drive it, what, twice now?”
“She needed a ride to the city, and I didn’t want to deal with the traffic.”
“Mmmhmmm…”
“Whatever you’re thinking, get it out of your head.”
He shifts to reverse and backs out of the parking space, a smirk still on his face. “You say that like it’s easy to control my beautiful mind.”
There’s something about smelling like sweat and fresh air that makes you feel like you’ve done a hard day’s work. My mom would be appalled if she saw the sweat gluing my shirt to my skin.
August’s legs swing as he sits on the tailgate. Four hours of hard labor and our grandmother’s garage is completely devoid of junk.
I don’t understand how that woman gave birth to my mother.
Maybe she was adopted.
I take a bite of the chicken salad sandwich my grandma gave me, then glance over at August. That would explain so much.
As if he can feel me looking at him, August kicks my boot. “Mom won’t shut up about the reunion this year. Think you’ll go?”
As a kid, I used to look forward to those things every year. Everyone brings different covered dishes, and they have every single pie imaginable. There are puppet shows for the kids, skits for the adults, and a singsong at the end of the night around a mammoth bonfire.
Now that I’m older, I see them for what they really are: A chance to pry into everyone’s private lives.
Southern families love some good, old-fashioned gossip and heaven knows I’ve provided them with enough to last a lifetime.
Which is why I say, “No fucking way.”
