It’s the leaves. They give us a burst of activity when they’re at their peak—or close to it, like they are today—and remind us that the ski season is coming up and it’s time to get ready.
And that’s why I’m dancing and lip-synching to Haiden Henderson while seven rowdy thirty-something women from the city howl around me. It’s nearly five o’clock, and this is the last job of the day. The women are having a bachelorette party and are celebrating hard—but so far respectfully.
My phone buzzes on the counter, where it’s close enough for me to DJ through the Bluetooth speaker, and I check the ID. My mom.
I hit ignore with a slightly soapy finger.
It buzzes again and again and again, so it’s a good thing I’ve got it on silent, so that the calls don’t interrupt the music. I ignore it in favor of singing along to the very raunchy song.
Kit’s in the living room, I’m in the kitchen. Dish duty, while wearing a bow tie and black slacks.
Hawt.
My phone goes quiet, and I make it through about half the dishes before it starts up again. This time, it’s my brother.
I definitely hit ignore.
It does not buzz again until I’m almost done with the kitchen. There’s charcuterie fixings spread all over the counter and that makes me think we could do a chef-themed offering. Like, surely someone could put on a chef’s hat and an apron while assembling appetizers and cleaning the kitchen, right?
I sigh and plan to ignore it until I see Rory’s name flashing on the screen.
Shit.
I dry my hands and walk over to Kit, who’s sweeping the hardwood floors. I lean into him. “Hey, can I borrow your phone?”
He grabs it out of his back pocket, unlocks it, and gives me a quizzical look. I shrug and step out the back door, quickly finding Rory’s number saved in his contacts—we made a group chat for moving her into my place—and dial.
“Kit?” Rory asks. I can hear Princess barking in the background.
“It’s me,” I say. “Is everything okay?”
“Your brother’s here.”
“Shit.” I run a hand through my hair. “In the house?”
“No, I didn’t answer the door. I’m sure he can see my bike out front, so he knows I’m home.”
“Don’t let him in,” I say. This worries me. It’s unlike my brother to come see me, and with the missed calls on my phone . . .
Rory snorts. “Definitely not letting him in.”
“Do you need me to come home?”
Rory’s quiet for a minute, thinking. Finally, she says, “He’s bound to give up eventually.”
“Possibly. I have like fifteen minutes left of work here, and I rode with Kit. If my brother’s not gone in ten, call the police, okay?”
“Okay.”
“All right, I’ll be home ASAP. Thanks for calling me.”
“Of course.”
We hang up and I walk back into the house, throwing the door open dramatically and smoldering at the crowd of women.
They cheer, but it barely drowns out the sense of dread in my stomach.
Kit drops me off at home. Rory had texted about eight minutes after our call to say that Graham had wandered around the property, peering into windows on the house and the garage before leaving.
