He doesn’t smile. “You shouldn’t be here, Gray. It’s peak season at the farm.”
“And I’ve been working nonstop. I needed a getaway.”
“This ismyfucking mess. I’m the one to deal with it. Don’t make it your problem.” His anger from before is gone, replaced by resignation.
Maybe it’s a new dose of drugs.
I don’t think that’s it, though.
“Thisisyour fucking mess,” I confirm straight-up. Then I grab his wrist and slowly articulate, “But you’re my fucking brother, and I love you. So I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I let go and walk out.
And he doesn’t argue.
33
ELIZA
My fingers taprestlessly on the hardwood table.
The gentle pop of a candle breaks the monotony of the crickets outside. Shadows seep in through the windows and dance in the corners of the room. Nervous energy makes my knee bounce beneath the table.
Any minute now.
Again, I glance at the offering set before me—and my hope crumbles.
This isn’t working.
With a sigh, I shove to my feet and head to the wall, flicking on the lights. At the sudden change, Dave lifts his head, opens his eyes, and stares at me blankly.Really? Again?his expression asks.
“Yes, again,” I mutter.
He tucks his bill back into his feathers and resumes sleeping. I return to the table, examining the tray of cinnamon rolls, utterly hopeless. In the dark, they were indistinguishable blobs. In the light, they’re sad, fluff-less dough spirals smothered in too much icing.
I should’ve asked Joy for her recipe.
The sound of tires over gravel cut through the night, and I swing around to see headlights slice through the blinds. My heartrate clicks into its next gear. I hurry to sit back down, facing the doorway across the living room.
It feels wrong.
Probably because when Grayson walks in, exhausted from a delayed late-night flight, the first thing he’ll see is me, sitting straight-backed at the head of the table like some over-eager exorcist awaiting her prey.
I shuffle around to a side seat. Clasp my hands. Stare at the wall, then the door, then the sad cinnamon buns.
Nope, this is still weird.
Outside, his truck door slams.
Maybe I should just pretend to be sleeping and greet him in the morning. It’s midnight, after all. No matter where I sit, the simple fact that I’ve waited up for him like some loyal medieval wife awaiting her husband’s return from war could be too eccentric.
Keys jiggle in the door. In a burst of panic, I dart from the table, jump over the back of the couch, land haphazardly on a cushion and pop open my laptop.
There. I’m just working late.
And randomly put cinnamon rolls out for him.
Oh my gosh, you’re hopeless.
