“Never mind,” Webb said. “I’m not trying to pick a fight. I’m just saying, I know it’s hard leaving your work and your routine behind, selling your condo and all that. I guess there’s a kind of…” He hesitated, then forced himself to go on. “…a kind ofgriefto it, isn’t there? Even if you know it’s for the best? Like when Amanda and I split.” He cleared his throat and studied the shiplap. “All of which is to say, I get it’s not easy, but I’m damn glad to have you back for good. We missed you.”
I fought the urge to squirm. I was confident I’d never said I was back for good. Yes, I’d maybesuggestedit, but only because that had seemed like the easiest way to get around Webb’s pride so I could take over the books and give Sunday Orchard an infusion of cash from my savings while I was taking themental health sabbatical my bosses at Bormon Klein Jacovic had politely but firmly suggested for me.
But I hadn’t actuallypromisedthem anything.
And also, sweet, tiny baby Jesus, preserve me from Webb Sunday when his affable farmer facade cracked and his genuine, deep emotions started peeking through because I was a sucker for it.
“Missed you, too,” I admitted.
“And I’m not saying that because you’ve been a lifesaver with the financial stuff—though, you know, just to reiterate, you paying for Porter’s school and putting aside the money for Em’s was more than anyone expected. I don’t know why the hell you felt like, on top of all that, you should sell off investments so you could ‘buy in’ to Sunday Orchard when you moved home. The land and the legacy belong to all of us, no matter whose name is on the deed. And the only reason we were in debt at all was because of meand my divorce?—”
“Webb,” I warned. “Drop it.”
“I know you don’t wanna talk about it. Neither do I. But wedidneed the money, and Idoappreciate it,” he admitted. “And I appreciate you taking over the books, since fuck knows when Drew would’ve been able to get out there to sort through that tower of receipts with his ankle all fucked up.”
“It’s not a big deal. Although, honest to Christ, I’ve never seen such a chaotic pile of paper. There’s stuff from 1995 mixed with stuff from this April. Anyway.” I squirmed. “Can we be done now?”
But Webb wasn’t finished. “Even more than I want your help with the books, I want you to be happy, Knox. All the way happy. I’ve been reading up on panic attacks?—”
“No.” I shook my head. “Nope. Seriously, Webb?—"
“—and there are a lot of relaxation and breathing techniques, and I know you know them, but taking care of youroverall physical and mental health is an incredibly important component. And a part of that, I think, is just… getting out a little. Making friends. Having fun. Having a purpose. And maybe… love.”
“Oh. Dear. God.” I lifted an eyebrow. “You look at me and think, ‘There’s a man starving for romance,’ do you? No, thanks. You remember what happened to Dad after Mom died, right? And how Dad and Porter and Hawk and Em just fell to pieces when Cara walked out? And how Amanda tried to take you for a ride? Romantic love is like a whirlpool, Webb. It doesn’t just hurt the people involved, it sucks everyone around them into the vortex of bullshit, too.”
Webb flushed a bit. “Not love, then, but… companionship. A relationship. Sexual intimacy. Whatever you wanna call it.”
“Fucking?” I suggested, as saccharine-sweet as Goodman ever had been.
I’d been trying to make Webb uncomfortable, but thinking of Goodman and fucking at the same time backfired wildly on me. Suddenly that was all Icouldthink about, and I had to grab my water and chug a little.
Goodman was an employee.
He was a child.
He was a pain in the ass.
He was…
“Permanence,” Webb corrected firmly. “A home.”
I nearly choked on my water. I did not want to have a conversation about making a permanent home in Little Pippin Hollow. I didn’t want to lie.
“Look, I donotneed you to find me a date, Webb Sunday. So you take all those well-intentioned matchmaking instincts of yours, fold them up really tiny, and then crush them under your big fucking boot heel like one of those beetles you pick off the apple trees. If I wanted a date, I could get one. I wasn’t living likea monk in Boston. I had many a hookup. Plenty of friends with benefits when I needed to scratch an itch, too. And I likeit that way.”
“But—”
I held up a hand. “And if I ever felt a need to make something permanent…” I blinked, trying to envision such a scenario. “Well, first I’d take my temperature. Then, I’d google ‘Have I been brainwashed question mark.’ Then, if after reading six WebMD articles about how eating too much kale can mimic the effects of brainwashing, I was still convinced that the urge didn’t stem from a disease but from a genuine desire, I’d pick from one of the people I’ve already fucked—a man or woman who’s sexually compatible and understands what I can and cannot offer. But under no circumstances—and this is crucial, Webb, so please hear me—undernocircumstances would I ask my brother to be the Lumberjack Yenta of Little Pippin Hollow and make me a match. Do you understand?”
Webb sighed. “You’re annoying.”
“That doesn’t sound like agreement.”
“Doesn’t it? Hmm. Anyway, I was also thinking that taking care of the orchard’s finances isn’t gonna be a full-time job for you,” Webb went on—correctly, because he wasn’t an idiot. “It’s probably disorienting to go from being a high-powered… financial person?—”
“Investment auditor?” I supplied, amused.
“Exactly… To being your family’s bookkeeper.”
