Page 8 of Sterling Clay

“You never call in sick,” Stone adds, bringing my full attention to him.

Staring up at the ceiling as I lie on my back, I blink. “Because someone has to run the Seed & Soil.”

For as long as I can remember, I’ve worked at our family-owned business. The farmer’s fleet and animal feed store had been our mother’s vision combining her two great loves: nature and animals. Upon her death, our father cracked and took the Seed & Soil with him in the downfall. I hadn’t gone to college like my most immediate brothers older and younger than me—Stone and Judd—opting out of more years in school and sticking close to what I saw as our family legacy.

While our father shattered the company, like a piece of pottery tossed to the ground, I was there when he died to pick up the shards and reassemble the precious business bit by bit. We still supply farm seed, but we’ve shifted more to landscaping and garden services. While continuing our animal feed selection, we’ve included more house-pet food and supplies. A few years ago, we added a general merchandise store with a collection of all things decorative related to home and garden, emphasis on the garden theme. I was proud of what I’d rebuilt. The family was equally thrilled as dividends from the business were split between all six of my siblings each quarter. I had the additional income of being the chief executive officer of the company and head manager, which basically meant I was married to my job.

I loved it but I didn’t have a life outside it. And like Stone said, I never called in sick. I couldn’t remember the last true vacation I’d taken other than weekends away that revolved around trade shows.

“I’m sick,” I snap at Stone, as if I’ve committed a crime when deep down this is my body telling me I pushed too hard. I’d ignored the tickle in my throat, which turned into a chest-clenching cough accompanied by a lingering headache. Then I stood in the rain for who knows how long trying to work on that damn truck, which reminds me I need to have Perry tow it when it had been his fault I’d been out on a run for a part in the first place.

Actually, the decision had been mine. I should have told Perry I’d send someone the next day, but Perry Foster was one of my best friends, beside my brother, Stone. We did favors for each other all the time without question, and I hadn’t been considering my health when I decided I’d be the one to handle his need.

I’d been thinking of Glady then.

With Mavis in my home, in my space, there was no room for thoughts of anyone else, least of all Glady.

“And Mavis Grant is here,” Stone states as if reading my thoughts.

“Mavis Holland,” I correct, reminding us both that she’s a married woman.

Stone is a man of observation and, one night, he’d caught my gaze tracking Mavis as she moved about Milton’s Roadhouse, the local bar and grill in town. He’d warned me she was a married woman, as if I needed the reminder, but there was something about Mavis that drew my attention.

Damsel in distress syndrome, my brother Knox once told me.

I was a rescuer. My siblings lost count of the number of stray animals I’d brought home until my dad said he’d break the neck of a lone cat one night. The gleam in his cold, vacant eyes since my mother’s death told me his drunken ass might do it even if I didn’t want to believe he meant it. The man had many faults, but animal cruelty wasn’t one of them. He saved his dark, dangerous side for his kids.

“Don’t think she’s married anymore,” Stone states, arching one thick brow. His expression suggests he knows something.

“Don’t think I’m interested.” The words were harsh, roughened by the scratch in my throat, and in total contrast to the way my pulse kicks up at this news, making me a liar. Just as quick as my blood flow surges upward, I crash, reminding myself I don’t have time to be interested in Mavis even if I have admired her from afar for years.

Not to mention, Stone was only making an assumption about Mavis’s marital status, not stating a fact.

“Sounds like she’s been taking care of you.”

I scoff. “I don’t need taking care of.” Smirking, I give him my best fake, gleaming smile to reinforce my comment. I’ve been a one-man show for forty-three years because I take care of others. The family business. My employees. The women who pass through my life. Stray animals. Plants.

“You’re extra ornery today.” Stone’s broad shoulders lower, questioning my condition.

“I’m sick,” I remind him when that shouldn’t irritate me. I’m not the one to be easily irritated in our family—I leave that honor to my younger brothers Sebastian or Ford—but lately there’s something I can’t quite define, a restlessness inside, an unease that feels out of reach to settle. Maybe it’s all just another symptom of my illness.

Or maybe I just need to get laid.

Stone meets my eyes a second before looking away, focus aimed toward the window. The same glass panels lining the length of my hallway encompass one wall of my bedroom. I crave natural sunlight and not feeling caged in. The floor to ceiling windows were expensive and a pain to install but worth every penny and profanity cursed once the renovation on this old house was completed nearly a decade ago.

I scrub a hand down my face and roll to my side. I’m only wearing a pair of boxer briefs beneath the duvet, and I stare at my brother, knowing whatever is going on with me isn’t his fault. We worked hard to keep our family together. Stone had been away at college for four years and had not been a witness to how bad things were getting. How much of a dick our dad had turned into. Not able to find the solution to his heartache in the bottom of a bottle, and yet unable to give up what only contributed to his demise. But Stone never failed to check in daily on the family.

“Is she staying?” Stone asks, turning his head back toward me. His expression is one of concern. My family jokes I have a pattern. That damsel in distress thing. However, once the calamity is rectified, I’m free, whether by her choice or mine is never certain.

“I don’t even know what she’s doing here,” I say quieter.

“Sounds like she rescued you from the side of the road. Why didn’t you call me?”

“My phone died.” I thought I had it plugged into the charger in the truck, but apparently, I didn’t have the plug fully in the outlet. When I realized the damn thing hadn’t charged, it was too late. The truck stalled. The storm happened. And I tried to rescue myself.

Like I always do.

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