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When we arrive in Portland the next afternoon, there are already photographers camped outside the hotel. Because Melissa is still banned from Twitter, she gets excited when she sees them. Carey doesn’t have the heart to tell her they’re here because they’re hoping to catch the couple fighting.
But, for once, I do.
“Before we get off the bus,” I begin, and Melissa halts, turning to look at me with overt irritation, “you should know that someone caught you fighting in the hotel lobby.”
“We weren’t,” Melissa says immediately, and looks to her husband for backup. His indifferent shrug doesn’t really help her case.
I turn my phone to face her. “I don’t think the photos are doctored, Melissa.”
Joe shrinks to the back, as if he needs to tidy up, even though all Rusty does back there is sit and watch television. In my peripheral vision, I can see Carey staring at me, surprised.
“So here’s how it’s going to go,” I continue. “You’re going to get off this bus and show the world you’re in love.” I lift my hands, relaxed, like this is the easiest ask they’ve ever received. “Every married couple fights. Not a big deal. If you didn’t fight, it’d mean there’s nothing there worth fighting for, right?”
I wonder whether Rusty has even read their book, because clearly only Melissa and Carey recognize the quote. Carey smothers a smile. Melissa’s eyes narrow.
“Tonight,” I say, “you’re going to have dinner in the hotel restaurant and you’re going to be delighted with each other’s company. Sound good?”
Melissa takes a deep, slow breath. I don’t have to guess that she’s slaughtering me in her head; it’s written all over her face. “Sounds good.”
Voices filter from the other side of Carey’s door, and I double-check the number before reaching up to knock. She calls out to me from inside and then the door opens to reveal a smiling and recently showered Carey. My heart gives my sternum a small punch.
“Come in.” She’s already on her way back inside.
“I wanted to talk to you abou—”
“I’m just talking to Kurt. Can you shut the door behind you?”
Kurt? Her brother?
The door sweeps closed and I take in the space: her suitcase seems to have exploded on her bed. A wet towel has been tossed onto the sofa near the window. I stop when I see her sitting at the desk, laptop open and projecting a smiling man on the screen.
They look so much alike, even though her hair is long and sandy-brown and his looks dark and curly.
“I can come back …” After all, this is her older brother and I’m in her hotel room … while she’s presumably naked under that robe.
“No, no. We’re just wrapping this up.” She turns the screen toward me. “Kurt, this is James, the engineer. James, my brother, Kurt.”
We share an awkward wave, and then I turn my attention back to her. “Seriously, it’s not important—”
She’s already shushing me and pointing to the bed. “Go sit. I’ll just be a minute.” Carey tosses a magazine in my direction before turning back to the screen. No doubt I relish diving into the latest issue of Taste of Home as much as the next guy, but eavesdropping on Carey’s conversation with her brother is hard to resist.
“Okay, so you were updating me on Mom,” Carey prompts him.
Kurt pushes a hand through his dusty hair—as in, dust actually clouds around him—and then tugs a faded baseball cap on. The tips of his ears are sunburned, and so is the tip of his nose. He looks tired, the sort of bone-deep tired of a man who spends his day working in the hot sun. I wonder if, like their father had been, Kurt is in construction.
“Mom is Mom.” His voice is a deep, raspy growl. “I talked to her for a few minutes, but Ellen down the street had a knee replacement so she was taking them over a casserole. She pitched a fit that I took one the last time I was over, but she still had three disasteroles in the damn garage freezer!”
Carey giggles and it’s a sound I’ve rarely heard. The easy delight does something wild to my pulse.
“How’s your truck? Still hassling you?”
Kurt groans and takes his cap off again, uses the bill to scratch the top of his head. “Don’t get me started.”
I try to turn away from their conversation, but that is also the moment that Carey chooses to cross her legs. The white fabric of her robe parts to reveal the smooth expanse of her calf, thigh … and higher.
“I just replaced the injectors,” he says, “but I don’t think that was it. I think it’s the motor. If that’s the case I’ll probably have to take out a loan to have the whole damn thing rebuilt.” Kurt’s voice slices through my dirty thoughts, and I immediately immerse myself in a chicken pot pie recipe. The last thing I need in this day is to have him look over her shoulder and catch me ogling his little sister.
