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I kicked off my boots and wiggled out of my jeans. Writing with pants on was impossible. Pants were the enemy of my creativity, along with bras—and deadlines. I heaved out a sigh and opened my computer, settling back into the cushions while I tried to open my mind to let the words start flowing.
My cell pinged with a text.
Shamefully, I closed the laptop and let it flop to the side as I scrambled to reach the phone on the coffee table. I was totally willing to get distracted. Shame on me. My work ethic had turned to crap over the last couple weeks.
Violet: Can I give Cade your number?
What the fudge?
I stood up, looking around my living room as if my décor had answers to why in the heck he wanted to contact me. My girly parts wanted him to want me, while my boring brain shouted that he just wanted answers about the crash.
Me: What for?
Violet: He wants to talk to you, silly. Don’t forget about book club next week!
Me: I won’t forget. And yes, give him my number.
I stared at the screen, waiting for it to light up with a call, or ping with a text. My heart expanded with anticipatory glee while my stupid weak knees shook. If I hadn’t suspected I had residual feelings for Cade before, I sure as hell suspected it now. My body was going insane as I stood there grinning like a fool. Angels were singing, misty rainbows tickled my bare legs, and cloud nine was about to become my second home. Gah! I was floating on air as I waited for him to contact me.
And yet, the frickin’ phone remained silent. I stared harder, trying to will a notification into existence.
Damn it, I was such an idiot. He’d asked for my number; that didn’t mean he would call immediately.
And why was I flipping out over this?
We were divorced for eff’s sake. He was my ex-husband for a reason.
I was out of practice. My fake marriage to New York-bestie-Trent had taken me off the market for a long time, and it had been well over a year since I’d had a date. And I wasn’t exactly a player before my fake marriage. My game was seriously lacking, my experience was completely limited, and my heart was about to be smashed to pieces by Cade—again—because I never learned.
Ping!
“Ahhh!” My stomach shot to my feet and swirled back into place along with a burst of tingles. I tried to swipe to answer the text, but my trembling hands fumbled the phone, sending it tumbling to the couch.
“Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap.” I picked it up, frowning at the screen when I saw it was one of my brothers—Hunter, number one, the scary one—demanding that I attend dinner tonight at the house to “talk over a few things.”
Without bothering to text back, I called him. Yelling at someone would be great for my stress levels. Lucky Hunter. “What do you want, Hunter?”
His tone was accusatory when he hissed out, “You went to lunch with Cade today.”
“And that’s your business, how?” My hand hit my hip as I prepared to go off.
“I’m your brother. He hurt you once and I won’t let him do it again. That’s how.”
His kindness toward me and the implied threat against Cade took the edge off my annoyance, and I sighed. “I hurt him first. You know it’s true.”
“I might eventually concede that it was a tie and you hurt each other, but I’m still debating it. Come to the house for dinner at five o’clock. Dad’s grilling out back. We’ll talk about it when you get here.” He hung up.
They were all nosy.
Intrusive, every single one of them.
And let’s not forget bossy.
But I’d missed them, and my dad kicked ass on the grill, so I decided to forget how much I hated being ordered around and headed over there.
* * *
I was sitting on the covered back porch, wrapped in a quilt in front of the fire pit watching my dad and brothers cook a mountain of rib-eyes. It had started pouring rain and was now freezing cold, but nothing stopped them when they were in the mood to grill. They just threw up the portable tarp, lit up the fire pits, and went for it. Brody was prepping baked potatoes with all the fixings, Spencer was making a banana pudding, and Deacon’s sun tea was struggling for life on the edge of the porch. We were in Oregon; sun tea was always an iffy beverage to attempt. As the saying went, if you don’t like the weather in Oregon, wait five minutes. I mean, right now it was supposedly spring, for eff’s sake.
I was glad I was here. Being alone in the mood I was in would have been terrible. “Hey, can one of you text me real quick?” I shouted. “I need to see something. My phone might be messed up.”
Suddenly five texts blew up my phone and I smiled. “Thanks guys.” Also, boooo! My phone was fine, and Cade hadn’t called, texted, or FaceTimed me.
This was bullcrap.
I had definitely time traveled back to middle school, but this time there was no Sadie Hawkins Day dance I could use to force a reaction out of him. Cade used to be shy. He didn’t strike me as shy anymore, but who knew? I hadn’t been around for the last decade or so to see all the changes in him for myself.
I’d lost my mind. I needed a nap or an intervention—a Cadenvention. “I need a drink.” I got up to head to the kitchen for a beer. Maybe I should go to my old room and mope. Perhaps throwing myself on my bed to cry it out like the old days would be therapeutic.
“How’re you doing?”
I peeped around the door of the fridge. It was Tucker—number three, recently divorced and still nursing a broken heart. He’d moved back to the house a few months ago. “I should be asking how you are.”
“I’m fine.”
“Sure you are. Want a beer? Want to go hang out in my room with me? Maybe play an old Evanesence CD and cry a little bit.”
He lifted his chin and held his hand out for a beer. “Cry? Over Cade? Yeah, he’s a cop, but say the word and one of us will be happy to fuck him up a little bit.”
“I meant cry over Sierra and the kids so I can comfort you, dork, and please don’t fuck him up. I will admit the Cade situation is surprisingly stressful. But mainly I’m stressing because my deadline is too close for comfort and I’m beginning to think I have writer’s block. Adaline and I aren’t getting along.” I didn’t mention my stalker, good old Douggie W. McPsychopants. I still wasn’t ready to talk about that, with anyone.
“How was your lunch date?”
I laughed. “Nice deflecting, Tucker. And please don’t call it a date. Does anyone not know about it?”
He sipped his beer and pretended to think about it before shaking his head with a grin. “Nope.”
“I figured. Even if this town is filled with busy bodies, I’ve missed it.”
