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A knot seethed in Casey’s middle, because he recognized the speculative look in Bradley’s narrowed eyes. He’d seen it whenever Bradley and Uncle Walt had discussed restaurant investors and possible expansion.
“Why do you want to know?”
“The place has obviously seen better days, and could use serious upgrades from an architect who could create a more”—he sniffed—“cohesive aesthetic, but there might be something…” He shifted his gaze to Casey. “We have lunch reservations in Merrilton in twenty minutes. How long will it take you to pack?”
Casey frowned. “Pack? Why would I want to pack?”
Bradley shook his head with a smile that was the definition of patronizing. “Clearly you can’t stay here. I told you so on the first day. I’ve made arrangements for you at Green Mountain Shadows, along with a car service that will shuttle you here for your lessons. You’ll share my suite—”
“Your suite? You’re staying at that resort? Why?”
Bradley waved a hand, dismissing Casey’s questions as he strolled toward his Lexus. “Business, Casey. Nothing you’d understand.”
Casey gritted his teeth. “Need I remind you that I actually attended business school? I’m a semester away from my MBA.”
“Yes, yes. But you needn’t worry I’ll chide you for not completing your studies, particularly since your role in our enterprises will be different.”
“Our enterprises.” Casey was surprised his molars weren’t ground to nubs. “Our enterprises? This is exactly what I mean. I’ve never agreed to be a part of any enterprise.”
“No?” Bradley cast a glance around him. “Then why are you here?”
Casey flexed his fingers, curling his hands into fists. “I’m here for Uncle Walt. Not for you.”
“Your uncle and I are business partners, Casey, you know that. And you misunderstood. When I said our enterprises, I was referring, of course, to Walter and myself. You needn’t concern yourself with the bigger picture. All you need to do is cook.”
Casey growled and turned on his heel, yanking the screen door open and letting it slam behind him. As he stomped up the stairs, Bradley entered with much less force.
“Twenty minutes, Casey,” he called.
Casey leaned over the banister. “I am not going to pack. I am not leaving Home. And I am not—not now, not tomorrow, not ever—your fiancé. Do I make myself clear?”
Bradley shook his head. “Stop being a child. Even you must see that this is the best path. The one that will deliver the optimal outcome for all concerned.”
“It’s not the optimal outcome for me.”
He stomped the rest of the way up the stairs. The door to his bedroom was slightly ajar, which meant that he had a more welcome visitor: Randolph Scott was adept at operating the paddle-type door handles and had taken to napping in Casey’s room in the afternoon. Good. Maybe a half hour or so of petting a cat would cool Casey’s temper down to a low simmer.
When he walked into the room, the snarl in his belly eased immediately. He’d left the windows open this morning, so the breeze ruffled the curtains and the scent of lilacs filled the air. He drew his brows together as he pivoted in place, because Randolph Scott wasn’t curled in the middle of the big four-poster bed, nor was he perched on one of the two wide windowsills, or basking in the sunlight that spilled across the desk in the corner.
“Randolph Scott?” he murmured. “Here, kitty, kitty.”
Ty claimed referring to the big orange bruiser as kitty offended his dignity, but he always came when Casey called him. Well, until now, that is. Then he spotted a pair of ginger ears poking above the cornice of his oak armoire.
“Ah, there you are.”
But as he reached up to scratch Randolph Scott’s head, he spotted something else that hadn’t been there this morning.
A painting hung over the desk, where this morning there had only been a framed sepia photograph of a rather severe looking farmer cradling a lamb in his beefy arms.
Casey stepped closer, the painting drawing him in. He was no art expert, so he didn’t know what this style was called. It wasn’t hyperrealistic, but it wasn’t abstract either. He had no trouble recognizing the subject: Home’s Main Street. The perspective wasn’t one that Casey had seen in his two weeks of residence, though. It was as though the artist were looking down on the town from above—but not too high. Maybe a house’s second or third story? But that angle—the slice of the Market’s roof, the tops of the lilacs massed in the greensward that ran halfway down the street, Harrison House’s chimneys peeking over the tops of the oaks and sycamores.
He peered closer. There was a figure on the sidewalk, half hidden by the leaves of a maple, and foreshortened by the angle.
“Holy crap,” he murmured. “That’s me.” Or at least someone wearing the same trainers and whose brown curls were as seriously in need of a trim as Casey’s.
“Casey.” Bradley stood in the doorway. “If you don’t hurry, we won’t make our reservation, and as someone raised in the restaurant business, you should realize how rude that is.”
Casey tore his gaze away from the painting to glare at Bradley. “I wasn’t raised in the restaurant business. I was raised adjacent to it. And I told you. I’m not leaving.”
