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But when he glanced sidelong at the Market porch, it wasn’t Casey who stood there with a bottle of water and an undoubtedly lying smile on his stupid, adorable face. Nope. Kat Hathaway was planted on the top step, right next to a vintage Ben & Jerry’s Eat the Weirdness poster, her arms crossed, the usual couple of pencils poking out of her salt-and-pepper bun.
“Morning, Kat.” Dev stretched his other quad. Might as well bury himself in the part.
She narrowed her eyes at him from behind her cat’s-eye glasses. “Never known you to run like this, Devondre Harrison.”
“What can I say?” Dev spread his hands. “Had stuff to do around the house early this morning, so I got delayed.”
“I’m not talking about your little jaunt around town.”
“Little?” Dev slapped a hand to his chest in mock outrage. “Five miles every day, Kat. All summer without fail.”
“Don’t mince words with me. I changed your diapers.”
“Thanks for announcing that to the whole street as though I’m still fucking wearing them. Besides, I doubt you ever came anywhere near any of us when we were babies.”
“Well, I could have done, if I’d a mind to.” She jerked her chin in the direction of Harrison House. “He’s been by at the usual time, you know. Yesterday and today both. Bought water for you, same as ever, then stood out here on the porch, looking up and down the street, waiting for you to show your cowardly ass, until he had to run hisself or be late for that woman’s silly school.”
A sudden wash of Sally Field euphoria—he likes me!—nearly swamped the anger and disgust wrangling in Dev’s chest. Resolutely, he pushed it down. Deflect.
“Sylvia’s been running Summer Kitchen here since the first Obama Administration. Don’t you think it’s time you referred to her by name?”
Kat squinted at him, lips pursed. “I’ll treat her like one of us when she starts acting like she is. But you”—she jabbed her finger at Dev—“need to stop running and face your problems.”
“See?” He thrust his arms out, palms open. “You admit he’s a problem, too.”
“Casey isn’t the problem. Your attitude is the problem.”
Dev frowned. “Wait a minute. You won’t call Sylvia by name after fourteen years, but you call Casey by name after he’s been here less than a month? What the fuck, Kat?”
“The fuck, Dev, is that I can tell when somebody belongs in Home. Casey does. ’Bout time you figured that out, too.”
She turned and marched back into the Market, letting the screen double-bump closed behind her.
“Great,” Dev muttered as he stalked down the sidewalk toward Harrison House. Just what he needed—matchmaking services from his friends, who’d apparently been hoodwinked by Casey just as effectively as Dev had been. He strode past the hedge at the Harrison House property line and stopped before his feet hit the driveway.
A latest model silver Lexus was parked directly in front of the front door—but on the lawn, not the gravel. Dev peered at the grass inside the curve of the drive. Sure enough: tire tracks.
“Seriously?” he growled. “What the fuck do you think the driveway is for, asshole?”
Although the sky was clear this morning, they’d had a thunderstorm overnight, so the ground was soft and the tires had left twin runnels in the grass Pete was so proud of maintaining. Water had pooled in the tracks and the tires had kicked up a couple of divots.
Dev marched toward the car. There was no driver behind the wheel, and nobody in sight other than Randolph Scott, who was crouched under a hydrangea bush, eyes half-lidded, a clump of chickweed brushing his nose.
Dev reached down and worked his fingers into the mud to uproot the plant. “Thanks for pointing out the invader, but I’m still not planting any catnip for you.”
“There you are.”
Dev’s fist clenched around the chickweed, because even though he’d only heard it once, he recognized the entitled arrogance in that voice. He turned slowly. Sure enough, Casey’s fiancé was strolling toward him, a tablet in one hand, his khaki chinos creased within an inch of their lives and a pair of designer sunglasses hooked in the collar of his navy polo.
“I believe you know me.”
Dev shrugged. “Can’t say as I do.” Since Casey never mentioned he happened to be engaged.
“Bradley Pillsbury.” He glanced pointedly at the chickweed in Dev’s muddy fingers, then dismissively over his sweat-dampened T-shirt, and didn’t extend his hand to shake.
Good thing, since Dev would have refused it, anyway.
“The driveway’s here for a reason,” Dev said stonily. “To drive on.”
