The rest of Durban’s home is simple yet rustic and welcoming. Wooden beams bisect the arched ceilings with a rock wall acting as a mantel for the fireplace. His seating is all deep browns and mostly leather, and the bookshelves that match the wood tones are lined with impressive tomes.
There are stairs by the office, but I won’t snoop. He built this place for a family. With his PhD girlfriend?
I creep through the hallway and peek into the modest kitchen. The house isn’t large, but it’s still roomy and cozy. In the laundry room, my clothing is folded neatly on top of the dryer beside a stack of Durban’s clothing. He either stayed up late or got up early to dry my stuff. I didn’t think that far ahead last night.
I take the pile to the bathroom, which I barely recall from when I showered. My towel is hung up. Didn’t I towel dry my hair and leave it on the counter? Using the same toothbrush I found in the cabinet last night, I brush my teeth and clean up. He has a spare comb too, but I finger comb my tresses, the tangles tugging at my scalp. I have the dried, drowned-rat look going on, but at least I’m puke-free. My skin is sallow—and it’s not from the sweater, Stanford!
After I’m dressed, I go to the kitchen. Ooh, a banana. Surely he won’t mind. With all those muscles, Durban probably huffs protein shakes and throws back steaks like they’re potato chips.
I munch on the banana. Where’s the garbage?
I set the peel on the counter. I’m opening cabinet doors when there’s a knock. My food lurches into my throat, but I swallow and rush to the front door. Sunny’s SUV is parked by the driveway.
“Hey,” I say when I open the door to a pregnant sister in a violet flower-covered dress, tenting over her belly, and her feet stuffed in flip-flops. She’s put her brown hair in the standard ponytail she’s been wearing since her first trimester, when she had morning sickness. “I’ve gotta grab my purse. Be right back.”
I find my boots in the mudroom and return to Jamison.
She frowns. “Where’s your purse?”
Shit. “I’m a little scatterbrained today.” I run and retrieve my bag, toss the strap over my head so I don’t forget it again, and leave with her.
Once I’m buckled in, I steal a pair of her sunglasses to ward off the bright spring sun.
I thunk my head on the back of the headrest. “Why did it have to be Durban?”
“You’re lucky it was Durban.”
She’s right. “Did you text Mom and Dad?”
“I told them you went to Billings with a friend and were doing some shopping this morning.”
By the time I get my car and return to the ranch, it’ll be just after lunch. Almost plausible if someone bought that I was a morning person and was at the store as soon as the doors opened. “Thank you.”
Her excuse sounds a whole lot less pathetic. I owe her.
“They were worried, though.” She gives me a sidelong look, the light streaking across her sunglasses. “You can back out. No one will blame you.”
“And give Stanford and January a reason to blame me for any snafus during their happiest day? No, thanks.”
Sunny grunts, disgust twisting her mouth. “January’s gotten her way too often.”
“She’s the apple of Uncle Rayburn’s eye, and Sydney’s the worm.”
We exchange a smile. My mom said that once about our cousins, and my sisters and I have taken it and run. Sydney’s a sweetheart, but her efforts always fall short in her parents’ eyes, where those of her sister are celebrated, no matter how many people they hurt. It’s weird that I wasn’t best friends with her instead of January, but January and I are the same age.
She casts a worried look in my direction. “You can tell them to fuck off. I will back you. Iverson too.”
If I had a job and a place to live, I could leave. But I don’t. Daddy hired me as Hawthorne’s Guest Ranch event coordinator. I have to actually prove I can take care of myself. “Can I buy you lunch?”
“No, but I’ll eat with you.”
I close my eyes. She won’t let me buy because she thinks I don’t have money. I got a nice severance package at my last job. I had a lot to negotiate with when I got “laid off.”
She pulls into the big lot in front of Springs Cafe. Hunger rumbles through my belly. Solid, greasy food is about to hit home, and I can’t wait. We sit in the cracked leather booths. Thankfully, my dress has long sleeves, so my skin doesn’t stick to the tabletop.
Greta stops by, hands tucked in the pockets of her waitress apron. The owner has worked as a server for as long as I can remember. “Couple of Hawthornes. How ya doin’?”
Jamison smiles at her. “Good. How’s the family?”
