THIRTY-FIVE
willa
The DustUp smells like old books, lavender sachets, and the sharp bite of red wine. I love it when we get to meet here; there’s something so eccentric about hanging out in an old antique store and lounging on a hundred-year-old furniture.
I’m perched on a velvet settee that’s seen better days, Buttercup sprawled across my feet like he owns the place. The mangy Pomeranian lifts his head every few seconds to eye Pearl’s leg with alarming interest.
“Don’t even think about it,” I warn him, but he’s already army-crawling toward her.
Pearl—one-third of the infamous Porch Committee and looking elegant as ever in her rhinestone-studded Western shirt—just laughs and redirects him with a gentle nudge of her boot. “This dog has no shame.”
“Charlie wouldn’t let me leave without him.” I take a sip of wine, letting the warmth spread through my chest. “Said I needed emotional support.”
“Smart man.” Josie appears from the back room carrying three more wine glasses and a paperback with a shirtless cowboy on the cover. Her scent—coconut and cloves with an undertone of cherry—wraps around me like comfort. “Though I’m prettysure Buttercup’s the one who needs emotional support. He looks… sensitive?”
“He tried to hump Beau’s leg this morning. Beau was not amused.”
Josie snorts, setting the glasses down on the coffee table that Winona has draped with a frilly doily. Winona Carr, the owner of The Dust Up, is in the back room, getting the space set up.
Do I think it’s weird that when the antiques store closes, her little tarot card shop opens? And that there is a surprising amount of locals who regularly seek out advice from “Madame Carr”? Fuck yeah. But do I love it even more because of that? Absolutely.
“So.” Josie settles into the chair across from me, tucking her legs beneath her. Her Omega scent spikes slightly—nervous energy I can taste on my tongue. “Baby texted. She’s bringing Dot and a surprise.”
“A surprise?” I raise an eyebrow.
Pearl tops off my wine glass with a knowing smile. “You’ll see.”
I study Josie, noting the way she’s fidgeting with her bracelet—a nervous tell she’s had since we were kids. There’s something she’s not saying, something hovering in the air between us.
“Josie? What’s up?”
She fidgets with her bracelet, not meeting my eyes. “Um, I may have… possibly… meddled?”
I narrow my eyes at her over my wine glass. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Have you talked to Caleb?” she asks, her voice trying for casual and failing spectacularly.
I give her an accusing look and take a slow sip of wine, letting the silence stretch.
“No. Have you?” I say in a teasing tone, expecting her to come clean or deny it. Josie has always felt the very mother hen-esque need to keep Caleb informed of my comings and goings.
But her blush deepens, spreads from her cheeks down her neck. The way she won’t quite meet my eyes. The spike in her scent screams interest, attraction, and want. And something I had never thought before settles into my mind, and all of a sudden I feel like a total idiot at how obvious it is.
My brother. Josie has a crush on my brother. How did I never connect those dots?
I file that away for later, because there’s no way I’m letting that go. But right now, there are more important things to address.
“I may have let it slip that you were back in town,” Josie says quietly, still not looking at me.
I blink. “You told Caleb?”
“He called asking if I’d heard from you. Apparently, rumors had gotten to him from somewhere. I didn’t want to lie.” She finally meets my eyes, and there’s worry there. Real worry. “He was shocked. And kind of annoyed that he had to hear it from me instead of you. Are you mad?”
I should be. Should be furious that she took that choice away from me. But looking at her, at the genuine concern on her face, I can’t find it in me to be angry.
“No,” I say honestly. “I’m not mad.”
“You’re not?”
