“Back home for the—” Tommy begins, but his eyes widen when who I am dawns on him.
He was about to ask about Asher and Kenzie.
“Holidays?” I suggest instead, smiling at him. “Actually, I’m here because of Gina.”
He relaxes, and I’m puzzled by why he expected an outburst. We’ve known each other since elementary school, and I’ve never been one for scenes. In fact, I despise them. I’m basically like Jennifer Connelly’s character inHe’s Just Not That Into Youwhen Bradley Cooper confesses to cheating on her in Home Depot. She assumes he chose to do it then because she hates drama and creating a scene.
That’s me, right there.
“Oh, right. She got engaged. Why such a quick engagement?” His tone carries the unspoken question that everyone has: Is Gina Wallace pregnant?
“You know my sister. She’s always done things her own way. Traditional isn’t in her vocabulary. I wonder if she wants her married name on her doctorate diploma she’ll earn in a few months. It would make it easier to be married by then.”
This makes him laugh. “That’s true. Gina can find a reason for anything, can’t she?”
“Can’t we all?” I reply, taking the bag he hands me.
Most bottles are nestled in paper sacks to minimize clinking, and I realize that maybe six bottles wasn’t the best idea after all.
As I step outside, I freeze when I spot Asher’s mom getting out of her car across the street. Dorothy is a drunk—a fact we allchoose to ignore—and she’s heading straight for me. I can’t let her see me.
Turning right, I dart into the nearest door, keeping my back to the glass to avoid being recognized.
The last person I want to talk to is Asher’s mom. I can only imagine what Dorothy might say.
“Harper?”
I whip my head up and lock eyes with Crawford Stokes, Asher’s best friend. Great.
“Ford. Hi.”
He glances at the window and chuckles. “Avoiding her?”
“I’m not ready for that confrontation yet,” I admit.
Wow, Ford looks good. I haven’t seen him since we moved to Pittsburgh, and I’m amazed at how much he’s changed. The short dark beard he now sports accentuates his already chiseled jaw—the kind that looks like it was carved from marble by a Renaissance sculptor with something to prove.
His once shaggy hair is trimmed close on the sides, drawing attention to eyes the color of chocolate. The sleeves of his flannel shirt strain against biceps that I don’t think were there three years ago, and when he reaches across the counter, the fabric pulls taut across broad shoulders dusted with sawdust. The buttons of his shirt fight a losing battle against what must be a washboard stomach underneath.
Wow.
“I don’t blame you. I’ve been avoiding her too. I’m conveniently busy whenever she reaches out for help.”
I take a moment to look around and realize where I am. “Wait, you work for Mr. Miller? I thought he was selling TrueCut.”
“He did. I bought it, and you’re now standing in Heartwood & Home.”
Ford was always handy, but I didn’t know he loved carpentry enough to buy Mr. Miller’s business. “Good for you.”
“And you’re doing great with your photography,” he says. “I’ve seen your work. Honestly, I don’t know how you manage it.”
This makes me blush, and I glance down. “Most people think it’s crazy because all you have to do these days is point your phone and click. But there’s so much more to it.”
“I believe that. You’ve always had a great eye, though, Kenzie. You’ve never taken a bad picture.”
“That’s not true.”
“It doesn’t count if the subjects aren’t photogenic.”
