“When she’s not being a pain in my ass.” But he was smiling as he said it. “The past couple years have been kind of rough.”
“We teachers call that adolescence.”
His mouth quirked. “Maybe you could talk to her.”
“She mentioned she was seeing a therapist.” Not quite a question.
“Yeah.” He rubbed his beard with the back of one hand. I thought he was going to add something, to explain, but all he said was “She looks up to you.”
I flushed with pleasure at the compliment. “And she worships you. Have you tried talking to her?”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“At that age, they mostly just need someone to listen. You’re good at that.”
His jaw set. “You can relate to her, you said.”
Holy heck. He actually paid attention when I talked. I wasn’t used to that.
I grinned. “Because I’m a hot mess.”
“That’s not how I’d put it.”
How would you put it?I was dying to ask. Fishing for compliments. Or angling for another rejection. “I’m not sure howgood I am at giving guidance. Since I have no clue where I’m going.”
“Anywhere you want.”
I made a face. “I used to think so. I had all these big dreams of teaching in Tahiti or hiking the Appalachian Trail or moving to Colorado to be a tattoo artist. It’s not that I mind starting over,” I explained earnestly. “But I feel like I’m going backward.”
“That’s Mackinac,” Joe said.
“I kind of love that. The history, I mean—the fort and the fur trade and the horse-drawn carriages. I used to imagine I lived back then. Daanis and I would camp in the woods and pretend we were explorers or animals or tree spirits until it got too dark to see. But…Well, life isn’t a Hallmark movie, is it? Where the burned-out big-city heroine returns to her small town and falls for the bearded guy in a flannel shirt. Oh, fudge.” My hands flew to my face. “I did not just say that.”
Because he was that guy.
Joe’s brows rose. “Pretty sure you did.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t mean…I like beards,” I babbled. “As long as they don’t look like woolly scarves. It’s just…It’s a stereotype, right? Which is fine in romance novels, but in the real world, you have to wonder, what if Mr.Small Town Guy is really some incel living in his parents’ basement and making questionable political choices?”
“You have a problem with guys who live with their parents.”
Shit.I closed my eyes.Worse and worse.“Erm, no. That would be hypocritical. Since I recently moved in with my mother.”
“So you’re questioning my political choices.”
The way he said it, low and teasing, tingled up my spine. “I might be.” I raised my chin. “Unless you don’t discuss politics.”
“We can talk about whatever you want. But you should know up front, I don’t worry about labels. I care about people. Is something good or bad for my mom? Does it hurt the guys who work for me? Will it help my little sister? Anything else—where somebody’s from or who they love or what they do in their private life—that’s none of my damn business.”
I turned in my seat. “You’re a liberal.”
A corner of his mouth indented. “That’s a label.”
“I like labels. And liberals.”
“So it’s only flannel shirts you don’t like.”
Was he flirting? Or making fun of me?
