“Sounds like the common denominator might be you.”
Casey rolled his eyes. Nita smirked, wrecking her snooty poker face. Though actually, when he thought about it . . .
“If I am the common denominator, then it stands to reason I’m probably the last thing that girl needs in her life.”
“You’re not used to being there for people, are you?” she asked. “Not used to being the man a woman sometimes needs, when she’s struggling.”
“No, and that’s exactly my point.”
Nita smiled kindly. “You’re so unused to it, in fact, it seems you don’t even realize that’s exactly what you’ve become.”
He blushed again, brain scrambling to figure out if that was true.
“I won’t make a big deal of it,” she said, “but I’d be remiss not to say I’m proud of you. And how much you’ve grown, these past few months.” With that, Nita looked at her watch, then stood. “I’d better check on your mother.”
He eyed the microwave clock. “You just don’t want to miss Wheel of Fortune.”
She laughed. “Well, maybe not.” She paused halfway to the door, turned back to him. “Why don’t you join us, Casey? If you can spare the time. Vince and Kim are due back any minute.”
Seven thirty? He’d miss out on a hot dinner at Three C, but fuck it. Christine had freed him up until nine.
Plus, wonder of wonders, Casey kind of felt like hanging out with his family, just now.
Chapter 19
Miah dragged himself up the porch steps and through the front door close to eight, beat to the bone. His workday had started at six, after staying up until past two dealing with the previous evening’s episode with the burglar. And while he’d thought a steer caught up in a length of barbwire fencing—in need of disentangling and a visit from a vet—had promised to be the headache of the day, he’d been wrong.
When the animals caused trouble, that was just the job. But when it was people who showed up, looking to lend you a headache . . .
He’d swung by the house around three, in search of something to appease his growling stomach, just as an unfamiliar luxury SUV had rolled under the arch and into the lot. He’d paused by the front door, already knowing what it would be about, but praying he was wrong.
He hadn’t been.
The property scout—a different one than earlier in the week, though no less pushy—never made it past the porch, but he still managed to eat up twenty minutes of Miah’s time, hinting at outrageous figures but not producing any until Miah was on the verge of kicking him back down the steps. The man hadn’t matched his shiny wheels. He’d been well dressed but greatly overweight, and sweating in a way that no healthy person did, not in February, in one of the driest patches of the country. Miah spent too much time around animals to enjoy the interaction; he could sense nerves in a steer or a dog or a person, and they set him on edge himself. He’d wanted the man gone, and fast, but even forsaking the thinnest veil of courtesy, it hadn’t come quick.