I march across the pavement and throw open the door, not slowing to ring the bell for service. The music is once again blaring, so I stalk to the stereo and slap a hand on the power button. Screw it.
Logan’s head jerks up from the Mustang. “Again? What the hell is your problem with Zeppelin?”
“They were all men. That’s enough.” Although I’m not too happy with womankind—or motherkind—today either.
Logan leans back against the cherry-red front end of the car and crosses his arms over his chest.
“Karas again?”
I throw my hands up in the air. “Obviously! Well, him and my mama.”
I pace the garage, stepping over air hoses and metal legs of the huge car lifts as I spill the entire sordid story.
Logan’s eyes are wide when I finish. “You’ve had a rough morning, girl.”
“No kidding.”
“What can I do?”
I recall the reasons I came here to begin with. “Two things, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“Anything you need. All you have to do is ask.”
I briefly consider asking him to track down my mother, but decide that’s the worst possible idea.
“Can you sell my Pontiac?”
“Of course. Just tell me where to send the money.”
“I’ll worry about that later.” I pause in my pacing and face him. “I also need you to get a locksmith out to my gran’s and have the locks changed for me. If you get word my mama’s back in town, I want her arrested again for breaking and entering if she tries to get back inside. The house is mine, and I don’t want her in it. Last time she stole stuff, and I’m finished with that crap.”
“Consider it done.”
My temper cooling slightly, I cross over to him, lean up on my tiptoes, and press a kiss to his cheek. “You’re a good man, Logan Brantley. A really good man.”
His cheeks flush red, but he smiles. “And don’t you forget it, Holly Wickman. You call me if you ever need anything.”
He turns and grabs a slip of paper off the workbench and scribbles his number down with a fat pencil. “Nashville ain’t too far, and if you need me, I’ll be there. Just say the word.”
I’m not sure how to take that, so I just say, “Thank you. I’m glad my car died at this particular gas station.”
“Me too, honey. Me too.”
I’m at a crossroads in my life, both literally and figuratively. I can head southwest toward Nashville and hide behind Boone or Tana’s gates. Or I can head northeast, into the shitstorm surrounding my husband. A shitstorm that I helped make worse on a personal level because of what I shared with Mama.
I think about what Creighton said to me just before we hung up last night.
“I support you, Holly. So whatever you decide is best for you, I’m going to support that too.”
As pissed as I am that he didn’t tell me about Homegrown, I owe him the same thing—my support. I ran from him twice before, but this time I’m running straight to him. I’m not saying I won’t ask him what the hell he was thinking by not telling me, but this isn’t a game.
It’s the fight of my life.
Holly isn’t answering my calls, and I’m about to lose my shit. If she runs again, I have a feeling I might not be able to find her so easily this time. I’ve been trying to reach her for hours, and if I don’t get a response in the next twenty minutes, I’m going to start tracking her credit cards.
We were already in lockdown when the article in the Wall Street Journal went live. Some poor red-faced associate came in holding a printout of the article and the piece in Yammer. It’s safe to say that I shouldn’t be meeting Holly’s mother anytime soon, for both our sakes.
I’m pacing the conference room, calling Holly again, when the door is shoved open.
“Honey, you called?”
I drop the phone from my ear when Holly struts in, suitcase in tow. Every head in the room swivels toward her.
“Don’t you know how to answer your phone, woman?”
“Oh no, he didn’t.”
The words are whispered, and I think they come from an associate at the end of the long table. Rather than annoying me, his words remind me that my office is not the place for this discussion.
Stalking across the room, I stop in front of my wife. She should be spitting mad, but she’s smiling. That’s almost more disconcerting.
“Hey, baby. I missed you,” she says.
“Everyone out,” I order, and the room clears within sixty seconds, partners and associates alike shuffling by us without making eye contact.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, wondering if Holly is going to drop the act and go for the jugular the moment we’re alone. But instead, she says something completely unexpected.
“I support you, Crey. Whatever decisions you made about what to tell me or not tell me, I’m assuming you made them for a reason.”
“Holly—”
“I’m not done.”