He frowns. “Don’t be ridiculous. Keep your money, Kat.”
His cell phone rings down the hall, and he strides out of the room. Kat. He’s been calling me Kat this morning.
No one calls me that. Before this biker boy drove up, I’ve always been a very prim Katherine, the girl who stays in on Friday nights and does homework. The girl who always does what she’s told. The girl who’s… boring.
Kat sounds like she has a social life and throws caution to the wind. Like she dances on bars and tosses back shots. Like she lets hot guys work on her car.
I think I like Kat.
13
Katherine
The next morning, I drag myself to my laptop. While I know what to expect when I open my email, it doesn’t make finalizing the funeral arrangements any easier. Brady reviews the print out with a stoic expression and signs off on everything, even the ridiculously expensive flowers.
I want to cheer him up, but I haven’t a clue what to do besides make sure he eats and hand him an occasional cup of coffee. He sounds worried sick about his father. I can’t imagine what he must be going through right now, so I try to be as upbeat as possible.
And maybe, wanting to cheer him up is a little selfish on my part because I love seeing him laugh. His green eyes warm, and his shoulders relax. Sometimes, if I’m lucky, that one dimple comes out and taunts me.
Needing a distraction from thinking too much about my new housemate, I return to my laptop to finish the logo for Mel’s new honey-lavender lotion. I have no idea if Brady will continue making Mel’s bath and body products, but it seems wrong to stop the design now. I’ll finish, and he can do with it what he will. I’m no graphic designer, but I had to do so many graphics for the senator’s campaign that I got pretty decent.
Besides, I need it for the farmers’ fair.
Oh, dear Lord. The farmers’ fair.
Mel and Cal were planning to host this big event next month. Since the winter is slow around here, everyone thought it’d be fun to do something to promote all of the nearby farms. The neighbors are bringing some of their goods to sell, and Mel wanted to set up a little petting zoo for the kids.
I rub the throb in my temple. Like Brady needs one more thing to deal with.
Worst-case scenario, he can cancel. Or maybe one of the other farms can host.
Clicking over to my other email account, I check to see if I have any more responses from the newspapers about the event.
I can still hear Mel’s voice, teasing me that I’d spend hours on her press releases when I wouldn’t take the time to apply to the opening on Congressman Mitchell’s staff. But I’m not sure I want to return to the lion’s den.
Is it wrong that I love working on the farm? I enjoy everything, from harvesting the crops and distilling the essential oil to perfecting Mel’s products and finding the best way to sell them. But if I tell my parents I love doing the very thing they loathe—farming—would they understand? They’ve always wanted something different for me, a better life, because farming represents a lifestyle that just beat them down.
I know they want me to give Austin another shot, but I don’t think I can deal with seeing my ex around every corner, which is bound to happen because those political circles aren’t that big.
Glancing at my worn jeans and flannel shirt, I can’t imagine what Eric would say if he saw me “slumming it” again.
When I hightailed it out of Austin, I left everything behind that came from him—my clothes, my phone, my job. He can keep it all. Because when the going got tough, he bailed.
That’s not what I need. Who wants a man who doesn’t fight for what he wants? For the woman he supposedly loves? No, Eric got cold feet at the worst possible time. When I was alone and scared. Who can respect a man like that? Look at Brady. He’s obviously knee deep in family responsibilities and you don’t see him running for the hills.
I barely know the man but already I respect him so much. He might be kind of grumpy sometimes, but who wouldn’t be with this much stress? He’s busting his butt to take care of his parents and his niece.
You need to tell him.
My stomach nosedives. God, I need to get this over with.
After the funerals. Maybe on Sunday once we’ve gotten through the worst of it.
But I vow to tell him soon. Although I hate keeping secrets, I think if I told him now, it would be more to ease my guilty conscience than anything. I can handle the nightmares if it means he has less to deal with this week. I just hope he understands.
14
Brady
“You’re kidding me.” This isn’t right.