Hitched (Hitched #1)(34)

Tate and I say little during our hour-long drive from the airport in Cleveland to Mansfield. He offers to drive the rental, and I don't argue. I wonder how my mother is handling the death of her own mother. As much as I don't want to be home again, I also want to support my mom during what must be a painful time for her.

As we drive, I admire the beauty of Ohio. I couldn't wait to leave this place, but coming back, I have to admit that it has charm. Lush green, even in summer, and there are pastures and trees as far as the eye can see. It's so different from the concrete jungle of Las Vegas, and it brings up childhood memories of building forts and swimming in the lake near our house and cheering for our high school football team on crisp autumn nights.

We are nearly home, and Tate points out our old high school. I can see the stadium and remember my first kiss under those bleachers with Bradley Davis, the quarterback. Tate punched him in the face the next day when Bradley told everyone in the boy's locker room that he'd felt me up.

He hadn't.

After that, no one dared spread rumors about me, but it was a bit harder to get a date. Tate had that effect on potential male suitors.

Ah, memory lane.

"Do you think any of our old teachers still work there?" Tate asks as the school fades from view.

"Probably Mr. Schraeder. I don't think he'll ever retire his reign of terror on the children of Mansfield."

Tate chuckles. "Remember when his bald head turned red yelling at you for leaving class to pee? I thought he'd rupture an artery."

"I certainly hoped he would. It was so stupid. I was done with my test and had turned it in. It wasn't like I could cheat. And I was going to pee, one way or another. I just didn't want to do it on the floor in the classroom."

He turns right, and the houses look familiar. We're close. My palms are slick with sweat.

"I can't believe Mom grounded you for that," he says, frowning.

"Oh, you know our parents. Sticklers for the rules and respect. Heaven forbid a girl is in the right when a male teacher is wrong."

My phone beeps, and I check it, smiling.



Made it safe, I hope? Missing you.



Sebastian. My heart hurts at how much I already miss him.



Missing you too. Just getting to my parents house. Funeral is tomorrow at 2. We should be coming home Sunday.



Not sure I'll make it that long, but I'll try. Would it be inappropriate to say that I miss the feel of being inside of you?



A buzz of remembered pleasure courses through me.



Thanks for making me hot and bothered right before seeing my family for the first time in forever. I owe you for that.



If payment includes you being in my arms, I'll gladly accept it.



We pull into my parents’ driveway, and I take a deep breath and get out, stuffing my phone into my pocket.

It's the smell that hits me first. Too many flowers and the scent of casseroles. It smells like a funeral.

And it looks like old school country with floral everything and knick-knacks everywhere.

My mom comes out of the kitchen wearing an apron, her eyes red-rimmed but nothing else out of place. Her brown hair has faded, leaving more strands of grey than I remember seeing last time, and there are new lines on her face. I realize with shock that my mother is getting old. She smiles when she sees us. "My two long-lost prodigal children home at last."

"Hi Mom." I reach over to give her a hug. "How you holding up?"

She brushes aside my concern. "I'm fine of course. Your grandmother has been sick a long time. We knew it was coming. I just wish you could have come before she died. She would have liked to see you in the end."

I don't know how to reply to that so I don't say anything. Tate saves us from the awkward silence by offering his own hug and then rubbing his stomach. "It smells delicious in here. Any chance some of that food is for me?"

I roll my eyes at him when my mother turns away to lead us into the kitchen, but I follow, because I too could use something to eat.

"Where's Dad?" I ask, looking around. The kitchen hasn't changed at all. The red teapot is still on the same stove, with cast iron pots hanging over the island. The same maple oak table sits to the side, by the window, and I have a flash of sitting there with Tate and our sister Jessica, eating freshly baked cookies and drinking milk. I smile at the memory as we each sit where we always sat as a family, while my mother serves us lunch.

"He's around here somewhere," she says.

As if on cue, my dad comes in. He's a big man with a lot of meat on his bones, though not fat. He fills a room with his presence, and when he sees us, he grins. "Why didn't you tell me you were here!"

He kisses the top of my head, shakes Tate's hand and sits down next to us, waiting for his lunch.

My mom joins us last with her own plate. It's a casserole, of course, but it's good, and I have seconds.

They ask about our business and our lives. We keep our answers brief because they don't really want to know the details of what we do.

"And what about any men in your life, Kacie? I'd love some grandchildren before I'm too old to enjoy them, assuming you’d ever bring them to visit." My mom tries to say this lightly, but it comes out bitter.