Gin Fling (Bootleg Springs, #5)(13)

I was an early riser by nature. I enjoyed the dawn of the day with its reverent silence and quiet potential. There was nothing reverent or quiet about Shelby dancing around to Maroon 5 and Panic! At the Disco while making those god-awful sugar bomb toasted pastries.

She wanted to make small talk about the weather while I laced up my running shoes.

Then she was singing in the shower. Or leaving bras in the bathroom. Or snort-laughing over reruns in the living room. The woman snorted when she laughed. And I hated that some dark corner of me found it kind of cute.

She’d taken the guest room and had made herself at home. I was the one who felt like I was intruding. Like I was a guest in her home. But, dammit, I’d gotten here first. I belonged here more than she did. I was building a relationship with family. She was just trying to exploit a scandal. Wasn’t she?

I made it a point not to let her chase me into my room. Made a big deal out of being “home” as much as she was.

We both had jobs without a consistent nine to five. Most of the classes and training that I did were in the mornings and evenings. Which left me in the house with her during the day while she muttered over reams of notes and typed like her fingers were on fire.

Every time I turned around, she was there. So I fought back.

Whenever she sat down to work in the living room, I turned on the TV and settled on the couch.

Whenever she got in the shower upstairs, I ran the hot water in the kitchen sink until she yelped from the cold.

Whenever she “cooked”—the woman lived off canned food, nuggets, and peanut butter and jelly—I made a production out of my superior meal prep.

And judging by her bubbly morning greetings every damn day, I wasn’t bothering her in the least.

Unless it was all an act, Shelby was the happiest damn person I’d ever met. It was like she was hosing down the house with fairy dust.

It made me irrationally angry. Something I hadn’t felt for a long time.

I pushed harder in my workouts, focusing my energy on them. But every time I came home, there was Shelby. Perky and happy, giving me a little wave from her corner of the living room or shoveling canned ravioli into her smiling mouth.

I needed to have some words with that half-sister of mine.





*



“I hereby call this Bodine Family breakfast to order,” Bowie said, smacking the bottle of syrup on the table. Kitchen renovations were almost finished for him and Cassidy. They’d lived in two halves of a double for years before ceremoniously knocking down the wall between them and plotting out a new future together.

When it was done, it would be a great gathering place. But right now, there were construction tarps and drywall dust everywhere.

Cassidy was dressed for work in her deputy uniform, and I had a sinking feeling this breakfast was part of her official business.

Gibs was bleary-eyed and knocking back coffee like it was his job. I got the feeling the guy wasn’t sleeping much. If he’d been remotely human, I’d have asked him about it. But the way he snarled at Jameson when he asked about the softball lineup clued me in that it would be a wasted question.

“Where’s Leah Mae and Devlin?” I asked.

Scarlett was already working her way through a stack of pancakes and checking her calendar on her phone. “Dev’s in the office today. Had some client meetings to take care of. I think Ol’ Judge Carwell’s paying him a visit, too.”

Devlin had traded in his political aspirations to fall in love with Scarlett and open a private law practice in Bootleg Springs. Judge Carwell was about ten years past retirement age, and rumor had it, he was looking to get Devlin elected once his Olamette County residency was official.

“Leah Mae and June are checking out the shop. Juney finally stopped winding up the landlord over the rent, and they signed the papers last week.” Jameson grinned.

“How’s construction coming?” Bowie asked Scarlett.

“Hallelujah, thank you, Lord! We have a basement,” she sang. “Or at least a hole in the ground. I’m thinking about taking some of Dev’s law journals over and throwin’ em in the mud to celebrate.”

“Maybe you could take your new tenant over with you and leave her there,” I suggested.

“Now, Jonah. I thought for sure you would be mature enough to share your space with a roommate,” she said, batting her eyelashes at me.

“Are you trying to fix me up with Shelby?” I demanded.

Gibson dragged himself out of his grumpy stupor. “Damn, Scar. We didn’t even get a chance to tell you all about poor Jonah’s broken heart.”

I glared at him. “Never should have said a damn thing to you assholes.” I wanted to say that I never should have shown up in Bootleg. But, even mad, I wouldn’t have meant it.

“Tell me what? What broken heart? Was it that Lacey and her dumping you at the prom?” Scarlett demanded, flinging her fork down on the table.

George had thrown a prom re-do when he found out Cassidy’s sister, June, had missed out on hers. Under duress to pick a date, I’d invited Lacey Dickerson, who left with Amos Sheridan. I hadn’t advertised the fact that Lacey had asked me to go to help her make Amos jealous or that her plan had worked perfectly. I’d had a “date” that kept my elderly clients from matching me up with any number of their single—or, in Myrt’s case, unhappily married—relatives. And Lacey got her Amos. It was a win-win.