Girl Gone Viral (Modern Love #2)(60)

“And if nothing comes of it?” Jas asked roughly. He would have disturbed their relationship more and could be left with nothing.

“And if something comes of it?” Bikram countered.

The words shut Jas up. Such a simple way to turn his own fear around. Both realities were possible. Right?

Bikram straightened away from the car as Katrina came out the front door of the big house. She held multiple foil packages in her hands, which told him Daisy had packed up the whole table for her to reheat later.

Bikram slapped him on the back. “Quit dancing around each other. It must be exhausting. Wouldn’t it be so nice to stop fighting all this?”

Jas watched his brother walk away, the words hitting close to home. He was exhausted. Exhausted from shoving everything down. The other things he locked up tight in his soul, he did it because they made him feel bad.

His feelings for Katrina made him feel good.

Her hips swayed as she walked toward him, and the moonlight lit her hair a silvery brown. Jas opened the back door. She was so beautiful, and Bikram was right. He wasn’t sorry he’d kissed her. He wanted to kiss her again.

He took the packages from her once she was close enough. She murmured her thanks and ignored the open back door to get into the front passenger seat.

“What are you doing?”

She buckled her seat belt. “I’ve always hated sitting back there. I’ll sit here from now on.”

Okay. What was that about?

She closed her door before he could ask. Jas put the food into the trunk and wiped his sweaty hands on his pants.

He felt like a teenager, or about as emotionally fluent as one. He started the car and searched for something to say, but she spoke first.

“You never talk about your grandpa.”

There was no accusation in her voice, but his hands tightened on the steering wheel. “I don’t.” He coughed once. “You can see why. We have a complicated relationship.”

“I can see that he loves you, but he’s also deeply, terribly angry with you.”

She deserved some kind of explanation for having to sit through that dinner. “My grandpa was mad when I joined the Army.” That was an understatement. “When he was young, he protested wars, railed against the military complex. I think it’s because his dad was in the British Army, and he saw what that short stint did to him. Grandpa didn’t talk to me for a year after I was deployed. And then, after I was injured and discharged, I think he got madder that I didn’t come home to the farm.” Instead, Jas had gone to work for Hardeep. It had been a heaven-sent job, where he could contribute something and heal and learn new skills.

She angled her body toward him. “Did he want you to take over the farm?”

“Oh, without a doubt.” Jas turned down the dirt road to the little house. “He puts a lot of stock in bloodline, as you see. I was supposed to be the heir. But I knew from the time I was . . . twelve, maybe, that it wasn’t what I wanted. I like gardening, but not farming. I have no connection to the land, not the way he does. Definitely not the way Bikram does. But Bikram’s not blood.”

“Ah.”

He parked in front of their house. Funny, how it was their house, when they’d only stayed here together for a few days. “I can take out Doodle,” he said, when the dog came racing up to the front door.

She took the leftovers from him. “Thanks.”

The dog quickly did her business, and they returned inside. Doodle went straight to her food bowl, which Katrina had freshened.

“Does it hurt Bikram? To not be in line to inherit the farm?” she asked, continuing their earlier conversation.

“I think so. I don’t know. He refuses to talk to me about it. Always has.”

She made a commiserating noise. “That puts you in a terrible position.”

It was strange, to talk to someone about this. Someone on his side, who could see things more objectively than his family could.

It was nice, actually.

He busied himself with removing his shoes. “It does.” It made him resent his grandfather even more.

“Do you think he’ll actually disown you?”

Nausea churned. He nodded once, not eager to discuss that prospect.

She seemed to sense he was done talking. “Do you want wine?”

“I—yes.” That was a good idea. They’d occasionally shared a glass of wine together. The wine would remind them of what good friends they were.

And then he’d . . . apologize.

Bikram’s voice rang in his head. Tell her.

Either way, they could do with alcohol.

He accepted the glass of wine she handed him and followed her to the living room. She dropped down onto the couch. After a moment’s hesitation, he sat down next to her.

He’d turned on the Tiffany lamp next to the couch, and she’d done the same with the overhead light. The dancing colors warred with the harsh light. Her sketch pad was spread out over the desk in the corner. She wasn’t a good artist, even she admitted that, but she stuck at it.

She stuck at a lot of things. It was one of the bajillion things he admired about her.

She took a sip of her wine. Her face was so . . . peaceful, in a way he didn’t usually see it at home when she was focused on a project or work. Except when she was cooking.

A sharp crack came from outside, and the peace was disturbed. She jumped. He jumped, too, but then relaxed. “It was a branch,” he said.