Heartless (Chestnut Springs, #2)(45)

She eyes me like we both know I should have said no to Luke’s idea. But whatever. We can paint it over. It’s not like we killed someone or threw heads of lettuce out of my car.

“Basically, he comes home and we silently cook together. We eat dinner, and he mostly talks to Luke, avoids looking at me, says, Thanks, and then gets to work putting Luke to bed. I assume he’s exhausted after that and passes out. Truthfully, I don’t know how he does it. It’s way too much for one person to handle all on their own. But if I cook dinner, he gets all crabby. If I clean, he gets crabby. Oh! When he told me to stop doing laundry the other day, he said that I’m just the nanny, not the maid. So who the hell knows? Then he left me a note on the dryer that said, Thank you for your help.”

“It’s really kind of sweet. Like . . . for Cade?”

“Ugh. Is it though? He kissed me and then pulled away and said he shouldn’t have done that. He apologized. I’m trying not to be offended.”

“Have you tried talking to him?”

I blink at her. “Talking?”

“Yes. You know . . . where you use your mouth to create words that describe what’s going through your head.”

“Sounds weird. Sounds awkward. Don’t like it. Not approved by me.”

She gives me a disapproving look. I imagine it’s one she’ll use on her future children.

“Why can’t we just have sex for the next little bit and then high-five each other at the end?”

“And spend the rest of your lives running into each other because of me and Rhett?”

I turn my nose up. “We’re adults. I’m head over heels for Luke. Do you know how cool that kid is? It’ll be fine.”

Summer stares wistfully out over the field, spinning the engagement ring on her finger. “Adults who won’t talk to each other.”

She says it kindly enough but I know it’s a dig. And I know she’s right. I know I fly by the seat of my pants with little regard for where I’m going. Planning stresses me out.

That’s why go with the flow is my motto.

Too many ways to fail. Too many ways to fall short. And in a family of wildly successful people, I’d rather be the flighty wildcard than the failure.

“You coming to the rodeo next weekend?” I change the subject entirely, actively sidestepping the thoughts bubbling up inside me.

She nods. “Of course. You?”

“Yeah. I told Cade I’d take care of Luke that day. We’ll go watch him.”

“Working the weekends, huh?”

I shrug. “Spending time with Luke doesn’t really feel like work.”

In fact, it feels like the most natural thing in the world.





I should have known when Luke asked, “What does it feel like when you get carsick?” that something was wrong.

Instead, I kept bobbing my head to my favorite Broken Bells song and said, “Just like nauseous, buddy.”

We had a fun day at the spray park in town—our new go-to spot on hot days. He gets to see a bunch of friends from school, and I get to mean mug the psychopath birthday boy and his mom who will forever live on in my head as Bunny.

They stay away, looking at me like I’m an escaped convict, which works just fine for me.

I even spend time together with a couple of moms that I actually like. Ones with nice kids and good senses of humor. I feel relieved that not all the moms in this town are Bunnies.

But I’m not feeling relieved anymore.

Because Luke just sprayed vomit all over the back of my passenger’s side seat.

I pull over on the country road. We’re only five minutes from the ranch. So close, and yet so far away. After running around the front of the Jeep, I whip the back passenger’s side door open and take in the barf-covered boy before me.

“You okay, little man?”

His eyes are wide and watery. “I’m so sorry, Willa.”

“Oh, sweet boy. Don’t be sorry.”

“I barfed in your car.”

“It doesn’t matter.” I reach forward and run a hand through his wet hair.

“It’s a mess!” He’s crying now and I want to hug him, but we all have our limits. I’ve handled my fair share of vomit as a bartender, but hugging a barf-covered child is where I draw the line.

Instead, I unbuckle him, whip his shirt off, and then squeeze him to me. Sobs rack his little body.

“I-I’m s-s-so sorry!” He’s wailing now.

“Shh. Luke. Luke. It’s just a car. It doesn’t matter. You’re what matters. I don’t care about the car, babe. I’m more worried about you.” I pull away, looking at him, trying hard not to glance down. Because I know there is barf on me. The last thing I need to do is start heaving too.

He nods tearfully at me. “Willa?”

“Yeah?”

“You have throw up on you. I can still see a strawberry.”

I pop my lips open and opt to mouth breathe so I stop smelling it, focusing on his wide blue eyes. I’m an adult, I’m an adult, I’m an adult. “That’s okay. Everything can be washed. I’m going to buckle you in and drive the rest of the way. If you feel like you need to barf again, just tell me and I’ll pull over for you. Got it?”

He nods, looking determined.