Neat (Becker Brothers, #2)(20)

I needed a pencil and a blank sketch pad.

I needed a camera and a sunset in the mountains.

I needed a canvas and a palette of paint.

And I needed to find a way to make it up to Logan Becker — and prove to him I wasn’t the girl he thought I was.





Nothing cleared my mind and brought me peace as much as sketching did.

My left hand was covered in gray dust, fingers guiding the pencil over the page in my sketch pad as I kicked back in the corner of my very messy, soon-to-be art studio. More and more boxes of supplies I’d ordered had started to arrive, but I hadn’t found the time or energy to go through anything yet.

My dream was in mountains all around me, and yet something was stopping me from unboxing it.

I couldn’t think about that, though — not when my thoughts were consumed with Logan Becker and the hellish day I’d had at the distillery. And to escape those thoughts, I’d picked up a fresh new pencil, a blank sketch pad that I’d plucked from one of the boxes, and I’d turned my worries loose.

Sometimes my mind wandered while I sketched, but most of the time, it was just me and whatever I was creating — that image I was bringing to life. I’d lose myself in the comforting sounds of pencil against paper, of my hand skating across the page with each dark line or light shading. I had a soft indie playlist playing in the background, and the setting sun streaming in through the Main Street windows as my light.

A rush of cool wind blew my hair back off my shoulders, and it brought me out of my daze. I blinked, looking up at the front door, the first time my eyes had left the page since I’d sat down.

And then I sighed.

My parents were just inside the studio, looking around at the mess — Dad with his hands in the pockets of his dark jeans, Mom with her hands folded over her purse hanging off her shoulder.

Dad wore a cream cowboy hat over his white hair, his skin somehow tan even in the middle of winter. Wrinkles lined his long face, revealing more about the life he’d lived than any words could. He was tall and lean, a picturesque cowboy from an old western film. I half expected the sound of spurs clinking on his boots when he started making his way toward me, scanning the piles of boxes and yet-to-be-built furniture and supplies before his gaze found me.

“Looks like things are coming along,” he said, a sympathetic smile touching his leather lips.

I closed my sketch pad, letting it fall on the folding table I’d had my feet kicked up on before I scrubbed my hands over my face. “I know it’s a mess. I’ve been tired after work,” I said that last part pointedly. “But I’ll get started unpacking this weekend.”

“I wasn’t judging,” he assured me, though his eyes told me otherwise.

I’d learned long ago that though my father always had the sweetest words for me, though he acted as if I was the pride and joy of his life — I was far from it. It was the same with my mother, who loved him unconditionally. And with my brother, who looked up to him like he was a superhero who could do no wrong. They thought they were his everything, that he’d go to war for them — just like I’d used to think.

But I’d learned better.

My father’s main priorities were money, and that distillery, and this town of old men he had wrapped so tightly around his little finger.

That I was sure of.

“I bet it will be beautiful when you’re all done with it,” Mom chimed in, trying and failing to hide the wrinkle of her nose as she looked around the space. She wore a rose-colored pea coat that wrapped her up from shin to neck, and a fashion hat the same color hid her short, brunette-dyed hair. Her nude kitten heels tapped on the floor when she crossed to where Dad and I were. She smiled, folding her gloved hands in front of her and not saying another word.

That was what I’d come to know my mother as — a silent sidekick. Agreeable, polite, and ever the dutiful wife.

“I heard you had a rough day at the distillery,” Dad offered, resting his elbow on one of the tall boxes that held shelves I needed to put together. “Everything okay?”

I waved him off, standing and making my way over to the one box I had unpacked — the one with the booze.

“I had a lapse in judgment,” I murmured, grabbing the neck of a bottle of gin. I lifted it to my father to ask if he wanted some, but he just shook his head. I didn’t even bother asking Mom before I shrugged, pouring a finger into a red Dixie cup. “I just tried giving a tour when I wasn’t ready to. Classic Scooter know-it-all-gene biting me in the ass.”

Dad smirked at that, folding his arms over his chest. “Ah. I’ve been struck by that a time or two.”

Didn’t I know it.

“Well, I didn’t come here to make you feel worse about what happened,” he said. “I just… I know you don’t want to be there. But, remember, we have a deal.”

I slammed back the alcohol I’d poured, my eyes landing on his with the swallow. “I didn’t do this on purpose.”

“And I believe you,” he said, putting his hands up. “I just had to check. I know you have some sort of… vendetta against me.”

I scoffed. “Dad. Please.”

“Well, what other reason would you have to… to…” He gestured to me, as if I as an entire entity was a problem. “To dress like that, and ruin the temple of your body with those tattoos and piercings. And God knows you never wanted to work at the distillery.”