Neat (Becker Brothers, #2)(47)

Another sigh left my chest as I crawled out of bed, tugging on my sweat pants before I tore out the note and the doodle, folding it into a square and tucking it in my pocket. I pulled on my t-shirt next, and then I padded my way over to the still-hot coffee pot, pouring what was left into a mug I’d plucked from the clean dish rack.

I sipped carefully on the hot liquid, leaning against her kitchen cabinet and looking around at the mess again. I couldn’t de-tangle any of my thoughts, so I decided to put them to rest for now. I needed to talk to her — that much was fairly clear — and I couldn’t talk to her right now. Until I could, I needed to calm down, to not let anxiety convince me I needed to break through the doors of that church and demand answers in front of God and the whole town.

I did need to get through those church doors, though — not to interrogate Mallory Scooter, but to show face and make Momma happy. I’d already missed the first service, but I could make it to the second one, and knowing Momma, she’d wait to make sure I showed up since I hadn’t made it for the early one.

And though I was able to put most of my worries to bed, at least for the moment, I wasn’t able to leave that apartment in the disarray it was in.

So, I finished my coffee, coaxing Dalí out from under the couch and loving on him while I made a plan. Then, I did the best thing I could do for my anxiety.

I cleaned.

And left a note of my own before slipping out the back door.





Mallory


It felt like someone else sitting at the country club brunch with my parents.

It must have been someone else’s hand reaching for that mimosa, someone else’s mouth moving, answering my parents’ questions. It absolutely had to be someone else’s legs crossing in the sun dress under the table.

Because in my mind, I was still in bed with Logan Becker.

I was across town, at the opposite end of Main Street, stretched out under the sheets in the morning sun with my bare chest pressed against his ribs. My arms were wrapped around him, his around me, my head on his chest, his breath on my ear.

Or maybe I was still stuck in a memory of last night. I could still feel his hands running gently over my spine, could hear the tender way he moaned my name in the middle of the night, could feel his lips pressing to the back of my neck before his hands slipped between my legs…

I bit my lip against a blush and a smile, sipping the delicious mixture of champagne and orange juice from the flute in my hand.

“I’ll take that as a yes?” Mom asked.

I blinked, blotting my lips with the linen napkin in my lap. “Hmm?”

She chuckled. “You’re so cheery today, but I swear, you’re a million miles away,” she commented. “I asked if you’d started unpacking at the shop yet, if things were coming together?”

A flash of last night hit me — paint and lips, music and eyes, a sigh and a kiss and a…

“Yes,” I said, unable to hide my smile this time. My cheeks flushed as I traced the tip of my finger around the lip of the flute glass. “Things are coming together quite nicely.”

My parents likely thought I was high, for how much I’d smiled at church that morning and now at brunch with them and my brother, Malcolm. I hated spending time with them — they knew it, I knew it — but every Sunday, our family was forced together.

At least, that’s the way it was when I was in town.

I’d been able to escape the Stratford way of life when I was in college, but now that I was back — and, even though not living with them, technically living under a roof that they owned — I had to play by their rules again.

Dad beamed proudly, glancing at me over his menu. “That’s my girl. I can’t wait for the grand opening. We’re going to throw the biggest party this town has seen.” He cleared his throat, looking back at his menu — even though we all knew he’d order the same thing he always did and order it for Mom, too. “As long as it’s in proper order, of course.”

That was his nice way of saying that if he was going to show face and endorse my little project, it would have to be something bright and shiny and perfect. God forbid anyone with the Scooter blood in their veins make even the slightest mistake. He was still trying to fight off the rumors circling around town after the mayor of Stratford was called out for owing him a hefty debt from his nights in our underground casino.

Daddy didn’t like stains on the family name, and he’d do anything to avoid them.

My brother, Malcolm, seemed bored at the table that morning. He was the spitting image of my father, only about a foot shorter and fifty pounds lighter. He was drinking champagne without the orange juice chaser, and constantly looking at his watch — no doubt counting down the minutes until he and Dad would go golfing.

When the waiter came, Dad ordered two eggs over easy, three slices of bacon, cheesy grits and one single pancake — for both him and Mom, of course. She hadn’t ordered a meal for herself in the time I’d been alive, and I wondered if she even knew what food she liked anymore or if she just ate whatever her husband decided was fit for her.

Mom was the perfect southern belle that morning, her short hair freshly dyed brunette again — like no one in this town knew she was old enough to have grays — an Easter-egg-yellow sundress covering her shoulders and knees, and a classic string of pearls around her neck. She smiled and nodded and spoke when spoken to, chiming in when it was classy and helpful but keeping her mouth shut otherwise. She’d had years of training, and I knew part of it was that she grew up in a different time than I did.