The Buy-In (Graham Brothers #1)(8)

“A husband? You must have misheard. I was definitely not talking about trying to find a husband. Though I’ve always wanted one of those husband pillows. Do you know the ones I’m talking about?”

From Kim’s blank look, she does not.

“They’re big and puffy, with arms you can sort of snuggle with—you know what? Never mind. Have a super awesome day.”

I force a laugh, then practically run out of the office before I can say or do anything else tragically embarrassing.





Chapter Three





Pat





On the forty-ish minute trek to Sheet Cake, I alternate between driving too fast and draggingly slow. One moment, my thoughts are racing and my foot turns to lead. The next, my mind snags on a memory and I’m a sloth. Apparently, I’m slothing right now because Tank glances over at me.

“Are you part of a funeral procession?” he asks. “Are we in an invisible school zone? I told you to slow down a minute ago, but I didn’t mean like a snail. Pick up the pace, son.”

“Right. Sorry. Is it hot in here?” I punch the A/C higher, then roll down my window.

On any other day, Tank would notice my jittery, nervous behavior and force me with the power of his fatherly gaze to tell him why I’m freaking out. I’m grateful he seems wholly distracted by the need to play tour guide. It’s like he walked up to one of those brochure racks in a hotel lobby and mainlined every single bit of information on Sheet Cake. If there’s a pop quiz at the end, I will most definitely fail.

“As I was saying, the town used to be a hub for grain, though its real claim to fame is the annual Sheet Cake Festival.”

“Obviously.”

“It’s been going on for a hundred years and is the third largest food-based festival in Texas,” Tank continues.

“Mm-hm. Food is good.”

While he drones on about train routes and other inane details, my mind spins back in Lindy’s direction. What are the odds my dad would buy her town?

Maybe it’s a sign.

It’s NOT a sign. Of all the things it could be, it is not a sign. More like a cosmic coincidence, the universe’s joke at my expense. Lindy doesn’t even live there. She is in Europe somewhere or a tropical island, maybe a remote village halfway across the world. Not in Sheet Cake.

But the optimist in me is unflappably optimistic. He keeps coming back with maybes and what ifs.

“Are you feeling okay?” Tank asks. “You’re flushed.”

“I’m just excited.”

This is not a lie. I am excited, even if I have no reason to be, since Lindy doesn’t live here. Get that through your thick skull, Patty. Lindy isn’t here.

I know this because I came to Sheet Cake looking for her. After my career-ending injury sent me home to Austin, I drove this same route. The only Darcy residence Google knew about was a tiny, rundown farmhouse on the outskirts of town. I met Lindy’s mom, a sweet, round woman who shared Lindy’s green eyes and bright smile. She told me Lindy hadn’t been home in ages.

“I’m sorry. She’s never mentioned you,” she said when I told her my name.

I must have looked as crushed as I felt, because Mrs. Darcy served me up coffee and a slice of homemade buttermilk pie. We ate together on the wraparound porch in a comfortable, if a little melancholy, silence.

When the pie was done and my plate scraped clean—I only refrained from licking it because manners—I wished her well and drove home.

If I cried all the way there, I left no witnesses to the fact. I thought it would bring me closure, but Lindy has always felt like a door that just won’t stay closed.

“There she blows.” Tank points to a large sign beside the road that reads, Howdy and Welcome to Sheet Cake, Texas: Home of the Annual Sheet Cake Festival. We round a bend, and a water tower comes into view. It looks a bit worse for wear and is rusted over in places, but the giant painting of a chocolate sheet cake on the side is pristine. So is the name of the town, written out in a sky-blue script.

“The color is called Sheet Cake Blue,” Tank says, a note of pride in his voice. “A local artist developed it, and the city trademarked it.”

Sheet Cake Blue is more than a color. It’s my current mood.

We are suddenly in the midst of an area that looks shiny and new, almost like it’s been plunked here fully formed after being purchased at a Costco. The speed limit slows to forty-five, then thirty-five, with stoplights and gas stations and fast food joints. There are a few newer planned communities with homes sprouting up like brick mushrooms, and strip centers with the normal Texas trifecta: donut shops, tanning salons, and Mexican restaurants.

“There’s the high school,” Tank says, continuing his A-plus narration of things about which I do not care. “Their football team won state last year in their division.”

I glance over to see an older, two-story brick building with a web of trailers expanding out and out and out. The football stadium, naturally, looks shiny and new—Texas priorities!

Lindy went to school there.

The baser part of my mind has slapped a cheerleading uniform on Lindy, and I give myself a mental smack for checking out her legs.

Did she date any football players?

It shouldn’t spark jealousy to imagine Lindy dating other guys before we even met. I mean, I hardly can stake a claim. And yet I’m ready to go back in time and break some jock’s hands for touching my girl.