The Reunion(41)

Slowly, Ford nods. “Glad we had this meeting. Incredibly productive. Glad we had no problem pointing out each other’s flaws and all the reasons we never hang out, but we couldn’t say one goddamn word about the party.” He glances between me and Palmer. “I’m out. Done. I’m not participating in your sparring matches, I’m not indulging your fights, and I’m not bothering to figure out ways to help you. You’re on your goddamn own. As for the party, Palmer, you handle the food since that’s what you’re good at. I’ll take the venue since it’s at the store, and Cooper, you take the rest since you apparently know Mom and Dad so well. If you want to talk to me, you know my email.”

With that, Ford takes off and slams the front door behind him.

I glance at Palmer and then head off too, but not before saying, “Clean out your room. Deny it all you want, but Mom and Dad are moving.”

And then I’m gone too.





CHAPTER EIGHTEEN





LARKIN


Ford: Are you back?

Larkin: Headed to the Bed and Breakfast right now. Everything okay?

Ford: Can you come to my room when you get here?

Larkin: Of course. Be there shortly.

“Everything okay?” Beau asks.

“I’m not sure.” I place my phone in my lap and chew on the side of my cheek. “Ford needs me to come to his room when I get back.”

“Oh yeah, he wants you to come to his room, huh?” Beau teases as he stops at a stop sign.

“It’s not like that, and you know it.”

“It’s not?” Beau asks as we close in on the bed-and-breakfast. “Because you spent the entire night talking about Ford.”

“I did not,” I insist. “I talked about my job.”

“I would say twenty percent of it was your job, eighty percent was him.”

My cheeks heat up. “That’s an inaccurate percentage split.”

“Really? Because tonight I learned about Ford’s workout routine, what he likes to eat on certain days, and how he pulls on his hair when he’s frustrated and can’t figure something out, so you’ve resorted to using a squirt bottle in the office to keep him from losing all his hair.”

“That’s just a funny anecdote. I get to spray my boss with water; how is that not entertaining?” I keep my eyes trained on the road in front of us as Beau drives slowly down Marina Ave.

“Level with me, Larkin. You like him.”

“I don’t like him,” I say as he parks in front of the bed-and-breakfast. Avoid eye contact—your brother can see right through you.

“Larkin . . .”

“Beau . . .”

Sighing, he shakes his head. “Fine, don’t tell me, but when you wind up in love with your boss, don’t come crying to me about how you can’t handle your feelings.”

“Hey, you’re all I have—no matter what happens, you always have to listen.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, I know. Don’t worry, when you do figure out that you love him, I’ll be here with an open ear.”

I poke his side. “Damn right, and you know it goes both ways. The listening ear, especially when it comes to looooove,” I draw out, making him roll his eyes.

“Don’t start with me.”

“What? You can harass me about my boss, but I can’t say anything about Palmer?”

“There is nothing to say.” He grips the steering wheel, as if he’s ready to drive off as quickly as he can to avoid the topic of Palmer Chance.

“You are such a liar, but that’s fine, that’s fine. It will all come out at some point.”

“Yes, it will all come out,” Beau says suggestively.

“You’ve lost it. Too many pierogis for you.” I open the door of his car. “Thank you for dinner, by the way. You didn’t have to pay—I am the older sibling, after all.”

“That doesn’t mean anything. And I’m trying to butter you up.”

“I told you: my job is in Denver. I’m not moving here.”

He sighs. “It’s because you’re in looooove.”

“I’m leaving now.” I get out of the car and then dip my head back in before shutting the door. “Text me, would love another dinner date with you.”

“I will, and good luck with whatever Ford needs. Hopefully it’s not anything to do with your obvious attraction to him.”

“You’re a family practice doctor, not a love doctor—now get out of here.”

He laughs as I shut the door. We both give each other a wave, and then I’m walking into the bed-and-breakfast with a little bit of pep in my step as I take the stairs and head straight for Ford’s room.

I’m concerned that the brunch didn’t go as well as he had hoped. His cryptic text message leads me to believe that I need to be prepared for an irritated Ford. Closed off, short, clipped—he doesn’t show that side of him very often, but when he does, it takes a while to calm him down. I might be in for a long night.

When I reach his door, I give it a few knocks.

“It’s open,” he calls.

I turn the knob and cautiously step inside. I scan the dimly lit room and find him over by the fireplace, sitting in a floral wingback chair, back curved, arms resting on his legs as he pokes at some burnt wood with a fire poker.