Unfinished Ex (Calloway Brothers, #2)(49)

Nicky: Now me. Makenna Kendall wants two more months of maternity leave, so they extended my contract through the end of the year.



Me: No shit? That’s great.



Eric nudges me. “What’s up? You win the lottery or something?”

I look up and raise a brow.

“You’re smiling from ear to ear, man.”

“It’s Nicky. She found out she’s going to be staying in town longer.”

“I guess that’s good. But you know that’ll make it even harder when she leaves.”

I stop walking. He doesn’t. His words sink in. Fuck. He’s right. But I don’t care. I want her for as long as I can have her.



Nicky: I’m glad you think so. See you tonight?



Me: Thought we’d try the whole lasagna thing again.



Nicky: Yum! You certainly know the way to a woman’s heart. Later.



I reread the text. Was that just a saying, or is there a deeper meaning?





Chapter Twenty



Nicky




In the break room, I stare at a picture on my phone, one I took a few days ago. He’s wearing the ring. As far as I know, he hasn’t taken it off since he got it. Some days I still can’t believe all this is happening, that we’ve spent the past month acting like teenagers falling in love.

But love is not a word either of us has said. Because maybe we both know once that happens, things get more complicated. Right now, life is good. Fulfilling. Easy. It’s like the old days before we were married. Before we had to become grown-ups and figure out adulting.

Brenton walks by with his lunch. “Handsome guy.”

“He’s my ex.”

He nods. “Have a few of those myself.”

“Except, I think he’s my boyfriend.”

“Well, now, that makes things a bit more complicated.”

I shake my head. “You have no idea.”

Brenton Carmichael appears on the five p.m., six p.m., and eleven p.m. weekday newscasts.

He’s our chief meteorologist and XTN’s longest-standing weather forecaster. And it shows. The lines creasing his forehead and face speak of decades of long hours, storm chasing, and endless reporting.

And his short mane of fully gray hair gives him that air of wisdom and grace. As I take him in, though, it dawns on me that if I ever make it to a position like his, I’m sure Barry would make me dye my hair, get Botox, and have lipo.

So unfair.

“You’re doing exceptionally well,” Brenton says. “I’ve watched many of your clips. I see good things for you ahead.”

I feel like I should jump up and down, high-five someone, or do a fist pump. But this is Brenton Carmichael. Doing any of those in front of him would make me look like a complete idiot, not to mention undermine the professionalism he just complimented me on. So while I’m about to burst at the seams, I control my enthusiasm and thank him kindly. “That’s some kudos coming from you.”

“You earned it, young lady. Keep up the good work.”

“Will do. I hear you’re on your way to California?”

“That’s why I’m here.” He slaps a paperback book against his palm. “Left my book here.

Needed it for the long flight.”

“Those poor firefighters. I did some field reporting on some during the wildfires in Arizona.”

“We’ll hold down the fort,” Tom Killian says, sweeping in behind us.

Tom is a weather anchor and senior meteorologist; not to be confused with chief meteorologist.

He’s second only to Brenton and appears on the weekday morning show, sometimes co-anchoring the third hour. Tom will be on standby to cover Brenton’s spots, and I’ll be on standby to cover Tom’s.

Basically, that means I’ll be on call for the rest of the week. But it also means I could get weekday airtime— on XTN—which would be amazing. Something else I have to contain my excitement over.

“Hey, Tom.”

He takes the seat next to me. “You two see the low-pressure system off Bermuda yet?”

“Doesn’t concern me,” Brenton says.

I was going to say I was watching it like a hawk, but now I feel it would make me seem stupid in front of two men who are considerably smarter than me. “Yeah, same,” I say, then mentally kick myself. I should be able to speak my mind. But I’m a visitor in their house.

Brenton leaves, Tom eats in silence, and I pack up my trash, vowing to actually have a damn opinion next time.



~



Truman’s Grocery is right next to the train station. Jaxon and I hadn’t made plans for tonight, but with my schedule this week up in the air, who knows when I’ll get another chance to make him dinner.

So I’m surprising him with a meal—all assuming the key hidden under the rock next to the third porch railing hasn’t been moved.

I’m inside the store perusing the packages of chicken when I see Regan Lucas and Ava Criss, both small-business owners on McQuaid Circle. They whisper to each other before approaching me.

Here we go.

“I heard a rumor,” Regan says.

“Surprise, surprise,” I say in a far too bitchy tone for someone visiting their stomping ground.