In the Weeds (Lovelight #2)(77)

I sit up in the bed and stare at the cats cuddled up around me, a stack of Beckett’s neatly folded sweaters on a chair in the corner. The job is half-remote office work, half-traveling to small businesses around the country. Not all that different from what I’m doing now. It would mean—I would have some flexibility as to where I stay. I would have options.

Inglewild-shaped options.

Beckett-shaped options.

“Jo Jo,” I whisper. “Am I crazy for thinking about this?”

“The job?”

“The job, yeah. Also—” I gather some of my courage. “This place. Inglewild. I think I want to stay.”

It’s the secret I’ve been holding in my heart for the last couple of weeks. Nowhere has ever felt like such a perfect fit. It’s not just Beckett. It’s the friendly call of my name as I walk down the street. It’s the same order every Wednesday from Matty’s pizza. It’s knowing the exact steps to take down the side street and through the park to make it to the cafe before the morning rush.

Comfort.

Familiarity.

A home.

She sighs out, long and slow. I’m grateful she’s thinking about it and not blurting out mindless reassurances. But then again, that’s Josie.

“You’ve been struggling for a while now. What you’ve been doing isn’t working for you anymore, and that’s okay.” I haven’t touched my social accounts since my last little video, ignoring all of the comments and tags and posts. I am … more than okay with that. “So I think if this new path feels good, then it is good. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to stay. When’s the last time you wanted to stay somewhere?”

I rack my brain for the last time I felt this content. This settled. I can’t think of a single time.

I pick up my flower from the nightstand and twirl it between my fingers. “We’ll have a lot to do to tie up loose ends.” My mental to-do list appears, gathering items like raindrops in a bucket. I frown, a thought occurring. “We wouldn’t work together anymore.”

“Like you could get rid of me,” she says quietly. Fondly. “Plus, I’d like to remind you that the man has a tattoo just below his collarbone. I’d have questions if you didn’t want to stay.”





CHAPTER NINETEEN





BECKETT





“Stop smiling like that,” Barney snaps from the passenger side of the flatbed truck, his arms crossed over his chest and a bag full of snacks from the last gas station resting on his knee. The man has consumed more Honey Buns in 48-hours than anyone has a right to. “You look like a maniac.”

“I’m not even smiling,” I tell him.

Barney sinks further in his seat, his head against the window. His hand reaches for his plastic-wrapped heart attack. “Might as well be.”

The bed of the truck is filled with one-hundred-and-eighty-three Douglas Fir saplings. I know this because Barney insisted on counting them twice, loudly and in front of the people who mistakenly received our shipment.

“I still think those Lovebright people were up to something,” Barney grouches around a mouthful of processed sugar. “I don’t trust maple syrup farmers.”

I tap my fingers on the steering wheel. It was pure coincidence that our names were so close, though I do have questions for our supplier. I gave him our address three times, and it’s printed on the invoice we already paid. “They didn’t just harvest maple syrup. They had apples, too.”

“My point remains. I watched a documentary on the underground syrup trade. Apparently there’s a whole black market. Gang activity.”

I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. “What’s gotten into you?”

He mumbles something.

“What?”

He shifts in his seat and gives me a look, debating. I raise both eyebrows in encouragement. We have another three hours left of this drive, and I’m not thrilled about the prospect of listening to Barney hem and haw over there like he’s sitting on a seat made out of metal spikes. “I like you better when you’re a grumpy ass,” he finally says in a rush.

That was not what I expected. “What?”

“You’ve been humming for six hours,” Barney seethes, biting off another giant mouthful. “Are you aware of that?”

I was not aware of that. I had no idea, actually.

“The radio in this thing is broken, and you have been humming for six. Hours. Straight.” He slouches back down in his seat. “Driving me up a damn wall.”

I rub my palm over my jaw and keep quiet. I’ve had an old Tom Petty song stuck in my head since I left Evie tucked beneath my blankets, the kittens crowded around her and a flower from the greenhouse woven in her hair. I didn’t realize I’d been humming.

“Your dad does the same shit,” Barney complains, digging around in his bag of snacks. He pulls out some pretzels and sour watermelon gummies, offering me the latter. I shake my head. Those things make my tongue feel like a wool sweater. “Always humming something.”

“Yeah?”

“Mmhmm. He once did the whole soundtrack to Grease for a week straight, on a loop. He said it was my punishment for having an opinion.”

“What was your opinion?”