More Than I Could (17)

“What?”

I pop open the door before looking at him.

His eyes are foggy as if a storm is rolling through them. He lets his arms hang at his sides, and his jaw slips.

Why do you have to be such a dick?

At first, this situation was entertaining. Riling him up was fun and watching him squirm made my day. But now? Now that I’ve seen Maggie again, hugged Lonnie, and met Kennedy—it’s not such a joking matter. And neither is the bullshit he was saying about not trusting me.

Because it is bullshit. I don’t know why he doesn’t want me here, but that’s not it.

And it’s not my problem.

I wait for him to explain why he stopped me, but he doesn’t.

“It was nice to meet you,” I say, climbing into my car.

“Wait.”

I sigh, resting my head on the headrest. I squeeze my eyes closed for a second. “What do you want, Chase?”

“I think things got away from us today.”

“You think?”

“Yeah.”

But it doesn’t change anything.

“Look, I’m going back to my hotel,” I say. “I’ll tell your mom tonight that I can’t do this. I’ll take the blame.”

“Oh, she’ll put the blame where it’s due regardless of what you tell her.”

I can’t do anything about that.

I smile at the handsome man despite my irritation with his behavior. “Good luck to ya.”

Then I close the door, turn my car on, and back out of the driveway.

As my tires hit the gravel, my stomach twists into a tight knot.

I need to walk away from this whole thing.

I know that. Hell, I want that.

So why does it feel like a loss?

I shrug and press harder on the gas pedal.

Good luck to me, too.





Chapter Seven





Chase




Mom stands as I walk in and shoots me a dirty look.

“What are you looking at me like that for?” I ask, the words coming out snippy.

“She better come back.”

I glance around the room as I barrel my way to the refrigerator.

Mom trails me across the kitchen. “Want to know why I’m looking at you like this? It’s because I’m excited to hear about your plan. You just ran off your help for the next four weeks, so I’d love to know how you plan on finding someone to cover for me. I leave on Monday morning, you know.”

Yeah, I know.

I wish it didn’t have to be this way—that I didn’t need to rely on people to make things work. And if Kennedy wasn’t freshly fourteen and had a greater sense of her own mortality, I might chance it. But she’s making emotional decisions, seems to think she’s immortal, and I’m waiting on the call that I’m back on the traveling crew again. I would never leave her overnight or for days at a time. No fucking way. She’s never been alone one night, as a matter of fact.

I take the orange juice out of the refrigerator and pour myself a glass. I need something to do and drinking a glass of juice is the only thing I can do that I won’t regret later.

“I’ll figure something out,” I mumble.

“You better figure something out.”

“Where’s Kennedy?” I ask, not wanting to have this discussion in front of her.

“She went with your father down to the lake.”

The drink is sweet and smooth as it slides down my throat. But, unfortunately, it does nothing to help dissipate the heat and frustration inside me—frustration at myself more than anything.

My heart pumps so hard that the pulse is evident in my neck.

“You know,” Mom says, straightening the toaster, “I would understand if she was a stranger. And I know you don’t know her. I get that. But do you think I would allow someone who might hurt or neglect Kennedy in any way into this house?”

I hang my head.

“I love that little girl just as much as you do, Chase.”

Dammit.

“Mom, I know,” I say, sighing before my gaze rises to hers. “I know you do. I didn’t mean to insinuate that you didn’t.”

She shoves a hip into a cabinet and crosses her arms over her chest. Then she does the one thing I hate more than anything else—the Mom guilt look.

Three seconds of that stare has me backtracking. I hope I have that kind of power with Kennedy someday.

“I’m sure …” I clear my throat. “I’m sure Megan is great.”

In so many ways.

“She’s wonderful, Chase. So smart and kind—and she won’t be bowled over by Kennedy.”

I believe that.

Mom sighs. “I don’t know what all that was about with Megan, Chase, but you need to get your head on straight. Megan is exactly what your daughter needs right now. Someone young, someone fun—someone to model herself after.” She shoves off the cabinet. “That polish brand that Kennedy was talking about? Megan was the head color designer there for several years.”

Was she? I set my glass on the counter.

“She’s been around the world,” Mom says. “She’s met people and seen things. And she’s willing to come into your house and help your child for a month.” She snorts. “She doesn’t need this shit, Chase. But she’s doing it for her mom. For me. For you.”