Shameless(24)

Brady reaches over, and Bella eagerly goes to her uncle. His eyes light up when he holds his niece.

“Hey, little muffin,” he teases. “Let’s give your Aunt Kat a break.”

My heart does a strange little trippy thing when he calls me Kat. It’s so familiar. Like we’re the oldest of friends. And I want us to be friends. I suspect any girl in her right mind would want to be friends with Brady.

Which makes me wonder what his life is like in Boston. If he has a girlfriend. Or girlfriends. Or hookups.

Ignoring the irrational bolt of jealousy that streaks through me, I kick at a large rock and watch it skitter across the ground. When I glance up, Brady brushes a wisp of hair out of the baby’s eyes and kisses her forehead, and I swear my ovaries throb. On one hand, Brady is gruff and rough around the edges, and on the other, there’s a tenderness about him that screams husband material.

Not for me. Obviously. But for some lucky girl in Boston.

I’m trying not to swoon at the sight of this spectacularly hot guy holding a baby when he hands me his pad of paper and asks me to take notes. I’m finding he really likes to take notes. Every phone call he’s taken this morning is scribbled down in his notepad. The man likes a record of everything. Cal was never that organized. Which makes me wonder what Brady does for a living. I know he’s helping with his father’s company, but I get the impression there’s a lot more to him.

I shouldn’t be nosy, but I really want to know what’s underneath that tough exterior.

Not to mention under those faded jeans.





16





Brady





We’ve been walking around the property for forty-five minutes. It’s hot as hell for November. I’m wearing a t-shirt and sweating my balls off. And Jesus Christ, Izzy is getting heavy—my arm went numb twenty minutes ago.

I brush a kiss over her forehead and pull the wide-brimmed hat a little lower over her face so she doesn’t get too much sun. When I glance over at Katherine, she’s giving me the strangest look. It’s one of those tender expressions she’s been shooting my way whenever I hold my niece. If I’m being honest, it makes me uncomfortable.

I can see it in her sweet expression. It’s that oh-he’s-such-a-good-guy look. Which I’m not. I would’ve resolved that shit with my brother long ago if I were.

Averting my eyes, I push ahead on our trek. Kat explains which parts of the farm need what. The chicken coop needs re-roofing and re-wiring. The area of the barn where the lavender is hung to dry is too damp. The back field floods.

Jesus. Fucking. Christ.

I damn near hyperventilated when she mentioned that farmers’ fair.

But everything gets worse when we turn along a creek that runs adjacent to the property. Katherine comes to an abrupt halt and stares down the riverbed, a haunted expression on her face.

Mud covers all of the tree trunks along the banks to a height of about four feet. Watermarks from a flood.

My mouth goes dry.

It must have happened here.

As I stare down the nearly dry creek bed, I can’t swallow.

“Katherine,” I mutter. “Let’s go.”

Her head snaps toward me, and for a half second, I almost reach out a hand to steady her. She’s white as a sheet. She blinks once, twice, and then, like she’s on autopilot, reaches for the baby and tucks Izzy to her chest before she treks back to the house.

I think about it the rest of the day. The flooded creek bed, deserted like a tornado swept through and sucked out all the water.

Katherine and I are quiet all evening, only saying the most essential things to feed Izzy and get her to bed. If I feel tortured by what I saw today, I can only imagine what she’s feeling. But I can’t bring myself to say anything to comfort her, because as much as I want to, she’d reciprocate. She’d try to make me feel better—it’s what she’s done since I arrived—and I don’t f*cking deserve it. Because deep down, I feel like I abandoned my brother, and that realization, that awareness, guts me.

So I do what I can to make things right. I accept the grief. Welcome it with open arms.

But I feel bad that I can’t be there for Katherine.

At night, she and I bump around each other in our own private little hell, like two stars that orbit a black hole, both afraid to move in the wrong direction.

At one point, Izzy stirs, but when I peek into her room, Katherine is already there. For hours, I hear the rocking chair creek on the hard wood floor. I wonder if she’s obsessing about her last interactions with Cal the way I am. Even the smallest things seem momentous now. Death does that. Sticks everything under a magnifying glass and makes each scratch or cut feel like a gaping wound.

The next morning, it’s obvious neither of us slept, but we don’t discuss it.

Instead, I talk to my dad before surgery. I shovel out shit from the barn and chicken coop. I finish two landscaping estimates via email. I stare at the itemized funeral arrangements, resigned to the fact that I’ll be broke soon.

The best laid plans...

Around noon, a soft knock on the office door interrupts me, and I look up to see those golden eyes.

Katherine drops off a sandwich, and when she’s almost out the door, I blurt it out. “Did Cal or Melissa ever discuss selling the farm?”

She freezes, her arm on the door frame. She shakes her head no, with obvious disappointment in her expression. When she doesn’t say anything, just walks out, I have the irrational desire to yell after her and ask her what the hell my options are. I want her to understand the f*cked-up position I’m in. Jose has my dad’s business under control for now, but I’m hemorrhaging cash like a broken ATM.