Shameless(46)

She slides down my body, and I wrap my arms around her as I push my nose into her hair. We stand there in an embrace, and I feel her nod. “I’m sorry I overreacted. You didn’t deserve my tirade.”

“No, I’m pretty sure I did.”

When she leans back to stare up at me, I’m surprised by the emotion I have for her. Then she places her small hand on my chest and gives me a sad smile. “Brady, I know you’re leaving. And I don’t expect anything from you. If you really don’t want this, I’ll understand.”

I start to protest, and she puts a finger over my lips. “Why don’t you think about it? If you want this”—she motions between us—“for the time you’re here, I’m a willing participant. If you don’t, that’s okay too. But know that I’m under no delusion. You don't have to worry—I'm not going to fall in love with you. You won’t break my heart. I get that this is no more than just two friends comforting each other before you leave.”

Then she steps up on her tiptoes to kiss my cheek and walks away.

But maybe her heart isn’t the only one I’m worried about.





29





Katherine





I can see the indecision on Brady’s face every time he looks at me. You’d think this would be a good thing, but it’s not. It’s torture. I laid it out there for him, friends with benefits—something I’ve never done before—and he still keeps a good three feet between us whenever we talk.

Hi, I’m Katherine Duran, and I’m a charter member of the Shameless Club.

But I see him watching me. Looking at my mouth, mostly. And sometimes, he winces like he’s in actual pain.

I don’t want to do this to him. I’m dying myself, but I’m not gonna beg. Hell, no. I said my piece. Told him to think about it, and clearly he is.

Apparently, shamelessness has its limits.

If there’s any bright lining, it’s that I went after what I wanted. I told him how I felt, and now the ball is in his court. Coming here to Mel’s farm has always been about figuring out what I want in life. Brady is one of those things, even if it’s just short term.

For the last two nights, we didn’t watch TV together after I put the baby down. He went to his room, and I went to mine where I tossed and turned. Eventually, I ended up in Izzy’s room on the couch. I don’t like sleeping alone, not since Mel’s accident, and at least in the baby’s room I have some company, even if she’s asleep.

Tonight, Brady and I are doing the same awkward dance around each other, and it’s so painful, I have half a mind to go home to Corpus. But Thanksgiving is tomorrow. I don’t think he even realizes it. And while I’m not enjoying the tension, I don’t want him and Izzy to be alone during the holiday. Besides, the social worker is coming next week, and I know he needs help preparing for her visit.

From the other side of the kitchen, I watch him work at the table, my skin heating when I remember what it was like to be together. What it was like to have his lips on my skin.

I clear my throat. “I was planning to make a roasted chicken tomorrow with a cornbread stuffing and mashed potatoes. I thought I could pick up a pie from work in the morning. Is that okay?”

He looks up from an impressive spread of invoices and bills. “Sure,” he says hesitantly, confusion written all over his scruffy face.

“Since tomorrow is Thanksgiving.” I answer the question he doesn’t know how to ask.

He closes his eyes and nods, running a hand through his thick hair. “Well, that makes sense.”

My eyebrows lift, and he continues. “Jose said something on the phone this morning about not working tomorrow, and I thought he was sick or had an appointment or something, but now I’m feeling pretty stupid.”

I chuckle and head into the pantry to get the ingredients for the cornbread. “I would make a turkey, but big birds kinda scare me. I’m always afraid of undercooking them, and I’m sure the last thing you want is salmonella.”

When I put down the armload of seasonings and cornmeal on the kitchen counter, I feel him staring again. Ignoring his presence, I get out a bowl and butter a pan.

“Kat.”

“Hmm?” I resist the urge to turn around. I know this recipe by heart. It was my grandmother’s. Cornmeal, raisins, cranberries, nuts…

He says my name again, and I glance over my shoulder.

His voice is gruff. “You don’t need to do this. You don’t have to make anything special. I could pick up some dinner so you don’t have to cook.” He groans. “You do too much as it is.”

Why this makes me want to tear up, I’m not sure, but I return to my bowl and start measuring and pouring. It’s hard not to wonder who takes care of Brady when he’s back home. Who makes sure he gets a home-cooked dinner? Who brews his coffee in the morning? Who makes sure he doesn’t work too hard?

I know I sound like some nineteen-fifties woman, but my family is very traditional, and if I’m being honest, I like taking care of Brady. Which is a little shocking. Because I didn’t feel this way with my ex.

But with Brady, every female instinct is dialed up. I want to take care of him. Feed him. Love him. Even if it’s only physical. And even if it has an expiration date.