CHAPTER EIGHT
By eight o’clock, everyone was starving, so Art and I did a food run to the local grocery where he practically bought out the store. Then we had to schlep all the bags inside and help was in short supply. Before we’d left, my father had commandeered Jackson for a chat, and they were nowhere to be found. Lane seemed more interested in directing the process than actually carrying anything, so it was all on me and Art.
It was hot outside. Very hot. Like a camera crew should be following me from Survivor kind of hot. At some point, I gathered my hair up in a ponytail, shelved my complaints, and trudged to the car yet again. I felt like we were lugging groceries up Mount Kilimanjaro, only there was no kindly Sherpa assisting me, just my sister telling us what we were doing wrong.
Apparently, in Lane’s world, there was only one way to bring in groceries. That way included bringing the milk and ice cream in first and throwing them in the refrigerator so fast I was tempted to yell “Hot Potato!” as I did it. Her way also included cradling any and all bread and egg products like infants taken from an incubator.
By the time we finished, I was close to pulling out my hair by the roots. Or hers. No, definitely hers. Grocery shopping was for the birds. And bringing in the groceries should be reserved for some sort of prison work-release program.
I grabbed a paper towel off the mounted dispenser and mopped my face with it. Then I dipped it under the sink and let cool water run over it before putting it on my neck. “Thank God we’re finished,” I said, waving a hand over my face.
“Think again,” Art said cheerily. “Time to cook. We’re making lemon pepper chicken. And mac and cheese.”
“I hate you,” I said with a sigh. “But I love mac and cheese.”
“Good. Hate me while you’re shredding cheese.”
At least I could sit while I did it. After I washed my hands, I flopped down on a bar stool. I glared at him as he pushed a few blocks of cheddar and a tiny cheese grater my way. Not a full-sized cheese grater. A tiny one. When he gave me a cheery little salute, I flipped him the bird.
He watched me grating for a minute, and I finally sent him a questioning look in return. “What?”
“I told Adam you’d be here.”
That bastard was giving me a twitch. “Just so you know? I like my bad news with some kind of pie. Cherry is good.”
“He kept saying he wanted to see you. I thought maybe—”
“He’s engaged,” I said flatly. “And even if he wasn’t, there’s nothing left between us.”
He shrugged. “That’s fine. He just seemed so…” He sighed. “Anyway, I am sorry.”
“I have plenty of time to get you back.” I popped a piece of cheese in my mouth that hadn’t shredded properly. “But don’t worry, I won’t kill you until I make you a custom toe tag. You’re my brother—I owe you that at least.”
He blew out a breath, pushing his hair back from his face. The thick, wavy strands promptly fell right back. “Well, Adam won’t shut up about you. How was I to know you were dating someone?” His eyes were accusing. “You never tell me anything.”
“You’re never around to tell,” I said before I could think about it.
The only noise in the kitchen was the soft swish of cheese falling on the plate. Suddenly, his hand was on mine, stilling the motion. When I looked up, his eyes were serious and filled with regret. “I’m sorry about that. Every time I come home, I don’t know…it’s never like it used to be and…” He bit his lip, clearly unable to articulate what we both felt so acutely.
“I know.”
“But I’m still here for you. And Lane and Dad. Only a phone call, and I’m here.”
“I know that, too.”
He held my hand for another second before sighing and letting me go. He headed back over to the stove to check his noodles. And because he was a Winters, and a Winters can never leave well enough alone, he got nosy. “So what’s the deal with this Jackson guy?”
I popped another piece of cheese in my mouth. I realized I was eating more cheese than I was shredding, and made peace with it. “He’s just a guy I’m dating.”
“Where’d you meet this guy?”
“At a party with some friends. He’s Julian’s brother.” As he narrowed his eyes at me, I insisted. “You know Julian.”
“I know Julian,” he agreed. “I don’t know Jackson.”
“You don’t need to know Jackson,” I said around a piece of sharp cheddar. “I know Jackson.”
We stared at one another, him trying to break me and me trying not to blink. My eyes were getting itchy but I kept them nice and wide. His eyes narrowed a pinch. “Why haven’t we heard about him until now?”
“We haven’t been dating all that long.”
“How long is long?”
I didn’t want to specify. Mostly because I couldn’t remember what Jackson and I agreed upon. “Long enough,” I hedged.
“How much do you really know about this guy?”
“Christ on a crutch.” I sent him a scowl. “Want me to leave and come back to give you time to set up a proper torture rack?”
“No,” he said after thinking for a moment. “I’m about to make my roux and I want you to finish the damned cheese.”
“You’re so annoying.”
He snorted. “More annoying than when we saw the Avengers and you talked like Thor the entire night?”
I waved my grater in his direction threateningly. “Speak thy foul utterings again, peasant, and you shall face my wrath.”
“Dear God, not again.”
“I shall grate thy salty cheese no more.”
“AJ—”
“Mjolnir!” I shouted, screwing my eyes shut. I waggled my fingers as I waited for my mighty hammer to come winging out of nowhere.
He swatted my hand back down, but his eyes twinkled merrily. “I’ll do anything. Just make it stop.”
I handed him the grater with a satisfied smile. A few moments later, the kitchen was abuzz with activity, and he had no more time to send me resentful glares over his simmering roux. Lane and Rick came in and he put them to work—Lane on poultry patrol and Rick on the dishes. I racked my brain to figure out where I would be most helpful, and came up with sitting on my ass on a barstool, sipping an Arnold Palmer.
I wasn’t prepared for the strong arms that suddenly wound around me from behind. My nose twitched pleasantly as I caught a whiff of pine-scented soap and something that was simply Jackson. I got a better sniff when he leaned in and dropped a brief kiss dropped on my shoulder. I tried to look stoic and unaffected, but the rough brush of his five o’clock shadow against my skin gave me an involuntary shiver.
By the time he finally stepped back, the fool had given me goosebumps. Actual goosebumps. I got a good look at him and scowled. While I had been climbing K2 with a watermelon and a case of Arizona iced tea on my back, apparently Jackson had been somewhere working on becoming a GQ model. His appearance matched his sexy smell, from the jeans that clung to his long legs and rode low on his hips, to the soft, tan, chambray shirt. I would have been a liar to say I didn’t find him ridiculously sexy.
When I looked at him wide-eyed, he sent me a wink. That wink said show time. Right. I shook my head, trying to clear the fog that seemed to come over me any time Jackson put his hands on me. The man was trying to help me out and here I was blowing it already.
I scrambled to think of something to say. It had to be something nice. Something that a caring, considerate girlfriend would say after seeing her boyfriend freshly showered, changed and well-rested.
“Where the hell have you been?” I demanded. “I’m pretty sure I busted something internal lugging in groceries.”
“I had a chat with your father and he gave me the grand tour. Then I took a quick shower to get the road dust off me. Sorry.” He sent me an evil little grin. He wasn’t the least bit sorry.
Luckily, I was too distracted by what he’d said to kick up static. “My father?”
“Yeah.”
“John Winters.”
“Uh huh.”
“About six-one, salt and pepper hair?” Art peered at Jackson with a skeptical expression.
“Yep.”
Art and I shared a glance and then shrugged. Our father wasn’t really the “let me give you a tour” type. He was more of the “maybe you’d be more comfortable at a Holiday Inn Express” type. Before we could address this anomaly any further, Jackson went over to the fridge and pulled out a beer. And before we could say a word, he popped the top.
We all gasped. It was like watching someone go in a barrel over the edge of Niagara Falls—you knew he wasn’t going to make it, but you couldn’t help but watch the lunacy. Opening my father’s beer? His Black Note Stout, bourbon craft beer that was only released in the winter months? The way he hoarded that beer, I was pretty sure the crafting process took place in the belly of an enchanted leprechaun and was packaged with a dragon’s single tear.
Damn. It was unfortunate, but to avoid guilt by association, I was going to be a stool pigeon and dime Jackson out immediately. I shook my head regretfully as he took a long pull from the black bottle. God, he was so young and way too pretty to die.
“We’re not allowed to drink his beer,” Art informed him with a ‘nice knowin’ ya’ expression.
I was mentally organizing a prayer vigil for him in my head when Jackson said off-handedly, “He told me I could.”
We all gaped at him for a moment, processing that information. He might as well have told us a mule was in the living room wearing trousers.
Lane recovered first, shaking her head. “Clearly I’m in the Twilight Zone,” she muttered as she went back to prepping chicken.
“I’m not allowed to even look at that beer,” Rick said mournfully. “And I’ve been in this family for years. I gave that man grandchildren.”
“I gave that man grandchildren,” Lane corrected. “And I’m not allowed to drink it.”
Jackson raised an eyebrow. “Do any of you have a client who can get your girlfriend’s father season tickets to the Heat?”
“No.”
He grinned. “Well, maybe you should.”
Well, that certainly explained it. Generally, my father had no affinity for the men I’d dated—not that I’d brought many home. He always found some reason not to approve of them. I was convinced the only reason Adam had made it through the dragnet was because of his love of sports, and that had still taken a good two years before my father had warmed up to him. And he still wasn’t allowed to drink my father’s beer. Less than an hour in Jackson’s company, and my father was ready to marry me off.
I muttered so that only he could hear, “You can turn down the Mr. Wonderful act a bit.”
He waggled his eyebrows at me and took another swig of the enchanted beer. “If only I could.”
*
Art shooed us out of “his” kitchen as he finished fixing dinner, and we all migrated toward the living room. We decided to do something useful. Productive. We came to a group consensus that our useful and productive activity would involve hooking up the Wii, and firing up one of the sports games. We grabbed nunchucks and rackets and commandeered the big TV in the living room.
I was schooling Jackson on the finer points of a down home ass whoopin’ and why, exactly, I should be selected for the next Wimbledon tournament, when my father ambled through. After clearing his throat several times and being soundly ignored, he finally sighed and jabbed a finger on the pause button on the remote. We all looked at him like he’d lost his ever lovin’ mind.
He cleared his throat, ignoring four identical glares. “I’m glad you’re all down here.”
Lane shook her racket at him. “We’re kind of busy here.”
“It’ll keep.”
“Wimbledon waits for no one,” she informed him.
“Hush, or I’ll pull out the plug.”
The old man meant business, and I held up my hands, palms out, like this was a hostage situation. “What do you want?”
He glanced around. “Where’s your brother?”
“In the kitchen,” I supplied. “He’s making us dinner.”
“I wanted to talk to you guys.”
When Irene came bustling down the stairs, I started getting a gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach. Since when did they need to talk to all of us jointly? Nothing good came out of joint discussions. Usually someone was moving, getting in trouble, or getting a divorce, and since none of those applied—
Irene clapped her hands, interrupting my thoughts. She beamed and said, “We’re getting married, kids!”
Married? My mother had only been gone for a few years. How could he possibly be getting…married? In the resounding complete silence, a bell went off in the kitchen. A few moments later, Art shouted, as polite and genteel as ever, “Dinner!”
Apparently in Irene’s world, complete silence was a sign of joy. She chattered on, completely ignoring the fact that no one had said a word in at least a full minute. “I know you kids thought this was just a birthday celebration, but John and I figured, why not kill two birds with one stone? It’ll be more economical than you guys having to travel all the way back.”
The room was a rictus of frozen faces. I looked at my sister and she looked about as pale as I probably did. But someone should say something, anything, to break the Godawful silence—
Art popped his head in the door, face flushed from the heat of the kitchen, dark hair mussed. “My lemon pepper chicken is best served hot. What’s keeping you guys?”
“Marriage,” Lane muttered. “Dad is getting married.”
Art blinked, letting go of the swinging door so that it whacked him in the face. “Ouch!” He grabbed the door with one hand and absently rubbed at his abused eye with the other. “Dammit. What did you say?”
“Married,” Lane said again, loud enough this time for the hearing impaired.
When in doubt, speak as a parrot does. “Married?” Art repeated.
“Married,” I confirmed grimly.
Sweet Jesus, you’d think we hadn’t ever had a functional conversation in life. A room full of graduate degrees and we could only come up with five words between the three of us.
“Congratulations, you two.” Jackson finally stepped in, sending us all a curious look, probably wondering what to do when three people suffered a simultaneous stroke. He juggled his nunchuk and racket into one hand and shook my father’s hand with the other. “I haven’t known you two all that long, but it’s always wonderful to find someone who makes you happy.”
My father gave him a half-smile. “I appreciate that, son.”
“Yes. Congratulations,” I finally blurted, relieved to finally have control over my vocal cords again. “To you both.”
“Yes,” Lane agreed, almost desperate to jump on my train of thought. “So, so, so happy for you guys.”
I tried to come up with something else. “We’re just thrilled.”
Lane tried her best to help. “Overjoyed,” she said, a touch too loudly.
All right, so we were laying it on a little thick. I looked at Art, who was still staring at our father. Since I was too far to elbow him, I cleared my throat loudly. “You said something about lemon pepper chicken?”
It wasn’t the first time I’d used poultry to defuse a situation, and I was pretty sure it wouldn’t be the last.