Cammie
What the ever-loving hell was I thinking? Since I returned from doing the afternoon show, Duke has not only driven me mad by critiquing where I put my groceries, but tidied my bathroom counter, and made himself at home in the living room with his shoes and belongings spread everywhere.
I check the time on the microwave display again and stare back out the kitchen window that overlooks the driveway. Jared’s due at any minute, and even though I’ve told Duke I’ve got a visitor and that I’d appreciate him keeping himself scarce for it, Jared’s not one to let a detail like a houseguest go without interrogation.
The polished black paintwork of Jared’s truck comes into view in the clearing between the trees. I pull a levelling breath as the vehicle approaches the house, and promptly parks in such a way as to block the driveway for anyone else. Typical Jared.
“That your guest?” Duke asks from my right.
I glance over to find him at the window beside the dining table, eyeballing the truck. “Yeah.”
He simply nods and backs away. “I’ll be out in the yard. Come get me when you’re done.”
“Thank you.”
He brushes it off with a flick of his hand as he heads for the hallway. The sound of Jared’s car door slamming shut sends me into a frenzy. I whip about the living room in a blur as I pick up any evidence of Duke I can find, and set his bag, shoes, and jacket in the corner, tucked behind the largest sofa. Hopefully, Jared will be so damn distracted with his own agenda, he won’t notice.
The echo of his knock on the front door jolts me out of my panic. I head into the entry, and suck another, less satisfying, deep breath as I reach for the handle to let him in. “Right on time.”
The arrogant bastard breezes past, a white portfolio tucked under one arm. “There’s something to be said for punctuality, Cam. You should try it.”
Arsehole.
“Make yourself at home,” I quip as he takes a seat on the sofa and spreads his papers out over the coffee table.
Ice-grey eyes meet my own. “I will, thanks, considering it’s still my home, too.”
I press my lips together and retreat into the kitchen to avoid saying something that really isn’t going to help my plight. With a crisp carton of juice in my hands, I return to take a seat opposite Jared, on the floor, and pop the straw into the foil-sealed hole.
“Fuck me, Cam.” He rolls his damn eyes at me. “You still drink those?”
I stare down at the carton in my hands, realising that I grabbed it without a second thought of how it looks. “I’m only one woman. A whole two-litre bottle takes me too long to get through.”
My lie convinces him no more than it does myself. We both know why I still drink from kids juice boxes.
Because I can’t let go.
“What are the choices?” I ask, doing my damnedest to divert the subject.
“Terry Searle, Bob Anderson, and a woman—Amanda.”
I close my eyes briefly, reopening them on the wall rather than looking at the man opposite me. Good to see some things never change; he still feels women are to be looked at and appreciated at face value, rather than used for their skills in the business world.
“Tell me about the woman.”
His jaw clenches. “She’s fresh on the job. You wouldn’t want her.”
“And yet, you brought her info along to show me.” I cock my head to the side and narrow my gaze on him. “Why?”
“She’s Kell’s step-sister.”
Bingo.
“Obligation is a bitch, isn’t it?”
I’m getting to him; I can tell. His hands track a path up and down his chino-clad thighs, his jaw firm as the tell-tale vein in his temple swells. Easy on, Cam. If I want a chance at him agreeing to my proposition, then I need to tamp back the attitude.
“I’ve heard of Bob,” I appease. “What’s the Terry guy like in your opinion?”
Jared drivels on for the next however long about this guy’s ranking in his company, the last few sales, and why he thinks that Terry is the man who can secure us a good price. Correction: secure Jared a good enough price. No amount would make me part with this property if I had final say in it.
It’s my home.
It’s where I left my heart, and I’m yet to get it back. I can’t go yet.
“Are you even listening?”
“Pardon?”
Jared eyes me cautiously. “You’ve got that faraway look.”
“I was listening.”
“But?” He laces his fingers, his elbows resting on his knees.
“But, I’ve been thinking the past few days, and what if we didn’t have to sell to separate completely?”
He frowns, thumbing his chin. “I don’t follow.”
“You don’t care about the money, right?”
“Not particularly, although I have plans for what I could do with it.” His frown deepens.
“What if I turned the place into a B&B, and the business paid you back what you invested over the course of the next five, ten years?”
“That’s a long loan, Cam.”
“I could even apply to the bank for it.”
“A mortgage on a mortgage?”
“A business loan.” I set my empty juice box down.
He sighs, pinching his nose with closed eyes as though I’m some child he can’t make head or tails of. “Two problems, Cam.” I feel scolded the second his eyes reopen on me with the tired frustration that I came to know well during our last few months living together. “One, I’d still know the money came from you, so that doesn’t really work as far as cutting ties completely.”
“Selling this house won’t erase who you were or what we had once,” I remind him.
“Two,” he snaps, frowning at my interruption. “I don’t think the bank would loan you that sum of money on the promise of a few stray vagabonds stopping through every so often. You’d need a solid business plan to convince them it would turn enough profit to cover the investment, and I’m sorry, but a cute villa in the middle of nowhere doesn’t really fit the bill.”
Fuck him and his concrete boots made for stomping on my dreams. I honestly thought it was a solid plan. Look at the popularity of sites like Airbnb. People jump at the chance for a weekend away in a quiet oasis.
He takes my silence as acceptance, and slides the realtor profiles across the table toward me. “Pick one, Cam.”
Naturally, I point to the woman. “Her.”
He slumps back in the seat in true dramatic Jared style. “Really?”
I nod.
“I’ll call Terry in the morning.” He bunches the papers up, ready to leave.
“No. You’ll call Amanda.”
His glare is enough to strip paint. “Terry.”
“Damn it, Jared.” I push violently to my feet, my hands fisted at my sides. “It’s my house, more than yours. I own the majority share of it, and I say pick Amanda. You don’t get to tell me what to do anymore. You gave up that right when you checked out of your responsibilities as a husband.” A tear tracks over my cheek, but I refuse to wipe it away. Let him see the damage he’d caused. Let him see what he does in the vain hope that somewhere in that cold heart of his it still beats red.
“I checked out?” he roars, stamping a fist to his chest. “Well, shit, Cam. I was simply following suit, since you’d long checked out of being a mother.”
“Get out.” My jaw aches from the pressure. “Get the fuck out of this house!”
He snatches the file with a flourish and storms from the room as my carefully contained guilt crashes forth over the walls of my denial in a tidal surge that the greatest engineer couldn’t have withheld.
I never checked out from my responsibilities as a mother. I might have failed our daughter, but fuck it all, I never stopped being her mamma. I loved her until that last breath, even as my own threatened never to come again. I still love her, and damn it, I’m still her mother. The love for a child doesn’t disappear after death. Some days, I believe it simply intensifies, until the ache of what is lost is all you can feel, hear, and taste.
My hand shakes so violently I can’t even hold my phone, let alone trust myself to tap my mother’s number to dial. All I want is to talk to somebody who I know will understand, someone who’ll have my back after that showdown. I need validation that Jared is being unfair, and that I have every right to fight to stay in the house that acts as a shrine to my greatest mistake.
“You okay?”
The whispered question takes me by surprise. I never heard Duke come back inside. I’d totally forgotten he was here.
“Not really.” I offer a pathetic smile as I sniff and wipe away my tears.
“Want to talk about it?” He crouches down beside where I’ve crumpled onto the sofa.
“Not right now.” He frowns as I pat his knee twice and push to my feet. “How about we decide what we’re having for dinner tonight? I don’t think scrambled eggs will cut it two nights in a row, huh?”
He watches as I absently wander through to the kitchen, confusion clear in his richly coloured eyes. “You know”—his lazy grin returns—“there is more than one way to cook an egg.”
I can’t hold it back—I laugh at his ridiculous comeback. “Yeah?”
“Poached, fried, hard-boiled. I could get real fancy and do a platter with the whole lot assorted on it.” He follows to where I am, taking a seat at the counter same as last night.
“As appealing as that sounds, we need to have a proper meal. It’s a grocery day ritual. Tell me you do it, too.”
“Do what?” He rests his elbows on the counter, which only serves to showcase how broad his shoulders are.
“Make the most of having fresh food and whip up a healthy feast.”
Duke shakes his head. “Afraid not. I’ll let you in on a secret.”
I lean in conspiratorially. “Tell me.”
He matches me, leaning over the counter as far as he can manage, to whisper, “I’m a lousy cook.”
“Well,” I announce, bouncing on the balls of my feet, “you’ve come to the right place, my friend. Because although I don’t have much in my cupboards usually, that doesn’t mean I don’t know how to whip up a feast.” I tug a wooden spoon from the drawer and point it at him. “Settle in, and watch a master at work.”