Page 14 of Holiday Hire

"Just what I wrote. And thanks for picking me up," I hurl out, crawling under my covers, angry he chose to party instead of picking me up at the airport. I've been gone several days. It's clear he didn't miss me. Plus, we agreed before I left he would pick me up.

"I told you I forgot. It's not a big deal," he whines, right as a girl's voice cuts through the line saying, "Lance, your turn. Spin it."

My heart pounds harder. I demand, "Spin what?"

He ignores my question, then states, "I have to go. We'll discuss this later, but don't be dramatic, Phoebe. Your place is here, with me, not Texas."

I scoff. "Here with you? You can't even pick me up at the airport!"

He groans. "Jesus, woman. The drama needs to end. It's not a big deal. Besides, you're the one who wanted to run off to Texas and leave me all weekend. What did you want me to do? Sit at home by myself, missing you? That's not fair, now is it?"

So he did miss me?

Not much if he didn't show up.

Am I really not being fair to him?

He adds, "You don't know what it was like all weekend with you gone."

A feeling of pissed-off guilt floods me. Lance always has a way of initiating mixed emotions within me, and tonight is no different.

Before I can say another word, he adds, "I'll make it up to you that I wasn't at the airport. Go to sleep, and I'll see you tomorrow." He hangs up before I can reply.

Upset, I attempt to call him back, but he sends me to voicemail, which only enrages me further. I scream into my pillow, feeling a bit crazy, and toss my phone on the nightstand.

It's never been clearer that Lance and I need a break. Texas seems like a better idea with every minute that drags by. Any debate I had about dealing with Alexander and the headaches he's sure to create, disappears.

3

Alexander

Three Days Later

Mom shouts, "Alexander, it's time to pick up Phoebe!"

Anger resurfaces, and I groan. I point to Calypso, the horse I've been training the last few weeks, and order Jagger, "Run him again."

"Have fun on your excursion," he mocks.

"Have your fun while you can, little brother. Mom's going to focus on you next."

He grunts. "No way."

"She will. Your day is coming," I caution, knowing that my single brothers will be on the chopping block next. If my mother had her way, each of her eight children would be married with a dozen kids.

Plus, Mason's thirty and Jagger's twenty-eight. Knowing my mother, she'll soon turn her sights on them, relentlessly trying to fix them up with any single girl around. So soon enough, she'll give up on me and realize I'm telling the truth—I can handle the boys on my own. I don't need a wife or a nanny.

Clara's face pops into my mind, and I internally cringe. It's been eight years, and it still hurts. The sting has faded, but the memories of cancer treatments and watching the only woman I've ever loved—the mother of my children—shrink away to barely anything but skin and bones, still haunt me.

Images of my young boys fill my mind, especially Wilder, who was only two years old and watched his mother deteriorate. He was young, but he still remembers it.

Ace was only an infant. All the fears and grief I had while rocking him to sleep on nights my mother and sisters didn't, reappear.

I reiterate to myself,I'm never getting married again.

Jagger snickers. "You better get moving."

I swallow the lump in my throat, hating how the bad memories sneak up on me at strange times. I mutter, "I'm remembering this when Mom sets her focus on you." I spin and stomp toward the truck.

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