Page 16 of Ever With Me

The man grinned. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you wear that look on your brow . . . of a man who’s spent too long having to take care of himself without a soft place to land. A good woman gives you that.”

Ridiculous bullshit.

“You mean you think I look miserable?”

“Well, yes, but that’s not what I meant.”

“I’ve seen plenty of marriages that make men—and women—miserable.” Brooks checked his phone and started scrolling through his apps. Maybe the man would take the hint and quit the chatter.

“That’s because they didn’t marry a good person.” The old man shifted in his seat. “Believe me, I know. People have always told me their stories and secrets. What troubled them. Whether or not I wanted them to. That’s what you get when you tend bar for forty years. My wife says I have a gift for listening.”

Right now, the only gift this old geezer seemed to have was a gift for talking. “Huh,” Brooks muttered, keeping his gaze down.

“While you’re here, think of heading into town sometime. You never know. You might find a good woman there.”

Thisgood womantalk was getting old fast. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Brooks cleared his throat.

“I’m Peter, by the way.” He gave Brooks another glance. “Happy to take you fishing while you’re up at the lake, if you want. No problem that a few early morning hours in a fishing boat can’t solve.”

Brooks couldn’t keep the sardonic chuckle out of his throat this time. “I doubt that.”

“I’m serious.” Peter had a kind smile, even if he was clearly a dimwit.

Brooks crossed his arms. “So you’re telling me that if I spend two hours fishing, my massive career problems will magically disappear, my niece’s deadbeat dad will stop trying to use her existence for more money, and my car will fix itself?”

A few beats of silence followed, and Brooks almost bit his own damn tongue.How did this guy get me to spill all that?

Maybe he did have a gift for getting people to tell him their secrets.

Peter eyed him thoughtfully. “I didn’t say fix. I said solve.”

“Same difference.”

“No, that’s not true. Language has nuance.”

Brooks didn’t respond. He of all people should know the latter part, though. He was a lyricist. Maybe not with his last release, but even a few years back, he’d been considered the best at his game. No one dared argue with his sense of musicality, his compositions, or his lyrics.

A lump formed in his throat, and he took the break in conversation gratefully. The brief nap on Maddie’s couch had kept the beginnings of a migraine at bay, but his tiredness was overwhelming.

For his part, Peter didn’t say much more. He’d clearly gotten the hint, and he hummed to himself as he drove, the occasional crunch of a chip punctuating the silence, a slight smell of grease in the air each time he popped the can open.

The car slowed, and Brooks frowned as Peter put on his hazard lights and stopped. They were in the middle of the woods on a two-lane road.

His shoulders grew taut, his senses alert. “Are we almost there?”

“Almost.”

Was this the part where the kindly old man turned out to be a murderous psycho?

Peter opened his door and slipped out onto the road. Brooks watched as the man limped toward a blackish lump in the middle of the road, then bent over and lifted it. He carried it to the other side of the road, then wiped his hands on his jeans, smiling down as he said something Brooks couldn’t hear.

When he returned to the car, Peter settled into his seat. “Box turtle. The road’s not the best place for him to be.” He chuckled, his eyes lit with amusement. “Guess they like life in the fast lane sometimes. Damn things think a hard shell’s all they need to protect them.”

Oh.

Brooks said nothing as Peter started driving again.

After a few minutes, they turned into a gravel driveway, and Peter stopped in front of a small cabin in the woods. “This is it,” he said with a nod. “The Doyles’ fishing cabin.”

---