Page 38 of Star-Crossed
“Has anyone seen Darrell?” Myrtle appeared in the doorway, a champagne glass in hand and concern pinching her always-animated features.
Cy glanced at the now-empty paddock where he’d seen the three-legged llama pastured when he was chasing his nephew, Daniel, around.
“I sure haven’t,” he said, earning mumbled agreement from Marty and Ethan.
“I swear, that wooly tripod doesn’t know how good he has it.” Myrtle blew out an exasperated breath. “And don’t you light those smelly things on my front porch,” she said, darting a mock-serious scowl at Marty. “They stink to high heaven.”
Ethan, Marty, and Cy looked at the army of bright pink Shit Shacks down the hill, then back to each other.
“Of course not,” Marty said, pocketing his lighter with deft sleight of hand. “We were just going to go for a walk down by the garden, weren’t we, boys?”
Cy could think of about eighty things he’d rather do—to Lyra, mostly—but rose on his complaining knee and followed anyway. Probably wise to get some physical real estate between them until he’d taken several cold showers.
“What you got there?” Marty asked, his attention fixed on the bucket swinging from Ethan’s hand.
“Pumpkin porter,” Ethan said. “Want one?” Condensation dripped from the base as he lifted it.
“That reminds me. I tried your new spiced cider stout the other day, and—” Cy’s father whistled as he knocked the cap off on his horseshoe-shaped belt buckle. “Wasthatgood.”
Ethan glanced over his shoulder, catching Cy’s notice and giving him an eyeroll.
And just that one shared moment of covert criticism was enough to evaporate Cy’s lingering doubt like the sun burning off fog.
The rush of gratitude he felt for Ethan was as immediate and intense as it had been the day Townsend Harbor’s golden son jumped into a fight he hadn’t even started. He had quite literally had Cy’s back.
So how could Cy still suspect Ethan of maintaining their friendship out of a sense of civic duty after all this time? What kind of dick did that make him?
“Trust me, you won’t be disappointed.” Marty lightly punched Ethan’s shoulder and cut the end of his cigar before cupping a lighter to the tip as Ethan puffed it into life. “Careful. One spark and this whole place could go up.”
The spicy-sweet smell of tobacco filled Cy’s nose as he tried to tune out their conversation.
“Speaking of doing well,” Marty said, grinning proudly at Ethan. “I hear your lady friend’s coffee business is going franchise.” The creases at the corners of his dark eyes deepened.
“Yep.” Ethan exhaled a silky scarf of bluish vapor into the gathering dusk. “She’s killing it.”
The simple fondness in his friend’s voice woke an ache in Cy’s chest. He’d managed only one long-term relationship in his adult life, and it had ended in sickening heartbreak. Following the accident, inflicting the busted-up, bitter husk he’d become on anyone else just didn’t seem like a reasonable thing to do.
Even after the worst of the pain had passed and his body—or what remained of it—began to heal, he’d jealously guarded his solitude.
So why, now, was he resenting every obstacle and inconvenience that interrupted his few stolen moments with Lyra McKendrick?
He glanced toward the west, where the sun was slowly setting behind Myrtle and Vee’s cozy, chaotic house.
Where was Lyra inside it? What was she thinking? Was she frustrated, like him? Or was she glad that they’d been interrupted before things could go any further?
“Well, my boy here might not be tearing up the football field anymore, but he’s running the shit out of our family business!” His father clapped him on the back.
A muscle in Cy’s jaw clenched involuntarily.
“Thanks, Dad,” he ground out before taking another swig of his beer to swallow down his annoyance.
“You should see him out there, Ethan. It’s like he’s part squirrel.”
“It’s fine, Dad,” Cy snapped, unable to contain his frustration any longer. “There’s no need to compare me to a rodent to try to make taking over the family business seem like a silver lining.”
The smile melted from his father’s face, and Cy felt a stab of satisfaction that was immediately replaced with regret.
Days like today were a perfect reminder of why he preferred to stay the fuck at home. No one’s questions to answer. No one’s feelings to hurt. No one’s well-meaning bullshit to shovel.
