Page 15 of The Rookie
“That sounds nice.”
“Well, I’d better get back out there. I’m helping Austen with his truck.”
“You know how to fix trucks?” Her mouth lifts on one side with the question.
“Not at all,” I say with a chuckle. “But neither does Austen. He’s just too cheap to take it to a repair shop. We figure between the two of us, we’ll figure it out.”
Summer shakes her head with another smile. “Well, good luck with that. I look forward to tonight and our chat.”
I give her a short nod. “Right. Catch ya later.”
I leave as quickly as I can, and I don’t look back. I can’t let her get under my skin.
What do I care if Summer wants to stay for another couple of days? It’s only a matter of time before she gets bored of watching my brothers and me haul wood, and fix broken-down tractors, and discuss sales strategies for the brewery. Maybe her boredom will make her run right back to the city where she belongs.
Far, far away from Lost Haven, and far away from me.
8
SUMMER
“How many times do I have to tell you? It was an accident.”
Logan leans over the kitchen table, eyeing Graham, his jaw ticking with anger.
The tension at the dinner table has been on growing steadily since I arrived, the strain more and more obvious with every passing bite. But now, with nothing but potato skins and chicken bones left on our plates, the passive aggression has boiled over into good old-fashioned aggression. Most of it, to no one’s surprise, is coming from a certain hot-headed hockey player.
Unlike his youngest brother, Graham keeps his anger more contained. “Some accident.” He scoffs without so much as looking up from his plate. “Thanks to you, we’re now set back months on that batch of ale. Do you have a damn clue how much time and money I’ve spent getting it just right?”
“I’ll make up the difference,” Logan growls through gritted teeth. “You know I’m good for it.”
I don’t need a deep understanding of the fermenting process to understand the crux of it. Something was knocked over, all their progress has been lost, and Logan is to blame.
“We don’t need your money,” Graham says firmly.
It’s this sort of cool, collected sternness that riles Logan up, I’ve noticed, and his reaction is explosive. He slams his fist on the table, causing me to jump in my seat.
“Just give me a number. I’ll write a check for double that so you can buy yourself some more stable fermenter tanks, while you’re at it. Elevate your shitty little operation.”
“Are you dense? That shitty little operation is our meal ticket.” Graham finally looks up from his plate, his eyes blazing with white-hot anger. “Maybe you’d know that if you actually made an effort and came home once in a while.”
Logan collapses back into his seat, throwing his arms in the air before slapping his hands on the table. The sound is loud enough to make me sit up a bit straighter. “Well, I’m home now, aren’t I?”
Jillian reaches over to squeeze Logan’s hand, her eyes pleading for peace between her sons. “And we’re so glad you’re here, honey.”
Graham is less hospitable. “Sure. Some visit. Treating your family home as a rehab for angry assholes. Right down to the live-in shrink you’ve brought with you.”
My heart plummets to my stomach, and I wish I could slip away or suddenly turn invisible. The need to get out of here hits me.
Before I can make an escape plan, Austen catches my eye from across the table, instantly sensing my discomfort and need to escape. He mouths the words “come on” and rises to his feet, tipping his chin toward the back door, and I follow without saying a word or looking back toward the kitchen. Exactly where we’re going doesn’t matter. I’ll take any excuse to get out of the line of fire.
“Sorry you had to hear all that fighting and cussing,” Austen says as we step away from the house.
“I work with athletes for a living,” I remind him, zipping my jacket up to my neck. “Being around fighting and cussing is sort of the norm for me.”
With a low chuckle, he motions for me to follow him. “I promise this is pretty standard when Logan’s home. We have some strong personalities in the family, and when you add stress to that, it’s a recipe for disaster. In this case, an argument. Don’t sweat it, though. We’ll leave them to argue, and we’ll get the bonfire going.”
It takes me twice as long as Austen to make the short trip from the house to the firepit—partially because his stride is twice as long as mine, and partially because I’m moving at a snail’s pace so I don’t slip on the icy path and end up with a concussion. The temperature plummeted after a wintry mix this morning, leaving frozen patches of snow here and there.
