Page 8 of Feels Like Home
"I'm heading back tomorrow for Thanksgiving with Dad, Joan, and the kids," he answers.
My heart sinks.
I knew he wouldn't stick around for long, he never does, but Thanksgiving isn't for another few days. I thought I'd get more than a measly twenty-four hours with him. Video calls and texts are great and all, but nothing compares to being with someone in person.
Scooter whines to us about his newest castmate on the show this season, a young, arrogant vet who pisses him off probably because he reminds him of a younger version of himself. He doesn't say that part, but that's what I'm thinking.
Howie manages to produce a few syllables and even works up a half smile…when the waitress comes around—Pancakes with extra syrup. Thanks, Tenley.
And Zane lifts up his arm to show everyone where he's thinking of getting his next tattoo.
I can practically see Court flipping through a rolodex of snarky quips in his head, but all he says in response is that he thinks the dragon with flames behind it soundsfab.
By the time we say our goodbyes and the crew disperses into the chilly night, it’s just me and Court left, engaged in a head-to-head battle to see who can yawn the most.
"I'll drive you to the inn," I say after releasing an almighty jaw-popping one. "You're jet-lagged."
He shakes his head, covers his mouth to yawn, then argues, "And you've been working for the past two days."
"Roads around here are icy, and I'm more familiar with them than you are."
"I engaged with Zane like a normal, civil human being."
I slow clap sarcastically, my gloves muffling the sound. "Well done. Want a blow job?"
He tips his head to the side. "Well, it has been a while…"
I ignore the surge of heat building in my core and thwack him across the front of his puffer jacket. "I'm driving. No arguments."
"Fine," he says with a wicked grin as we begin walking to my car. "But you still owe me a blow job."
"Yeah, right," I say, clicking the fob to distract myself from the unintentionally flirty comment I blurted out.
The SUV’s headlights flicker to life, and we jump in.
It's a good thing I refused to back down about who drove. The inn is only a short drive from Main Street, but as I turn off the road and onto the gravel lot, Court's already asleep with his neck angled awkwardly, legs spread wide, and mouth half open.
"Hey," I say softly, giving his leg a gentle tap above the knee. "We're here."
He wakes up with a snort. "We are? That was fast."
I can’t help but smile.
For all his tough guy bravado, his habit of judging people too fast, the life he's created that's so consumed by work there’s little space for anything else, underneath it all, he really is a softie. Sensitive and kind, and when we were younger, he used to believe in the goodness of people.
All the walls he's put up are a direct result of what happened with his mom and my dad. He's never dated. Struggles to make close new friends. Doesn't allow himself to open up and be vulnerable with anyone.
Not even with me.
I'm his closest person, but how much of the real him has he truly let me see?
He yawns as he clicks his seat belt, rolling his neck in a circle. "Good call on the driving."
"No problem. Hey, will I get to see you before you leave?"
He looks at me and smiles, his eyes glowing with warmth. "Of course. I was hoping we could have lunch at the inn tomorrow."
"Sounds good." We jump out of the car, and I grab his luggage from the back. "All right, buddy…" I pull him in for a hug. "I'll see you tomorrow."
