Page 21 of Lemon Crush

“Thisis important.”

She scowled at my pants. In case you were wondering, that was not the reaction a guy wanted to see from a woman he was interested in. Especially not when she was checking out the goods.

“It could be your very pregnant niece with an emergency.”

She had a point.

I pulled my still-dinging phone out of my pocket, and August said, “I’m going to go change while you deal with that. You can park my car in the driveway behind Jiminy. Then we—” She flicked her fingers back and forth between us. “—are going to finish this discussion.”

If she could make something I wanted to happen sound like a threat, so could I. “I’m not leaving until we do.”

I tried not to ogle her ass again when she walked out of the kitchen, but I couldn’t help noticing that it was still bitable as hell.

Then I looked at my phone. These texts definitely could have waited.

Bernie: I’m buried in classes and then an early Wreckers rehearsal. Can you pick up Phoebe’s vitamins on your lunch break, Wade?

Phoebe: And Oreos.

Bernie: You don’t need Oreos.

Phoebe: The baby does. And yay band rehearsal. That means Uncle Wade and I can watch Bad Batch without commentary. My baby daddy has exams to grade.

Bernie: Stop calling Todd your baby daddy. It’s demeaning.

Phoebe: Fine. The professor who impregnated me during coitus has exams to grade. Better?

Bernie: So. Much. Worse. Just for that, I’ll be catching up on Traitors when I get home. FYI Stopping at Barnaby’s for pesto chicken sandwiches for dinner. Yum. And Crab is sleeping over tonight. He’ll take the floor, but he doesn’t want to make the drive back to La Grange until you check his car, Wade. It’s making weird noises.

This was my life. I didn’t mind running errands for my family, but the rest of it? Sharing sleep space with random members of my sister’s band, and fixing everyone’s cars whenever there was a glitch for whatever they could afford to pay? Never mind that I was buried in double my usual workload and had a house to look for.

I was Reliable Wade. Responsible Wade. Methodical Wade.

For almost forty-nine years, I’d been pigeonholed as the one that took every bump in the road with a shrug, and then slogged through and got it done. It made me the friend and boss people felt they could turn to every time there was a problem.

Like needing a tow from the airport at the ass-crack of dawn, or expecting me to find a new car for a race in all the spare time I didn’t have.

I wasn’t complaining. Not much, anyway. I’d never had a problem being that guy. Sometimes I even enjoyed it. But yesterday morning really messed with my head, and seeing August’s apartment for rent had only made things worse.

Needing a moment to regroup, I went out through the front door to unhook her car from my truck. After I backed it in behind the VW, I propped the sun shade between the weathered dash and the cracked windshield, and rolled the windows down an inch tovent the heat, smelling butterscotch for some reason. Then I got out and removed the paper mat I’d put down to protect the carpet, scooted the seat forward again so she could reach the pedals, and glanced around to make sure everything was back where it belonged.

I didn’t love the idea of her driving around in a twenty-year-old car that was anything but reliable, so I’d done all I could to make sure it was safe. Including a few things she’d never see on any bill.

She could sue me if she didn’t like it, but she’d have to figure it out first, I thought as I wadded up the mat and tossed it into the cab of my truck on my way by, then headed back to the kitchen.

Gus was still nowhere to be seen, so I stuck my hands in my pockets and wandered slowly around the room. From what I’d seen, it was still the nicest one in the house. The older couple she bought it from had planned a total renovation, but they’d only done the kitchen, adding bay windows, a breakfast nook and butcher block counters, before giving up and offering her a deal so they could fuck off to be ski bums in Colorado.

There was an old postcard from them on her stainless-steel fridge. It was surrounded by pictures of her family. One of her and Morgan when they were kids, standing in front of the VW’s predecessor, whose name had apparently been Jack. Another of Morgan and her mother together in a recognizable but unfinishedCharlie’s Angelspose, with August laughing and stepping partially out of frame.

At first glance, none of them looked anything alike. The five-foot-nothing pixie-sized Sam, with her curly blonde hair and big blue eyes. The tall, light brown Morgan, her hair straightened for the occasion and a knowing smirk on her face. And August, temptation personified, with a riot of big hazelnut curls and wide, full lips framing a breathtaking smile.

I hadn’t seen that smile in a long time.

The sound of scratching at the back door had me walking over to open it.

Merlin stood there, a paper plate covered in crumbs and drool clutched firmly in his mouth.

We took some time sizing each other up. This dog and I always got along, but I knew better than to try and pet him when food was involved. “Hey, wizard.”

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