Page 31 of Chaos

“I wantyou to come to dinner tomorrow.”

Eight words honest to God strike dread in my heart. Sensing my sudden distress, Grouch lifts her head off my thigh, ears flat and teeth bared at my brother. And as I peer up at him too, I don’t think my expression is all that different. “I have a meeting.”

Which I’d rather shoot myself in the foot than attend, but shit, I think I’d actually rather be stuck in a community center with a bunch of strangers, drinking shit free coffee and eating shittier free biscuits, than suffer through a Jackson family Sunday dinner.

“We’ll wait ‘til you’re done.” Brow wrinkling, Jackson eyes my chosen lunch spot quizzically. “What’re you doing out here?”

“Eating.”Hiding. Surprise, surprise, I donotenjoy the communal eating vibe. Or more accurately, I guess, I don’t enjoy the communal eating chatter. The small talk. The entirelyunsubtle barrage of curiosity about my presence at Serenity, and my preceding absence. I much prefer camping out at the back end of the main barn, sitting cross-legged in the dirt, soaking up as much peace and quiet as possible. “And watching Ruin.”

Following the jerk of my head, Jackson surveys the stallion expending some of his frantic energy in the nearby paddock. “Finn says he likes you.”

“Unbelievable, right?”

My brother slants me a deadpan look. “Dinner, okay?”

“Maybe.”

“Lottie.” He sighs like he knows mymaybeis really a big, fatno way. “Baby girl, I’m not asking.”

I wrinkle my nose at the old nickname—he hasn’t called me that since I was a kid. “Jackson—”

“You can meet Izzy.”

That shuts me up. Pokes me right in the soft spot reserved solely for my nephews. Still, I act like I have to think about it before nodding sharply and muttering a sullen “fine.”

Wisely, Jackson stifles the satisfied smirk I know damn well is itching to be set free. “Your meeting’s in Ponderosa Falls, right?”

I nod. Thank fuck. The next town over is still a little too close for comfort, but at least it’s not in Haven Ridge.

“I’ll drive you.”

“I—”

“Charlotte.” Again, my protest is cut off—and by my full name, no less. A sure sign that my brother means business. “Not asking.”

“Yes, father,” I joke and Jackson snorts and rolls his eyes, but when I push to my feet, he tugs me beneath his arm and pecks me on the top of my head like I imagine a dad would—like he often does. “I gotta get back to work.”

He tightens his grip before I can slip out of it. “I’ve got a specialist coming to work with Ruin next week. You wanna help out?”

That offer, I don’t even pretend to mull over. “Definitely.”

“Good.” With a pleased nod, Jackson releases me, socking me on the shoulder as he adopts a dumbass, fake Southern drawl. “Go on, get.”

Rolling my eyes, I slope inside the barn. Grouch doesn’t join me, loping off to join her siblings and mother instead where they sprawl on the sunny porch, leaving me alone.

Not that that lasts long. It never does. Like fucking clockwork, I spend five whole seconds in my own company before, lo and behold, there he is.

Finn.

For someone who’s scared of me, allegedly, he sure does spend a fuck ton of time in my presence.

He’s always there. Everywhere. Working. Lurking. It’s like I can’t get away from the guy, and God knows I’ve tried. I can’t tell if it’s a coincidence or if he’s following me or if he’s beenassignedto follow me—I wouldn’t put it past my older siblings to sic me with a watchdog. Whatever the case, he’s there. In my vicinity at all times, at all hours. Honestly, I’m surprised I haven’t woken up with him sleeping outside my fucking bedroom. As it is, he’s the first thing I see in the morning, always already in the kitchen when I slope downstairs. The last thing I see before bed too, a deep ‘good night’ always following me up to the attic.

If the circumstances were different, I don’t think I’d consider that all that terrible a way to start or end my day.

But the circumstances arenotdifferent.

So when he strolls into the barn, fucking whistling a merry tune, I turn my back. Pretend he isn’t there. Pretend his presence isn’t such a very visceral thing; pretend I am, actually,more interested in the Clydesdale dodging my attempts to pet him because I’m not his pretty, blonde owner.

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