Page 69 of Keeping Kasey
“Don’t be oblivious,” he retorts. “Take the time you need in Detroit, but when you get back here, you need to know what you want.”
If it were anyone else, I wouldn’t get past the tone, but this isn’t anyone else.
So, instead of snapping or reminding him that I’m the boss of this family, I ask, “And what if I have no idea what that is?”
He doesn’t answer for a long moment, and when he does, he sounds tired.
James doesn’t like this situation any more than I do.
“Do whatever it takes to figure it out. I’ll handle Romano.”
After three hours of watching Matteo get verbally abused by his father in a debate over the excessive use of our contacts within the justice system, this entire trip is already worth the hassle.
Matteo complains the entire walk to the dining hall—which has prepared a meal specifically for my impromptu arrival—but I’m barely listening. Once we round the corner and I see those blonde curls, I’mdefinitelynot listening.
I can’t shake the uneasiness I’ve felt since Kasey got off the plane today. I hadn’t expected an overly enthusiastic greeting, but her unreadable expression wasn’t what I imagined either.
It didn’t help that my knee-jerk reaction to her questioning my being here was to remind her that my work schedule is none of her business.
She’d given me a look like she knew I was lying, and that was the extent of our interaction.
Kasey’s wearing jeans and an oversized T-shirt, nothing like the tight clothes she’s taunted me with in the past, but they’re just as flattering. Loose curls fall around her face, and those sharp blue eyes study the food with open disgust.
I make a beeline for her—ditching my cousin when he’s mid-sentence. Just as I reach her, Kasey looks up with the same annoyed expression I’m always graced with.
“What’s your issue now?” I ask in a dry tone.
She runs a hand through the loose curls, and my fingers itch to do the same. “Who says I have an issue?”
I raise an eyebrow.
She sighs. “Everything here looks disgusting.”
I scan the food: lamb, pork chops, steamed asparagus, roasted squash, and garlic herb mushrooms.
It happens to be one of my favorite meals.
“Picky eater?” I ask, and realize I should’ve figured.
“An aversion to mushrooms, lamb, and… actually everything here,” she says with a grimace.
“Whatdon’tyou have an aversion to?”
“Tacos.”
“Come on.” I gesture to the door.
“Where are we going?” she asks, even as she follows me.
“To get tacos.”
She places one hand over her heart. “You’re taking me out to dinner? How romantic.”
“You want romance?”
“Don’t all girls want to be swept off their feet?”
“You are notall girls.”
