Page 30 of Kiss Me Now
Chapter Ten
Brooke
Istraightened andstretched my back, glaring down at the kitchen floor with all the contempt I normally reserved for Brussel sprouts or spiders. Uncle Fred or his wife had laid down a faux-tile linoleum over the wood floors, and I’d been at work for two hours with a scraper trying to peel it up and chip the glue away. It had to be at least forty years old, but it clung like it was newly cemented, and my shoulders and back ached.
I’d much rather get these sore muscles from working in the garden with Miss Lily, but Ian had ruined that for me.
Ian. What a jerk.
The sickly feeling I got anytime I thought about Senator Rink or my time on his staff crept up on me. Prickly palms. Overwarm cheeks. A touch of nausea. I wished I could simply step outside and take in some fresh air, but I didn’t want to risk it if it meant running into Ian.
I walked to the front of the house, rolling my shoulders and neck to rid them of tightness. It didn’t help. I stopped at the large picture window and peered through the curtains. I could barely see the front fender of Ian’s car, but the grill was distinctive. It was his.
I let the curtain fall, a frustrated sigh escaping me. What I needed more than anything was time in the garden. Not that I had the time to spare. Not with all the work left to do on the house, lesson planning, and classroom prep. But I’d learned to make time for it anyway because being in the garden had become an anchor for me, a therapy I needed. When I sat in the fresh soil, the sharp tang of growing plants tickling my nose, the hum of insects and birdsong in the background, the sun shining down...somehow all of that with the steady rhythm of the day’s work—weeding or harvesting—signaled the most anxious parts of my brain to relax so good ideas could bubble up.
The same thing happened when I showered too. Something about the steady rhythm of the water and my wandering mind always led me to great ideas. It happened so often that I’d begun keeping a dry erase marker in the stall so I could write notes on the tile instead of having the ideas dry up by the time I got myself dry. The garden did the same thing.
I resented more than ever that Ian had shown up with his pretend friendship and his accusations founded on the same scraps of information that had led Rink’s other staffers to believe the worst about me—that I’d seduced him. That it was the only explanation for how I’d “wormed” my way into his inner circle so quickly. They couldn’t accept that it had to do with my brain and my easy grasp of policy. No, to the Ivy League elites I’d worked with, only the tawdriest explanation made sense, and they assumed I’d left because Rink dumped me.
Those rumors would have followed me for the rest of my career in Washington politics. So I’d left. Not just Rink’s office—I’d left DC behind entirely. Its cynicism. Its corruption.
The way it devoured the reputations of good people.
I would have to wait out Ian, let him leave before I reclaimed the garden. And I’d have to hope that he wouldn’t spread his poisonous lies to Miss Lily before he left.
I went back to scraping tile, but I’d only been at it a few minutes when a knock sounded at my door. I pulled out my phone and checked my doorbell app. I didn’t have much fear about living in Creekville, but I’d installed it to ease my dad’s worries about me living alone and “isolated” out in the country. The only thing I’d used it for up to this point was spying on the hummingbirds who came to visit the feeder I’d placed at a perfect angle for the camera to capture. But now, as Ian’s face appeared on my screen, I thanked my dad’s overprotectiveness. I slid my phone into my pocket and went back to work. No need to answer the door.
Ian knocked again, but I only scraped harder. When I didn’t answer a third knock, he rang the doorbell in a series of three quick buzzes.
“Brooke?” His voice was muffled through the heavy wood door. “I know you’re in there. I see your car in the driveway.”
“Go away,” I muttered even though he wouldn’t hear me.
He rang the doorbell again. “Brooke, I’d like to talk to you.”
No, thanks. I pulled out my phone and fiddled with the app for a second. My dad had said...oh, there it was. I pressed the intercom feature. “As long as it’s you knocking, I’m not home. Leave, Ian.”
He jumped at my voice. Very satisfying.
“Brooke, I owe you an apology. Can we talk?”
