Page 12 of The Love Audit
Her bedroom door slammed shut before I could respond. I sank into a chair, coffee in hand, and glanced at Tora, who was still happily lapping at the water Jasmine had given him. He must have felt my eyes on him because he trotted over and rested his head, still damp, on my lap.
“Traitor,” I muttered, scratching behind his ears. Tora just wagged his tail, oblivious to his betrayal.
“You are so full of it.” CJ laughed through the phone, his voice filled with the kind of sibling amusement that always grated on me. “A coin toss? Really?”
“Yeah, a coin toss,” I repeated, rolling my eyes as Tora paused to sniff what had to be the twentieth tree on our walk. This dog’s nose had a schedule of its own. If the park had a fence, I would’ve let him off the leash for a bit, but I knew better than to tempt fate. “What exactly are you implying, CJ?”
“I’m implying, little brother, that Jasmine Morgan still has you wrapped around her little finger.”
I scoffed. “Nothing about Jasmine Morgan is little anymore.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet,” CJ quipped, the smirk practically audible through the phone.
“For the last time, Jasmine is not the same person we grew up with. And, by the looks of things, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” CJ asked, his tone losing some of its humor.
“Don’t you remember why we haven’t seen or spoken to Jasmine in thirteen years? What her parents did to our parents? To our entire family?”
“Of course I remember,” he said quietly. “But we don’t know the whole story, and you don’t know if Jasmine does, either.”
“Are you defending her?”
“I’m not defending anything. I’m just reminding you that you don’t have the whole story. Blaming Jasmine for something her parents did isn’t fair.”
“This sounds a whole lot like defending her.”
“Listen.” CJ exhaled sharply. “Whatever happened caused our father to abandon his family. Was that our fault? Was what he did on us?”
“Of course not.” I paced as the conversation veered into uncomfortable territory. “But that’s completely different.”
“It isn’t.” CJ’s voice was firm. A long silence stretched between us as his words settled like a stone in my chest. “Listen, I don’t know what Jasmine is like now. Maybe she is as bad as you think she is. But at least judge her by her own actions, not her parents’.”
I sighed, scratching the back of my head. “Fine. I’m not trying to pick at old wounds, and I’m definitely not trying to think about your father and his… mess.”
“Our father, punk,” CJ corrected with a chuckle.
“He was your father longer,” I retorted, shaking my head. “Look, I’m just going to stay focused. Do what I need to do in Miller’s Cove, secure the bag, and get as far away from Jasmine Morgan as I can.”
“Yeah, because staying away from Jasmine Morgan has always been your specialty,” CJ teased, the amusement back in his voice.
“Whatever, man.” I rolled my eyes. “Let me take this big-headed dog for a real run before it gets too late.”
“Fine, but getting off the phone isn’t going to change the fact that you lost that coin toss on purpose.”
“Whatever, man.” I felt an involuntary smirk creep across my face. Thankfully, CJ couldn’t see it. “Later, Chris.”
I ended the call and took a deep breath before taking off in a sprint across the park, Tora bounding beside me with the kind of joy only a dog could manage.
My afternoon run had done its job, temporarily taking my mind off Jasmine and CJ’s words. But as the adrenaline faded, so did my focus.
I’d spent half a day in Miller’s Cove and had learned absolutely nothing that could help with my presentation. Meanwhile, Jasmine was probably outworking me, and I wasn’t about to let her get another win. Sleeping on that pullout couch was enough of a blow to my pride.
Miller’s Cove, however, was proving to be a distraction in itself. The town looked like it had leapt straight out of a postcard. The streets were lined with brightly colored storefronts and flowering trees that seemed almost too vibrant to be real. A large creek snaked through the north side of town, its crystal-clear water reflecting the late-afternoon sun.
Tora and I followed the creek, stopping occasionally for him to drink, until we came across a large wood-and-brick building with a water turbine partially submerged in the water. It was charming in a way that screamed “small-town Instagram gem.” My inner nerd immediately recognized it as a grist mill, and it was in surprisingly good condition, given the fact that it had to be at least a hundred years old.
Curiosity propelled me across the wooden plank bridge. Alarge wooden sign hung over the doorway that read “THE MILL” in bold, blocky letters. Underneath, smaller text declared it to be a “grist mill • bakery • restaurant • store.”
