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Still, no memories surface, and I have to wonder why I’d be an asshole to a young girl. Especially Gillian’s sister. Because that’s the only reason I can think of that would make her hate me. I shake my head and shut the yearbook, then put everything back before climbing the stairs to return to the main level.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I pull it out to find a text from Lottie.
Can you do me a favor?
This is one part of being the “immature one” that I hate. Lottie needs something delivered to The Harvest Depot, and since Bennett has Wren, and Jensen spends all his damn time in the kitchen, she messages me.
What?
Can you do a pickup at Laurel’s? She was supposed to deliver them to me, but she’s slammed.
I’m always the fucking gopher. Like I have no damn life except to do the shit no one else wants to do.
Sure.
I jog up the stairs from the basement and swipe my keys off the table.
Briar is sitting on the couch with her laptop and her legs stretched out. Her blonde hair is in a messy bun on top of her head. She really is sexy as hell, and I can’t believe she’s fucking pregnant with what I’m assuming is some douchebag’s baby since she’s here and not in Chicago with him. I have a ton of questions, but I’m not about to ask them. It’s none of my business.
She glances at me with red-rimmed eyes, and my stomach clenches. I loved hearing her giggle the other day, but after that, I haven’t seen a lot of emotion from her. I get that she’s dealing with a lot of shit I can’t imagine. I was young when Gillian had Clayton, but I remember that she seemed the same—no smiles until Clayton was born.
“Busy?” I ask.
“Just looking some stuff up.” Her finger scrolls over the touchpad of the laptop.
“Want to go for a ride?” I figure it will be good to get her away from here and out of her head.
She quirks an eyebrow. “Am I a dog?”
A laugh escapes because her one-liners kill me, especially when she doesn’t show any emotion.
“I’ll roll the window down for you and everything.”
She shuts her laptop and gets up. “Can we hit a drive-through for a doggie treat?”
She slides on her sweatshirt, and I try not to concentrate on how her tits are snug in a sports bra. She’s torturing me daily with her tight clothes.
“Maybe I’ll take you to the doggie park too.”
“Today is the best day ever.” She puts her purse over her arm and walks toward the screen door. “No leash?”
“That’s for the bedroom later,” I say, and her face explodes into the best smile.
Why does that do something to my heart? Why do I want to make this better for her? I barely know her.
We walk out to my truck, and I open the door for her. She looks surprised, but I choose to ignore the fact that she doesn’t have high expectations of me. After I climb into the driver’s seat, she buckles herself in.
“I forgot how everyone drives trucks here,” she says, wiggling in the cushy seat. The thing I love about pickups is the room inside the cab.
“What do they drive in Chicago?” I back out of my drive with my hand on the back of her headrest while I look over my shoulder, then I head toward the small road to leave the ranch.
“A lot of sports cars and SUVs. Minivans, but that’s mostly families.”
“Which do you prefer—Chicago or Willowbrook?” I dare ask, inching closer to the subject of why she left.
“I’m not sure. I loved Chicago when I first got there. The tall buildings and the millions of people who don’t know or care who you are as you walk by. And the food. God, the food was so good.” Her eyes flutter closed as if she’s remembering something, and for a second, I wonder what she looks like when she comes.
Stop. It. Now.
