Page 12 of Just Between Us

“Liam makes a great friend. If that’s what you want, he’s perfect. But I know how Liam is. We grew up together at the studio.”

“Wait, Liam’s part of the studio, too?” I hitch a thumb in the direction of Singing River Sound that sits across the street from Penny’s house. It’s legendary, known world-wide, and Penny’s the owner. When her father passed away, she inherited it. My brother’s life as a country music star was doing more hard than good, and the small town studio away from it all is the whole reason he’s here.

“Sure is. Liam can play anything we set in front of him. He’s been in the band since he graduated high school.”

Well, that explains the harmonica and music note tattoo I saw wrapping up his forearm. So, he’s a business owner and part of the studio band. A real renaissance man.

“Cass,” Austin says, his tone more gentle this time. “From what I’ve heard, Liam sleeps around. You’ve already been hurt, and I don’t want to see it happen again.” His eyes soften, going tender. “You’re my baby sister. I’m all for you making a friend, but be careful. Set up those boundaries you’re always preaching to me about.”

I refuse to follow Austin down the conversational path he’s leading. There’s only so much big brother talk I can handle this early in the morning. But he’s got a point. While flirting felt nice, anything more than that is not what I need right now. I’ve already talked Liam into this whole list idea, but a friend is all I’m able to handle in my current condition.

Thankfully, Austin lets the subject drop, and Penny goes back to her book while I sit, letting this new information ping pongaround in my head. What makes them so sure Liam is a fuck boy? Did he flirt last night? Absolutely. But there was more to him than that. What is hidden under that easy going facade? After spending time with him on the bluff, I’m not buying into the rumor that all he does is sleep around, and I think Penny also knows there’s more below the surface of Liam.

Austin fills our plates with scrambled eggs and bacon, and we dig in. I’m silent while the two of them discuss everything going on at the studio this week. Penny has roped Austin into doing some handy work, so I let them go over their to-do list while I consider my own upcoming schedule. As a tele-health therapist, I can work from anywhere. If I do indeed stay here, I’ll need to transfer my license from Texas to Alabama. I never agreed to a hard and fast plan for staying in Singing River, but I can’t afford an apartment in Dallas on a single income, and I really don’t want to move back to Warbler where my aunt and uncle live.

Following that thought, my mind lands back on the list sitting in my notes app. Completing it means I’ll be here for a while, and if that’s the case, I need groceries. Cooking is something Austin and I both learned from our aunt Ashley. She’s a great chef, and as a child I loved dragging a chair across the kitchen to watch beside her at the stove.

I cooked all the time until Alan made me feel like I was terrible in the kitchen.Don’t be so sensitive, Cassie. All I’m saying is I’ve had better.Are you sure it’s supposed to taste like this?Nettling barbs, designed to sting. Eventually I learned that ordering takeout was easier than listening to his running commentary.

Taking one last sip of my tea, I stand to wash my plate and fork.

“Austin, thanks for breakfast. I think I’ll run to the store to grab a few things. Either of you need anything?” I ask over my shoulder.

“Nah, I just went yesterday. Hey, does the G-wagon need gas? I can give you my credit card,” Austin offers.

And that’s another thing I have to think about. Living in Dallas meant I could take public transportation or an Uber everywhere, but I’ll need a car of my own soon. While I could walk around Singing River, I don’t want to do it every day. And there’s only so long I can drive my brother’s G-wagon. I’m a grown ass woman who needs her own vehicle. Looks like I need to put back some money for a down payment.

“It’s good. No gas needed, Austin.”

On my way to the grocery store, I spot a field with rows of white tents and a sign that reads Singing River Farmers’ Market. It’s been years since I shopped at a farmers’ market so I take the next turn and pull into the gravel lot. Grabbing my reusable shopping bag, I start toward the front row of tents. The first one I come to sells baskets filled with plump blackberries and peaches so ripe I can practically taste them. I make my selections, place the fruit in my bag, and head to the next tent.

Before I know it, my bag is filled with everything from local honey to apples to homemade hand pies. I’m just admiring the most beautiful heirloom tomato I’ve ever seen when an arm snakes around my waist.

In college I took self-defense at the local gym, and you better believe every last one of those skills comes rushing back. I’m basically Buffy the Vampire Slayer as I deliver an elbow jab to the perpetrator’s gut.

A very masculine “oof” sounds behind me, and I turn, coming face to face with Liam.

“You again,” I grind out, placing a hand on my hip.

“Me again,” Liam replies, amusement dancing in his eyes, which in the light of day I see are a beautiful bottle green.

He’s even better looking than he was last night. But evenwith those eyes and his distractingly good looks, he’s lucky I didn’t hit him harder…or in a more Southern region for that matter.

“Liam, you don’t get a pretty pass to go around grabbing unsuspecting women.”

He brushes a lock of hair from his forehead and grins, all confident and boyish. “All I’m hearing is you think I’m pretty.”

Rolling my eyes skyward, I fail to bite back a grin as I examine the tomatoes. “You know you are. I think you’re the cockiest person I’ve ever met.”

He places a hand over his heart in mock insult. “Cassandra, you wound me. Here I was thinking I’m charming.”

“You’re definitely something, William,” I reply, poking him in the chest. “You’re definitely something.”

Out of nowhere, a blur of black and gray fur appears, jumping on its hind legs for Liam’s attention. He scoops the creature into his arms, and I’m now face to face with the ugliest dog I’ve ever laid eyes on. The kind that’s so ugly it’s cute. Patchy fur and a little pink tongue that pokes from one corner of its mouth. One front leg is missing, but that doesn’t seem to stop it from getting around.

“Who is this lovely little creature?” I ask.

“This,” he starts, as the dog licks him on the chin, “is my man Muttley Crue. I call him Mutt.”