Page 143 of Summer Holiday Lifeline

Myles met Jet’s gaze, ready to demand what he meant by that, but then, he didn’t really have to, did he?

Jet’s relationship with Priory Bently was concluded.

Natalie’s house had reverted to being their father’s house, with her gone, and refused to warm up to Myles or the kids.

Even Pat was less than a month away from packing her life into her tiny home with her partner and leaving the city to become a musical nomad.

The construction company had run just fine all summer, throughout the busiest season of the year, under the people Natalie had carefully selected to be in charge. There was no reason it couldn’t continue to do so, wherever Myles was in the country. His input was not only surplus to requirements, but pretty much useless, since he’d never bothered to learn anything about the construction business.

“I bet Ontario has a lot of really nice Montessori schools for a six-going-on-sixteen-year-old girl possessed by an art demon,” Jet said.

“At this point, we would never get moved in time for the start of the school year.”

“So, home school her for a while. See how that goes. Then we can take our time. You can talk to Steven, look for a house, if that’s what you guys want. I’m sure the lawyers can work out what to do about our adoption stuff.” He leaned forward over the table. “We all want to go back, Uncle Myles. You aren’t a pig farmer anymore, and you aren’t going to ever be one again. Your farm’s gone, and your family…”

Myles gulped at the reminder that both his parents and his only sibling were dead.

“They’re in Griffon’s Elbow,” Jet said, surprising him and tearing his thoughts away from loss and into light.

“Adoption?” Myles said, picking the one thing out of Jet’s list they’d yet to really discuss.

Jet shrugged. “I assume you’ll adopt Shelly officially. Just because that’s what the case worker said would make everything else a lot easier as she grows up.” He pushed his french fries around in his ketchup while Myles waited.

“You don’t have to adopt me, obviously. I’m practically⁠—”

“Do you want me to?” Myles asked.

“Never had a father,” Jet mumbled.

“You do have a father, Jet.”

Jet’s gaze, up through his lashes and bangs, was fierce. “He signed that away before I was even born, and thought he could buy a son with a trust fund.” Jet’s grin was just as fierce as his glare, and a little bit feral. “It was decent of him to give us the money even after I said no to that shit, but no matter what, it was only ever going to be you.” He shrugged like his next words were no big deal. “You’re already my emergency contact on, like, everything.”

He huffed out a sharp breath. “For fuck’s sakes, fine, alright?” He blinked, wetting his lashes, spilling a few tears down his cheeks, which he wiped away fast. “I don’t want to be an orphan, okay? There. Yes. I want—I’m still calling you Uncle My-my, though.”

“Fair enough.” Jerking his chin at Jet’s plate, Myles said, “Eat up. Pat’s probably already brought Shelly back to the house from their shopping.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The house Steven pulled up in front of was so not-Myles he half thought he had the wrong address. He glanced at the text from Stephanie again, then at the brass number plate next to the black double front doors. It was the right place according to her note. But it didn’t seem like the right place for Myles.

“Says who?” he asked himself. “You’ve known him so long you know all his tastes?” He couldn’t say he did, but that didn’t mean he could see Myles living in this gigantic cookie-cutter house, either.

He was still staring through the windshield at the blindingly white brick and fake black shutters when one of the doors opened. So used to seeing houses independently invite people in, the appearance of a compact pixie-haired person surprised him.

They stepped out onto the wide cement veranda, then cursed as MJ ran between their legs, yapping like the tyrant he was and dashing towards the car.

Steven quickly opened his door and scooped MJ up before he could run into the street. Not that it was a particularly busy street at the end of the cul-de-sac, but still. Better safe than sorry.

MJ licked his face and hands manically as Steven closed the car door.

The person on the porch approached, a speculative look on their face. “Please,” they said, “tell me you’re Steven.”

“Mr. Steven!” Shelly’s shrill excitement overrode Steven’s reply, and he had to hastily hand the dog off in order to catch Shelly mid-flight off the front veranda.

“Why, hello, Miss Shelly.”

She wrapped both arms around his neck and giggled. “Auntie Pat, this is Mr. Steven. He loves my Uncle My-my.”