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“Where’s your car?”
“I walked.” I shrugged. “Being out of the city has been a nice break. It’s so peaceful here.”
“You’re not walking home. It’s late. Get in the truck.” He pulled the door open.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“I’ve been called worse. You going to make me pick you up and put you in the truck, or are you going to do it yourself?”
I rolled my eyes and climbed in. He stared at me before reaching for the seat belt, and I slapped his hand away. “I can buckle myself, Reynolds.”
“Then do it now.”
“So bossy.” I rolled my eyes and reached for the seat belt.
He closed the door and went around to the driver’s seat before pulling out of the driveway.
What was his problem? One minute he was being sweet and the next, he was being an ass.
“I’ll show you something peaceful if you don’t mind taking a pit stop.”
“That’s fine. I planned to walk home, so clearly, I wasn’t in a hurry,” I said, not hiding the irritation from my voice, even though I was not upset about getting a ride home from him.
He pulled into his driveway at his house and put the truck in park.
“This is where you’re taking me?”
“Yep.”
He jumped out of the truck and opened the back door to get Maxine as I helped Bob out, who trotted next to me toward the front door.
“That bastard never walks for me,” Cage said as he glanced over his shoulder at me.
“Maybe you could soften your delivery?”
He laughed. “Maybe you’re right.”
He pushed the door open and flipped on a light as I stepped inside. “Wow. It’s gorgeous.”
“Yeah? I had a lot of help from my mom and my sisters. Clearly, they can’t stay out of my business.” He tossed the keys onto the little table in the entryway, and I took in the dark, wide-plank floors that ran through the house. It wasn’t cluttered or busy, but it was warm. We moved to the family room, and Bob jumped up onto the couch and curled up on the blanket. Cage lifted Maxine into what looked like a playpen for kids, and she started playing with some sort of ball. There were pictures of Gracie on the built-in bookshelves, and a few paintings hung on the walls, which I took my time admiring.
“Do you still paint?” he asked.
I had thought about majoring in art for a hot minute because, aside from riding horses, I’d always loved to paint. My mother was mortified that I’d wanted to pursue a career that would make me one of many struggling artists in her mind. My father had encouraged me to keep it as a hobby, and he’d never taken it seriously.
But Cage had always thought I was talented. My eye caught on a frame on the bookshelves, and I moved closer. It was the sketch I’d done of this house and then painted when we were maybe sixteen or seventeen years old. I’d given it to him for Christmas as a gift that year, and it was the day that he’d promised that he’d build me that house someday.
“You saved it?” Every detail, from the wraparound porch to the red door and the Adirondack chairs, was there.
“Of course I did. It was a gift. What did you think I’d do? Set it on fire when you married someone else?”
“I don’t know, Cage. Things ended kind of abruptly, wouldn’t you say?” I turned around to face him, not hiding the sarcasm from my tone. “There were a lot of things said, so I sure as hell didn’t think you’d be tattooing my name on your heart or saving a picture that I made you all these years later.”
“You want to do this? I mean, do you really want to open that can of shitty worms and dissect it?”
I swiped at the single tear falling down my face. I’d never been a crier, but I’d cried more since I’d come home than I’d cried in my entire life combined. “How can I turn down a shitty can of worms?”
“Come on. Let me show you my favorite place, and then we can make one another miserable if you still want to.”
