Page 30 of Echoes in the Storm
“Eww, Mum. He’s young enough to be your son.”
“So?”
I shiver, bracing my hands on the steering wheel a little tighter. I donotneed to know about that part of my mother’s life.
Ever.
“Why are you making such a strapping young man sleep on the couch, Cam?”
I grit my teeth at her question. She damn well knows why.
“It can’t be good on his body to be cramped up like that,” she presses. “He’ll end up with a crook back by the time he leaves.”
“He doesn’t sleep on the sofa, Mum,” I clip out. “He sleeps on the damn floor, so if he gets a bad back, that’s his problem.”
“On the floor?”
“Uh-huh.” I slow the car and turn into the drive. “I’m home now, though, so I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
“Sure thing.”
“Thanks, Mum.”
“Love you, Cam.”
I press the red button and end her call as I glide to a stop in my parking spot. She wants me to put him up in the second bedroom. Is she insane? Why would I let him in there to … tomovethings and sully the place with his smell, his presence? Why would I do that?
My head pounds, and my hands still ache at the coiled rage over it all when I step out of the BMW and head for the house. I barely make it two steps before I veer off course and walking toward the strip of lawn that runs down the side of the house, out to the driveway.What the hell?
The edges are trimmed, the lawn clipped in perfect lines like you’d see at some fancy estate. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I continue down the side of the house toward the back. Sure enough, the whole rear lawn has been clipped in the same fashion: one light green stripe, followed by a darker one. Stripes that make the quarter-acre seem twice the size. He’s even gone so far as to remove some of the stubborn creeper vines off the fences that separate the yard from the paddocks beyond.
“Did I do a good job?”
“Holy shit!” I cry, a hand clasped to my chest as I turn to face him. “You need a goddamn cow bell or something.”
“Says the woman who scared the bejesus out of me a couple of days ago.”
“Touché.”
Duke steps off the back porch, jerking his chin toward the landscaping he’s kept occupied with. “So?”
“It looks amazing.”
“Trick I picked up at an after-school job many moons ago.”
I huff, crossing my arms as I do. “I wouldn’t have the patience.”
He’s showered and changed since I saw him this morning, no doubt due to how sweaty he would have got doing all this in the unseasonal heat we had today. I push that mental image to the back of my brain, reminding myself he’s a hothead, and hotheads come second to douche exes who don’t deserve to be ogled anymore.
“Wasn’t sure what you had planned for dinner, but I found some meat and whipped something up.”
He needs to stop making me like him in this way. It’s not fair. “You’ve done too much, honestly.”
“Nonsense.” He beckons toward the house. “Come inside and put your feet up. I’ll get you a drink.”
I narrow my gaze on him as he leads us in the back door, wondering what he’s broken. “I’m not really thirsty. But thank you, though.” Men are only this overly nice when they either need to apologise, or they want something. I’m not sure which thought disturbs me more.
“I spoke to Mum on the way home,” I say as I pause to throw my bag in the bedroom.