The tightness in her neck and shoulders eased as they went inside and were surrounded by comforting familiarity. All the lovingly framed family photos, the soup stock that had been simmering overnight, and the faint scent of yeast and flour and sugar from the baking her mom must’ve done the day before—it was a feeling of warmth and acceptance. Ginger ran her hand along the old quilt draped over the back of her parents’ well-worn couch. The squares were contributions from the family, each of them with a little story. The pink piece was from Ginger’s old onesie, and the red one with numeral twenty-three used to be Trevor’s old tee—he had wanted to grow up and be just like Michael Jordan until he realized he wasn’t any good at basketball. Then there was a piece from her grandmother—a gorgeous white lace that she’d created herself—and so much more.
Ginger looked around. This was the kind of home she’d always wanted for herself. And she’d thought she’d have it with Shane…except reality had shown her she’d been deluding herself.
“I’m gonna dump your stuff in the small guest room and shower. I took the big one…didn’t know you were going to show up with so much stuff,” Trevor said.
“That’s fine.” The smaller room had a better view. “How long are you going to be here?”
“Dunno. It’s sort of an unexpected leave.”
“Guess you aren’t going to tell me.”
“Sorry. Classified.” He flicked the tip of her nose and carried her bags upstairs.
Her parents would be up soon. She sat down on the sofa and arranged the quilt over herself. She should wait until they were downstairs and say hi before going to sleep.
She leaned back, sinking deeper into the comfortable couch. It was okay if she didn’t have a warm, welcoming home like this yet in the city because she could always just come here. She still had her family. Was there really a need for anything more?
Chapter Twelve
Shane downed two more ibuprofen pills as he drove his Aston Martin. Well, it wasn’t technically his car. He’d borrowed it from Mark because he couldn’t remember where the hell his place was, or where he’d left his car keys.
He scowled as a hammer pounded his head again. He really shouldn’t have had all that scotch and gone to sleep without drinking at least a couple glasses of water. Then he wouldn’t have wasted all morning trying to figure out where Ging
er’s parents lived or how to get a set of wheels so he could drive up there. Or feel this awful. It was already almost three, but he still felt like crap.
Happy Bastard Farm.
He blinked at the sign. Was this even the right location? The sign seemed so inappropriate for a place owned by two retired high school teachers. He’d expected something more…mainstream and respectable with none of the words that would’ve gotten him in trouble back then. But Mark had been very sure when he’d given directions. And he was not an asshole like Dane.
Shane parked his car at the end of the driveway and got out. The air smelled of wet, fertilized soil and manure—probably the cows he’d seen on the way here. He stared up at the house.
Three stories. Sprawling. Sort of old-looking with the exterior that could use a new paint job. Maybe he was at the right place. He didn’t think retired teachers had a lot of money to throw at renovations.
A small blue sedan that looked to be about five years old or so plus a flashier car were parked outside. A separate set of tire tracks showed another vehicle had been here, something bigger and more powerful than the two in front of him. Probably a tractor.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
Shane looked up. A man in his thirties who was built like a semi stared down at him from the roof. Sweat and grime stained his dingy old t-shirt.
“Stay right there.” He disappeared from view.
Who could that be? According to his quick research, Ginger had a half-brother. But he didn’t live on their parents’ farm.
Soon, the man came around the corner. His eyebrows were low over deep-set eyes, which were currently shooting death-rays in Shane’s direction. He pumped his fists as he walked, each stride big and purposeful, his jaw muscles bunched.
Shane braced himself for a fight, changing his stance to block whatever the other man would throw. Damn, what wouldn’t I give for some of Iain’s MMA training?
Wait, what? Shane blinked as a thread unknotted in his mind.
The other guy stopped less than an inch from Shane’s face. “You got some fucking nerve coming here.” Dark veins stood out on his forehead and neck. “If we were anywhere else, I’d break every bone in your body.”
Too close to focus on, Shane looked right through him. “I’m not here to see you.”
“Oh, that’s fucking rich. Guess you’re here to harass Ginger, then? Cuz you know she’s not gonna do what I’m gonna do to you.” He put a finger into Shane’s chest. “Stay the fuck away from her. Users like you make me sick. You don’t even deserve to breathe the same air she does.”
“Where’s Ginger?” Shane asked calmly.
“You’re going to have to beat it out of me.”