Page 92 of Spicy Ever After
Her eyes dance. “Bonus.”
I lead her to the front porch, but her pace slows as she looks up at the house. As though she didn’t see it on her drive up. As if she’s seeing it for the first time.
“You have a little farmhouse,” she declares, rushing up the porch steps, her gaze sweeping the faded wood slat rockers and rusty ceiling fans. “I love it!”
Hattie spins around, scoping out what she can see of the fields. “This is all yours?” Awe makes her sound a little breathless.
I’m only human, so the look on her face fills me with pride.
“Yep. All 320 acres.”
For now, I remind myself.
But I won’t dwell on our impending doom today.
Hattie is here, and I’ve been holding onto the promise of her for the last forty-eight hours, knowing I’d have her brightness for an hour or two. So I refuse to think about the situation Uncle Paul is putting me in and the fact that I have no idea how I’ll get out of it.
“It’s really beautiful out here,” she says, almost reverently. “So quiet. All you can hear is the wind.”
The pleasure and pride this gives me borders on ridiculous, so I try to keep my smile in check. “Thanks… It’s… everything, really.”
That’s the truth. I’ve stepped onto this porch and looked over these fields my entire life. Every time, it’s with a pull in my chest.
But today? This view of Hattie with my land in the background?
Goddamn.
That pull suddenly has a voice, and the only word it knows is Yes.
I shake my head to clear it. “I’ll show you around after we eat. Sound good?”
She faces me, excitement in her eyes. “Can I dig up a sweet potato?”
I choke on a laugh. “By hand?”
Hattie blinks like she’s said something wrong. “Is that dumb?”
I can’t shake my head fast enough. “No. We’ll dig as many as you want. And I’ll send you home with a sack of cured ones.” I stack the bakery boxes on one hand and pull open the screen door with the other.
Frowning, Hattie steps inside, still looking over her shoulder at me. “You mean I can’t keep the ones I dig?”
“Won’t be ready to eat.” Pop’s grumble reaches us from the other end of the front hall.
Hattie whips around to face him. He’s bracing a trembling arm against the wall, and while he’s not smiling exactly, he’s taking her in with a hint of surprise.
“Sweets have to be cured and stored for at least seventeen days for peak flavor,” Pop tells her.
I step inside behind Hattie, letting the screen creak closed behind me. “Pop, this is Hattie Mercier. Hattie, this is my dad, Castor Olivier.”
Without a moment’s pause, Hattie asks, “Did anyone ever call you Castor Oil?”
My stomach braces, but my father just narrows his eyes. It could be my imagination, but they might hold a tiny flicker of amusement. “Only once.”
Hattie laughs and my gut unclenches.
“You look more like your dad than Griffin does,” she tells me.
“Please,” I groan. “Never tell Grif that. He’ll just say it’s because of the crow’s feet.”
