Page 72 of The Clover Chapel (Jamison Valley 2)
“Okay,” I said. “Something to know about me. Patience is not a strength.”
He chuckled. “Figured that one out already. I thought you were going to take my head off the other night when my pork chops needed more time in the oven.”
I rolled my eyes.
With a light kiss on the tip of my nose, he went back to cooking.
An hour later, my tummy was full of the best pot roast I’d ever had. It was tender and juicy. When Nick described the few easy steps it had taken to prepare the meal, I decided that maybe Crock-Pot cooking could become my forte.
While our stomachs settled, we curled into the couch to watch TV.
Tonight’s Western was another John Wayne classic, The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance. We were only half way through it but I expected it to be an absolute winner. I was a big James Stewart fan and his character’s name, Ransom, was a top contender for any future son that I may have.
Ransom Slater.
Another spontaneous Nick thought. They’d been coming over
me regularly for months now. Ever since my breakup with Logan. I needed therapy. “Oh for the love . . .” I muttered to myself.
“What was that?” Nick asked.
Bat. Shit. Crazy.
“Nothing,” I said.
Nick leaned forward and grabbed the remote, pausing the movie. “I need to talk to you about something, Emmeline.”
My body was instantly on alert. He’d used my full name. Nick never used my full name.
I gave him a sideways glance. “Okay?”
“Do you feel comfortable here?” he asked.
“Here?” I asked, pointing to the floor. “In your house? Or do you mean in Prescott?”
“Both.”
“Then yes to both. Why?”
“You know why I left you in Vegas,” he said. “Your money. My lifestyle and family. The combination put you in a dangerous position.”
I sat up straighter in the couch, my stomach rolling. Where was he going with this? The pause he took before continuing made my heart pound. The crackling fire echoed in the silent room.
“Your money still worries me. Not for the same reasons but . . .” He shifted in the couch. “I don’t give a fuck about money but I can’t . . .”
His fingers were fidgeting and his foot was bouncing on the floor. Nick was always so calm and collected. His nervousness was unsettling.
My eyes searched his face for some kind of clue as to what he was struggling to say. “What?”
He pushed out a loud breath and blurted, “I need to know if you’re going to eventually leave me because I don’t have any money.” Standing from the couch, he raked his hands through his hair. “At least not the kind of money you’re used to. What happens when you decide Montana life in a log cabin isn’t enough? That you’d rather be back in the city? Are you going to leave when your father cuts you off because you stayed out here with me? He’s a fucking dick, Emmy. He’ll take it all away from you just because you didn’t fly to New York and beg your ex to take you back.”
There was a lot in his rambling speech to take in so I sat unmoving, formulating my response, while he paced in front of the fireplace.
“Can you come back to the couch?” I asked.
“No.”
“Nick. Get over here,” I ordered.
