Page 34 of Seein’ Red

I glance over at the catered lunch spread out over the large table on the far side of the room, the smell of garlic tickling my nostrils. It smells good, which almost feels weird to say, since the last couple of days have been filled with more dry heaving than the rest of my life combined. Regardless of how good it smells, I’m not taking a chance. I forced down some toast this morning and have been okay since, and I’m not putting that at risk.

Granted, my anxiety over the whole thing isn’t helping either. Hence why I’m so damn tired today—I didn’t sleep a wink last night.

“Didn’t think we were going to see you this week,” Gus, my oldest brother, says by way of greeting as he walks into the room.

“Only today,” I tell him. “I had a couple of video calls this morning that are easier to take with my big monitor, plus Munch, and then I have to sit with Ernie to go over final tax stuff before he submits it next week.”

Gus makes a face at the name of our internal finance auditor, and I have to hold back my smile. Ernest Davenport is a very nice man, but also the world’s driest individual. The Sahara looks enticing compared to an afternoon with him.

“But after that, I belong to Kenzie.”

Actually, after that I’m headed straight to Tifton to find me a drug store and an EPT. That’s not something that needs to be announced though.

Then, once I have that, and my situation is confirmed, maybe I’ll sleep tonight. Oh, who am I kidding? There is only one way I’m sleeping tonight and that’s if that test tells me what I want to hear. Which, based on how I feel and just how late I am, I’ll be shocked if it does. Thrilled, but shocked.

“Oh good, you are here,” Milo, the second oldest, says. Snapping his fingers, he parks it into the seat next to me, a single errant curl of his dark hair falling over his forehead. “Do I need to have anything special on hand for kegs and eggs?”

“Kegs and eggs?” What the hell is he talking about?

“That’s what I’m calling the morning-after brunch. Kegs and eggs.”

“No. No, you are not,” I inform him. “Just because we’re hosting it at your brewery doesn’t mean you get to turn it into some frat party sounding bullshit.”

“I like the name,” Jace, second from last as far as brothers are concerned, and the family wild card, tosses out.

“Of course you do.”

The rest of the group shuffles in, filling their plates as I chat with Milo—again—about what the expectations are for Sunday morning and the brunch we’re hosting before Kenzie and Dustin leave for their honeymoon.

“Mimosas, Diet Coke for Bronwyn, and whatever you have on tap is all you need,” I reiterate.

My phone buzzes against the large mahogany table, and I quickly grab at it, ready for the conversation about brunch to be over. We’ve been over it a dozen times, and each time I’ve been very clear, so the fact that Milo is still asking tells me that my sass-hole of a brother is up to something.

I don’t have time for someone to be up to something.

Nash

Willa…

For fuck’s sake…

I clear the notification, letting it join all the other unread texts from him this morning. If I’m counting properly, that’s lucky number thirteen. Nash Keller is the last person I want to talk to right now. The last person I want to think about.

Except he’s the only thing I can think about.

My stomach rolls, but in a way that I can’t tell if it’s more of this potential morning sickness or the anxiety of not knowing. Of being stuck with responsibilities and no way to quickly find out. I love Hickory Hills. It’s my home, and despite all the quirks of this place, I can’t imagine living anywhere else. Today though, it feels like a prison. Keeping me captive, without a way to find out the answer to a simple yes or no question that will change my entire life.

Looking up, I choose to focus on what’s in front of me—my family and my work. Each of my brothers is so different—as are their divisions here at Hayes—yet it works. Scanning around the table, I take each one of them in. Gus, the oldest, Hayes’s executive vice president and currently also over guns and ammo, is serious and focused. Milo, who runs Southern Brothers Brewing with his best friend, Brandt Rawlins, is witty and sarcastic, keeping everyone on their toes. Anton, the instigator of the group, runs the Ag division, caring for the very precious three Ps—peaches, pecans and peanuts—while Ewan, the baby brother who lives in the apartment beneath mine, is the introvert, happy to be left in peace to run The Booby Trap, Knox County’s bait and tackle shop. Then there’s Jace, our personal safety guru, who is a wild card if I ever met one. You never know what you’re going to get with Jace. The only one missing is Huxley, our tattooed, scruffy lumberjack, who oversees our paper operation.

As if my thinking about him was his cue, Hux bursts through the double doors, not bothering to greet anyone before hitting up the food. Very on brand.

“Nothing else? Plates, napkins?” Milo continues.

“All that’s covered. And it’s just the eight of us, so it’s not like you have to worry about the whole town.”

Seriously, we have been over this. I remind myself to breathe and that he’s doing this just to get under my skin. Because that’s what brothers do.

My phone buzzes again, but I ignore it. I can’t deal with two annoying men at the same time, and the one physically next to me takes priority.