Yours to Hold: Ribbon Ridge Book Two (11 page)

With Mom in the back of the truck and Maggie walking alongside it, they worked together to slide the planter to the edge of the bed and lower it to the cart. Maggie wheeled it into the garage, which was open; then they had to take it off the cart to get it up the step and into the laundry room. She transferred the cart inside, and they hefted the planter up onto it.

Maggie’s gaze flicked to the basket of clean clothes on the dryer and the stack of recyclable bags on the washer. This room wasn’t bad, but the rest . . . She turned to Mom. “I can take it from here. Thanks.”

Mom glanced down at the cart. “I’ll need to take that back to Harv.”

Duh, right. “Okay, wait here, and I’ll just bring it right back.” She started pushing it through the laundry room into the kitchen.

“Can’t I come see where you’re going to put it?”

No. “Um . . . I don’t know where. You know, I’ll just set it here for now.” She pushed it through the kitchen to the eating nook. Stacks of mail and some work papers cluttered the table, and a few boxes she had yet to unpack formed a short tower in the corner.

“You’re acting strange—” Mom’s jaw dropped as she turned and looked into the large living room. She inhaled sharply. “Holy mother. Haven’t you moved in?”

Not really. Several stacks of boxes sat at intervals throughout the space. Pictures leaned against the wall. The television was perched on its media cabinet facing away from the couch, its wires hanging to the ground in a mess. The couch was covered with a pile of clothes, mostly coats.

Mom swung around and looked at Maggie. “I don’t understand. What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing. I only moved in at the beginning of last month.” Her defenses kicked into high gear. “Thanks for bringing the plant, Mom. You should probably head back into town before it gets too late.” Maggie bent and guided the planter off the cart.

“Oh, no. You aren’t getting rid of me yet, Magnolia.” God, how that name grated on Maggie’s nerves. Who named their kid after a flowering tree? A hippie who thought sticking out was far better than fitting in, that’s who. “Why does your house look like this? It never used to—not when you lived with Mark anyway.”

No, because he’d required everything to be perfect. When she’d moved to Ribbon Ridge, she’d done what he’d trained her to do—adhered to strict order and tidiness. But over time, she’d realized she didn’t have to do that anymore. With each item of clothing she didn’t hang up and every book she left sitting on a table instead of on a bookshelf, she felt a little more of her freedom returning. Perhaps she’d gone a little too far . . .

No, she knew she’d gone more than a little too far. But now it was overwhelming. She’d accumulated so much stuff, things that Mark insisted she take, things she hated and ought to get rid of but simply couldn’t face.

“Maggie, are you going to answer me?”

Jarred back to the present, Maggie refocused on Mom. “I’ve been putting all my energy into the yard because it’s summer and the weather’s good. I’ll take care of the house later. It’s not like I have company.”

Mom shook her head. “That’s another problem entirely. How can you invite that attractive man over when your place looks like you’ve become a hoarder?” She flicked a glance at the television. “Though I wholeheartedly approve of you forgoing the TV.”

Never mind that Mom had become quite the Internet whore over the past few years. What was the difference really? Maggie couldn’t resist saying, “I have a TV in my bedroom that I watch.”

“Ah.” She touched Maggie’s arm. “Maybe you should see a therapist.”

I am.
But Maggie didn’t tell her that. “I’ll think about it. Listen, Mom, I need to finish up outside before it gets dark. Thanks again for the plant, really.” She smiled, and it wasn’t forced. She was genuinely happy about the cactus. “That was really thoughtful, and I appreciate it.” She leaned over and kissed Mom’s soft cheek, catching the faint scent of patchouli.

Maggie could tell Mom wanted to stay and say more, but she wasn’t completely clueless. She said good night, then Maggie walked her back out to the truck and watched her drive away.

Boy, her next appointment with Amy was going to be busy. Mom, Kyle, her almost-suicidal patient, her house . . .

After finishing up in the yard and closing up the garage, Maggie trudged back inside and looked at her new acquisition. Shit, did accepting the plant prove that she was a hoarder? No, she wasn’t. She just needed time to go through everything and decide what to do with it.

A tingle of unease crept up her spine. Perhaps she ought to do it soon. There was no telling when Kyle would come back and try again to come inside. She could continue to refuse him, but she was growing weak. And everyone knew the third time was the charm.

K
YLE WAS IN
his element. Manning the Archer booth at the Ribbon Ridge Festival reminded him of tending bar in Florida. His family might look down on how he’d spent the last few years, but he’d had a great time and grown comfortable in his skin.

Mostly.

It was good to be back home though. A steady stream of Ribbon Ridgers had stopped by all afternoon and chatted him up, happy to see him. And he felt the same.

But as it drew close to six, when all the Archers were supposed to congregate at the booth for photos and general rah-rah family shit, Kyle’s nerves started to fray. He did Maggie’s breathing exercises and told himself it would be fine—he’d avoid Derek like he always did.

Maggie. Had he really tried to invite her to the festival? What kind of bonehead move was that? Dating her was out of the question—at least until he regained Dad’s approval. And even then, he wasn’t sure he could do it. Being with Maggie could very well undo all of the work he was doing to show his family that he wasn’t as selfish as they thought.

Sara and Dylan walked toward the booth early, which is what Dylan preferred to be. As the general contractor for the monastery renovation, he was punctual, tireless, and committed. He was also head-over-ass crazy about Kyle’s sister.

Kyle raised a hand as they approached. “Hey there. Sorry, we don’t have any cider, Sara-cat.”

“I know,” Sara said, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “Any fruity beer? I forget what you brought.”

“Yes, we have Will Scarlett.” A raspberry ale that he knew wasn’t her favorite, but then drinking beer was usually a stretch for her.

“I’ll have that. Can’t be an Archer at the Archer booth without an Archer beer in my hand.”

Kyle flashed her a smile as he drew the beer into a cup and slid it across the narrow counter. “Dylan? Longbow, Arrowhead, or Popinjay?”

Dylan pondered a moment. “Popinjay, I think. Been awhile since I had a Belgian-style.”

“Excellent choice on this fine summer evening.” Kyle filled his cup and handed it to him. “I’m surprised you’re here instead of at the site.”

He lifted his cup. “Are you inferring I
should
be there?”

“God no, you work enough. I’m glad you knocked off early. I hope you let the crew go, too.”

“I gave them the option. Some would rather work later tonight and come to the festival tomorrow with their families.” Likely so they could play the carnival games and ride the rides.

Kyle nodded. “You’re a good boss.”

Sara slid her arm around Dylan’s waist. “The best.”

Kyle rolled his eyes. “Knock it off. You two are enough to make a man nauseated.”

“You’re just jealous—you’ll find someone,” Sara said, smiling.

“Ha!” Dylan chuckled. “He has to actually look first.”

Actually, he’d found someone when he’d least been looking for her . . . not that he could compare what he felt about Maggie to the deep bond that had formed between Sara and Dylan. He was pretty sure a marriage proposal wasn’t too far off.

Speaking of marriage, Derek and Chloe were striding toward the booth hand in hand. Another couple who could induce vomiting with their cuteness and general in-love-ness. Thankfully, Tori and Dad arrived at the same time with a photographer from the local paper in tow.

Kyle and the other four people manning the booth doled out beer to everyone, including the photographer and the other festival attendees who had started to arrive in droves now that they were home from work. The photographer snapped photos of the activity and asked the Archers to pose for a picture.

Derek lingered in the background—never quite sure if he ought to be included. Most people only cared about the kids who’d been on the TV show, and that didn’t include him, though as Kyle’s best friend, he’d appeared on it several times.

“Derek, get up here,” Dad barked jovially. “And bring Chloe. You know this is my adoptive son, Derek Sumner,” he said to the photographer, “and this is his fiancée, Chloe English.”

They exchanged pleasantries with the photographer, who asked, “When’s the big day?”

“In just a couple of weeks,” Chloe answered. “Up at the monastery we’re renovating.”

After a few formal shots in which they held up their cups of beer, they broke up again. Kyle noticed that Dylan had stood off to the side for the pictures. “Don’t want to be associated with us?” he asked, kidding.

“You know me, families give me hives.” Dylan was the product of parents who’d divorced when he was very young, ensuring that he’d grown up with a foot in two households. He’d talked a little bit to Kyle about feeling more comfortable on his own, but since falling for Sara, he was becoming indoctrinated into the big, crazy Archer family, whether he liked it or not. And Kyle understood Dylan’s reticence better than anyone. Sometimes the family situation was simply more than he could bear.

Natalie came rushing up to the booth. “Sorry I’m late!”

“Nah, you’re fine,” said Royce, the booth worker she was taking over for. He wiped his hands on a towel and gave a salute. “See you around, Archers, it’s been real.”

Kyle clapped him on the back. “Thanks, Royce.”

“Yeah, thanks man,” Derek chimed in. He was Royce’s boss.

Natalie moved behind the counter. “So what do we do?”

“Just pour the beer and sell the merchandise, if someone wants a T-shirt or pint glass or whatever. We have a Square to take credit or debit cards.” He indicated the iPad one of the other workers was using to charge someone’s order. “And the cash box is down there.” He gestured under the counter.

“Got it.”

“In fact, I should count out what we made this afternoon so there isn’t too much in the till.” He grabbed the box and took it to the back of the booth, where there was a small work area. He counted out the starting cash and handed the box to Natalie. “Go ahead and put that back on the shelf.”

The counting didn’t take long, which was puzzling. They should’ve made more than that. He recounted, going more slowly. He got the same amount. After the third time, he decided there must’ve been more credit card use than he’d realized. He documented the bills on a deposit slip and stuffed all of it into a zippered bank bag, which he then locked. He tucked the bag beneath the back work area and figured he ought to give the key to Derek, who was taking over at the booth for the rest of the evening.

Natalie glanced at the work schedule on the back counter and made a duck face. “Well, that sucks.”

Kyle went and stood next to her. “What?”

“I thought you were working tonight. That’s why I signed up for this shift.”

“I was, but Derek asked to switch because Chloe had a meeting this afternoon.” Chloe was the art director for Archer Enterprises. She designed all of the decoration for the Archer spaces, which included murals and other custom paintings. The art, along with the beer, was a signature aspect of an Archer brewpub. She was also a sometimes waitress at The Arch and Vine, filling in when needed, as they all did. Kyle hadn’t yet been asked to supply his cooking skills, but he’d made it known that he was available and interested.

Natalie turned and looked up at him. “That’s a total bummer.” She smoothed her dark hair back behind her ears and caught the mass, bringing it forward over one shoulder. “I was really looking forward to working with you. Now it’ll be boring.”

He laughed. “No, it won’t. Dave’s here. Dave’s hilarious.” He was a bartender at one of their pubs outside Ribbon Ridge.

She touched his arm briefly, lightly, but it was enough to convey her flirtatious intent. “Dave’s not you.” Her voice held a little pout.

Kyle glanced down at where she’d brushed her fingers against him.

“Sorry!” She clapped her hand over her mouth. “I might’ve had a large glass of pinot over at the A.F. Nichols booth.”

He suppressed a laugh, not wanting to make her any more uncomfortable. “Was it good?”

Her eyes narrowed slightly with pleasure. “Delicious. You should go get a glass.”

“Maybe I will.” He smiled down at her. “Thanks.”

He headed out of the booth, and Sara stepped into his path. “When I said you should look for someone, I didn’t mean right now.” Her gaze drifted to Natalie, who was pouring a beer for a customer.

“What? Natalie?” Kyle shook his head. “That’s just work stuff.”

Sara kept her voice low. “Didn’t look like work stuff to me. Looked like flirty, cutesy stuff. She was devouring you like a menopausal woman at a chocolate buffet.”

He laughed, couldn’t help it. “She wasn’t either.” Sara’s gaze turned sharp, and he relented. “Okay, she was flirting a little.”

“So were you.”

Was he? He hadn’t meant to. He liked Natalie, but they were coworkers—hell, he was technically her boss—and that was it. “Unintentional.”

“Are you sure? She’s your type.”

“I have a type? Sara, I barely see someone more than a few months. How can I have a type?”

“Dark hair, dark eyes.” Like Maggie. “Natalie’s a perfect match.” Kyle glanced back at the booth. Natalie laughed at something one of the customers said. Yeah, she was a knockout, but no, not perfect . . .

He looked down at his sister. “Absolutely unintentional, really. I’m not interested in her.”

Sara poked him lightly in the chest. “Make sure she knows that.”

He winked at her, then turned to find Derek. He was over to the side of the booth, talking to Dad. Taking a deep, cleansing Maggie-breath, he strode toward them.
Smile, Kyle
.