Loner by Harloe Rae Page 0,37
made out of chocolate. “What else are you doing with your life, Ford?”
I furrow my brow at her weird phrasing. “Besides working my ass off? Hiking and hunting. Drinking the occasional beer.” No need to make her worry about something else.
“How about going out with friends?”
Prickles attack the base of my neck and I try not to slouch. Why do I feel like that awkward teenager again? “Don’t need ’em. I have Patch, and my customers.”
“But you do need others. People to depend on when things get rough, and spend time with for fun.”
Am I ashamed to admit that my mom is the only person I can rely on? Not even a little bit. But I can’t make this too easy on her. She’ll use the smallest scraps to piece together the entire story without me realizing it. “I’m fine on my own, Mom.”
She huffs and crosses her arms. “You’re not getting any younger.”
“I’m only twenty-six.”
“How about finding a good woman?”
“Not interested,” I grunt.
“Don’t you want kids someday?”
These questions from her almost bowl me over. The idea of getting married, or having a committed relationship in general, is enough to shrivel my balls. To add insult to that painful injury, visions of snotty children running amuck sends a chill across my skin. No fucking thanks. Although, not all of my experiences with little tykes are bad. A quiet little girl helping me replace spark plugs comes to mind.
Keegan mentioned that I’m turning Millie against her. The meaning behind that is still a mystery to me. I only spoke to her that one morning when she was lost. Keegan didn’t give us the chance to make plans, not that I want any sort of connection to them. I did invite Millie to visit my shop again, though. Maybe that was a mistake. But it’s been weeks and there’s been no sign of those blonde pigtails. I swallow the lump in my throat. It’s for the best, on all accounts. Even if Millie spoke to me when she rarely talks to others. That doesn’t make me special. Keegan has plenty to bark about in regard to that. An involuntary thrill shoots through me. Damn wildcat.
My mother drums her nails on the table. “Choosing to ignore me? Why ever might that be, Ford?”
I reel in the whipping sails of my thoughts. This is not the place to be recalling Keegan or Millie or anything slightly positive in regards to the female population. If my mom catches me smiling, I’m done for. I lean down to dig into my toolbox and toss her a wrench. “Are you giving Grant this lecture?”
She frowns, the expression dimming the sparkle in her eyes. Unlike me, my brother blames her for every wrongdoing since his accident. Talking about him is about as pleasant as swallowing staples, but it beats the birds and bees chat. “No, he’s a different story.”
“And why is that?”
“Your brother made it clear the bachelor life is for him.”
I grunt at that bullshit excuse. “That’s real rich.”
She smooths a palm down her stained outfit. “Isn’t it? He takes after a certain someone in that regard.”
“And many others,” I mutter.
My mother reaches for my hand. “Be better than him.”
She doesn’t have to specify further. I’m well aware of who she’s referring to. “I’m nothing like him.”
Her smile droops at the corners. “You’re not, that’s true. I think that’s what upsets him most.”
“If only Grant would see the truth.” I force down the ball of fire rising in my gut. “He’s the better one. Older and wiser. More likely to get hitched and spawn a bunch of hellions.”
My mom averts her gaze. “I highly doubt that. He’s changed so much that I barely recognize him. All he cares about is work.”
I scrub over my forehead. “Wasn’t that the first thing on my list?”
She waves me off. “You’re different, always have been. It’s just going to take the right woman and you’ll be a goner.”
A strangled noise rips out of me before I can conceal it. I leap up and make a mad dash for the fridge and swipe a beer. “Not a chance. Ever.”
She quirks a pencil-thin brow at me. “Why the snippy attitude? Is my son finally dealing with lady trouble? That would explain the random stop to see me.”
I choke on my sip of the foamy brew. Damn, she truly is perceptive. I should’ve known. “Hardly,” I mutter.
My mom flattens her lips, still studying me far too closely. “Yeah, that’s not your style. Something wrong