“You’re right. And maybe they’ll have ideas for how they can contribute. I always think I need a plan for everything, but sometimes I need to be reminded to ask other people for help.”
“I think we all need that,” he said. It was something Aunt Dottie had told him often enough in the days he’d struggled.
“You know,” she said, setting down the bottle. “I came over here partly because I wanted to avoid talking to Jack. I know I need to do it, but I feel so guilty I can hardly stand it.”
“Why don’t you ask him to come over?” he suggested on impulse. He didn’t really want to end their tête-à-tête, but he had a feeling he wouldn’t be able to hold back much longer. If someone else was added to the equation, he wouldn’t have the opportunity to make a fool of himself. Besides which, he remembered the way Jack had sat in that meeting, his back rigid as he looked at the father who refused to acknowledge him and the siblings who didn’t know him. He’d felt sympathy for him—no, more than that, empathy. If Georgie wanted to talk to him, she should, and there was no time like the present. Waiting on something like that would likely only lead to more regret. “If you don’t sell, this is his house too,” he added. “He might as well see it before he makes his vote.”
“He did text me earlier,” she said. “Said he was getting a drink at Buchanan, and I could join him if I felt like it.” She shrugged one shoulder. “At the time I didn’t.”
“Tell him to get a car service,” he suggested. “Or walk. It’s not too far.”
She lifted the beer again, took a drink, and nodded. “You know, River Reeves, I think I just might do that.”
He picked up her phone and handed it to her, letting his fingers linger on hers longer than was needed. “I’m holding you accountable.”
“I’d expect nothing less,” she said, smiling up at him before she leaned down to send off a text.
Her stomach grumbled then, a loud sound that hung between them. He wouldn’t have laughed except for the look of open horror on her face.
“What kind of a house-squatting host am I? You’re hungry. When was the last time you ate something?”
“It’s been a while,” she acknowledged, her cheeks flushing an adorable pink. “Should we go get something?”
“Let me see what Aunt Dottie has in the kitchen. She spent some time getting the place cleaned up before you got here. I’ll bet she wouldn’t leave the fridge empty.”
Her phone vibrated again, and she looked up at him, her eyes full of hope, before she glanced down at it. “He’s coming,” she said. “He’s going to meet us here.”
“Good,” he said, opening the refrigerator door. Just as he’d expected, there were a few labeled glass Tupperware containers inside.
Georgie joined him, leaning in close to look at the labels. He caught a whiff of her scent, something he’d been noticing over the course of the night. She smelled a little like the lemon bars Aunt Dottie liked to make, sweet but tart. It suited her.
She laughed a little, low and husky, as if she noticed how close they were standing. “She didn’t label any of these for what’s in them. They’re all labeled with a mood.”
And so they were. A large square container filled with what looked to be homemade mac and cheese was labeled “sorrowful.” Another container, which looked to hold some sort of red sauce with sausage and peppers, was labeled “aggrieved”—that one would be punishingly spicy, he knew from past experience. The “exuberant” Tupperware contained a fruit salad (nothing said happy to Aunt Dottie more than nature, and he’d bet some of the fruit was from her own trees), and then there was a final Tupperware with a label that read “wanton.” That one held a huge piece of chocolate cake. Sinful, as Aunt Dottie would say with delight. She’d likely wink to accompany it.
“What will it be?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
Georgie grinned, and was it his imagination, or was she leaning closer?
“Would you think I was being greedy if I said I was feeling a little bit of each?”
Had she just told him she was feeling wanton?
But before he could ask, or even pull out any of the containers, he heard a yowl from the basement.
Georgie’s eyes widened, and she pulled back from the fridge. “Oh no, River, I forgot to shut the door last time!”
It sounded like Jezebel had found Beau’s stash of hops.
Chapter Seven
“I take it that’s bad,” Georgie said, her head fuzzy from all the beer she’d consumed. It hadn’t seemed like a lot while she was partaking in River’s beer flight, but her lack of coordination suggested otherwise.
River didn’t answer—he just bolted down the stairs. Georgie considered following him, but she wasn’t sure descending stairs in the dark was a good idea, and she wanted to be upstairs when Jack arrived.
Jack was coming over.
She was second-guessing her decision to invite him over. She was in no condition to discuss business. What was she thinking? Obviously, she hadn’t been. River had given her copious amounts of beer and weakened her with his charm. And his warm brown eyes. And the way his hair curled at the nape of his neck, making her want to reach out and smooth it with her fingertips.
No. Stop. She couldn’t think of River like that.
Right?
River appeared at the top of the stairs, pinning Jezebel’s back to his chest while the cat took wide swipes at his hands and wrists, drawing blood as she hissed and yowled.
“Oh my goodness, River! I’m so sorry!”
He closed the door to the basement and dropped the cat, who took off running to the living room. She worried he’d be pissed at her—her last boyfriend would have been; he’d been all about accountability—but River gave her a lopsided grin. “I’m told women admire war wounds.”
“Not this one. Especially not when it’s my fault you got them. We need to clean those up,” she said, feeling almost guiltier because he didn’t seem to blame her. “You could get cat scratch disease. Do you know where Beau kept his first aid kit?”
“Probably in the hallway bathroom.”
“I’ll be right back.” She rushed down the hall to the bathroom and started opening cabinet doors, looking for bandages, antibiotic ointment, and antiseptic. She found a white plastic box shoved behind a half-used roll of toilet paper, and after confirming that it held what she needed, she stood, catching her reflection in the mirror. Her hair was falling out of her bun, tendrils brushing her cheeks. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes bright, but what caught her off guard was how happy she looked.
When was the last time she’d felt truly happy?
She turned at the sound of some rather aggressive meowing. Jezebel was blocking her exit from the bathroom.
“Uh, River…” she called out, holding the first aid kit to her chest.
The cat hissed and batted a paw at her.
She started to call for River again but then decided she could deal with it herself. If she ended up staying in Asheville, the logical thing to do would be to live in this house—a house that Jezebel clearly saw as her territory. Now that she was better acquainted with the cat, there was no way she would attempt to saddle her little sister with the beast. The thought of Victoria dealing with the cat was funny, but she suspected Lee wasn’t about to adopt her.