Some of her foreboding drained away when her daughter responded instead.
“Hey, sweetie. Are you on your way back?”
“Um, no. That’s why I’m calling. Can I pretty, pretty please stay another six weeks?”
“Six weeks?”
At her shout, Travis dropped the anchor straps he was tightening, his expression concerned.
“Grandma saw a flyer for this cool gymnastics camp for the summer. It starts tomorrow. Can I? It’s right in town and you’d save money if I don’t go to day camp.”
No, she wouldn’t save a dime. She’d have to keep paying or lose Kambria’s spot.
“I can’t, honey…” Six weeks. Without her daughter.
“But, Mom, you always say how you wish the gymnastics academy didn’t shut down in Moore so I could go.”
Kami chewed her lip. She and Ben had put Kambria in gymnastics lessons as soon as she was old enough, but that ended after he died. She was teaching Kambria what she could, but their living space was too tiny for a cartwheel, even a front roll. And she refused to do anything more without the proper padded equipment.
If it was anything but gymnastics… When the rest of her life had fallen apart, her mom had managed to afford lessons. Then when she’d moved to Normandy to be with Ben, she’d worked part-time as a coach.
It was almost like Ben’s mom knew exactly how to manipulate her into keeping Kambria for the summer. They’d never had this much tension between them when Ben was alive, but her in-laws resented her moving.
“I really don’t know,” she began.
“Wait, here’s Grandma. Bye, Mom.”
Martha came on the line. “Kami, it’s a really good opportunity.”
For who? “I don’t want to be without my child for the summer.”
“Of course not, but you’re so busy and she has the whole house here to roam in. And…she told us about the farm.”
Kami squeezed her eyes shut. Of course she had. “That’s between me and my mom.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to intrude.” Martha’s uber reasonable tone always made Kami feel like a petulant child arguing with her. “If she was here, it’d give you extra time to work.”
Kami opened her eyes to stare at the ground. “Not really. We’d be here on the weekends no matter what.”
“I’m sorry, I just knew how much you loved gymnastics and how highly you spoke of it…and how proud Ben was when Kambria did her first somersault.”
There went the dagger in the heart. That man had been ridiculous over his little girl. “Fine, but she has to come home on the weekends, and you’ll need to drive her.”
Good, Kami. Keep it up. Don’t the let the MIL push you around.
“Absolutely.” A beat of satisfaction swelled until Martha continued. “Oh, but there’s the trip to Itasca we promised her in two weeks. And in a month, we said we’d take her to the Mall of America.”
Kami ground her teeth so hard, Martha had to be able to hear it.
How could she? She’d planned this whole damn thing. Kambria would only be around six days out of the next six weeks and if she said nay, she’d look like a complete, ornery bastard.
“Fine. Have her back by five on Friday.” She clicked off before Martha could say another word.
Aw, shit. She hadn’t said the full goodbyes and I-love-yous to Kambria.
Her hand fell limp, phone loosely clutched. The backs of her eyes burned.
No crying!
A tear fell.
Broad shoulders blocked out the sun. “Hey, hey. What’s wrong?” Travis brushed the tear away, but another quickly followed.
“My manipulative mother-in-law figured out a way to get Kambria to stay with her until August.” A sob escaped. She hadn’t been without Kambria for so long; it was her and her daughter against the world. But it felt like her girl jumped ship at the first opportunity. “I already told Martha no when she brought it up last spring, but suddenly there’s this fantastic gymnastics camp—” She snarled and stomped away.
He was right behind her. “And if it was anything else.”
She whipped around and almost ran into his solid chest. “I know, right? Ben loved watching her in lessons, said he couldn’t wait to watch her perform at halftime shows like I used to. That devious hag knows how much I love that sport and uses how much Ben loved that I was in it against me.” Pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes, she released a gusty breath. “Whatever. It’s done. I caved. I’ll have to use the extra time to work here.”
When she lowered her hands, she met his gaze.
Was he going to kiss her? Her pulse kicked up.
“Want to come over and I’ll show you my hard drive?”
“Um…”
He grinned, flashing the dimple that was only visible when his full smile was in use. “I designed a game. It’s an app, really. For the phone.”
“You design games, too?” Her heart sank. Was there anything he couldn’t do? Any other ways to prove how he was too good for her? “I’d better get home.”
She stepped around him. He swiveled around to follow her. “I have a hidden agenda.”
That made her pause. “And what would that be?”
“You make edible food.”
If a way to a man’s heart was really through his stomach, she’d been on the wrong path for years. “I do, but it’s not hard. It’s all edible.”
“Not once I get my hands on it. Whaddya say?” He was smiling again, only he was adding the heat he had in his eyes last weekend. “I have ingredients, but they don’t metamorphose into something good if I touch it.”
She thought it over, all the reasons why not. The top of her list was that he used words like metamorphose and that he created games.
He interrupted her mental checklist. “You kinda owe me.”
“For what?” She glanced at the bare patch of pasture that he and Cash broke their backs to clear. “Oh.”
The money from the scrap metal sat in an envelope in her truck. They’d refused to keep it no matter how much she insisted. The rusted metal that the scrap yard didn’t take the guys had hauled to their place to drop at the dump tomorrow. She owed them. A lot.
“I don’t know if I can cook that many meals to pay you back for all you’ve done.”
“You can start with this week.”
She stared at him. Had she heard that correctly? “This week for what? Making you food?”
A thrill went through her. Seeing him every day? The way he dressed down for manual labor in faded Wranglers and a flannel shirt that she wished he’d shed, but of course he didn’t or he’d cut his arms up loading scrap. His ball cap was grungy and frayed, his work hat. She felt better knowing he wore normal working people clothing. He could wear his typical crisp button-up and sharp blue jeans and do all this without getting a speck of grit on him and she wouldn’t be surprised. Travis Walker had always seemed to function at different standards than she did.
Her gaze swept the loaded flatbed. “I don’t think a month of meals would be enough.”
“How about the full six weeks?”
Her eyes flew wide. Six weeks was a long time. How could she argue? Please, help me all weekend with your own equipment and when you ask for any kind of reimbursement, I’ll turn you down flat.
Did she even want to argue?
“Deal,” she said before she could disappoint herself forever. The opportunity flooded her mind with more benefits. “I’ll throw in dessert if I can pick your mind about the tasks I need to accomplish here.”
One thing this weekend taught her was that she couldn’t do this herself. Not at all. The Walkers didn’t do it themselves and, yes, they had a ton more acreage than her and both farmed and ranched, but there were five of them, not to mention their parents’ well of knowledge and any other cousins who were around to help.
“Deal.” His lopsided grin tugged at her like an invisible line. At times he seemed to orbit in a galaxy much more organized than hers. But then he smiled like that
and he was the geeky kid on the bus who fielded homework questions while she giggled with her friends over lip gloss.
Six weeks. Eating with Travis. She couldn’t read more into it.
What if he tried to kiss her again?
***
Travis rolled the tractor next to the Quonset that housed the combine. Kami’s car sat in the driveway loop, closest to his house, pointing out like she needed a getaway. Planting would be done this week. Then he needed to find something more active, maybe start jogging in the morning with Cash and Dillon. He had zero self-control around Kami’s meals.
She was a decent cook, even she admitted her food was nothing spectacular, but that didn’t matter. He hadn’t been kidding when he said his culinary skills were lacking. They lacked in all ways. From burning his damn toast to finding mold in his jelly if he did conquer the toaster. He’d lived in the dorms for longer than necessary and half wondered if he’d gotten his graduate degree just so he could justify eating on campus.
Michelle had been fantastic in the kitchen, but she’d always wanted to eat out, sampling the eclectic mix of bars and grills popping up all over Fargo. She reveled living in city limits. One of the many reasons why she wasn’t going to move to Moore. One of the many reasons why they argued—because he wasn’t leaving Moore. It was his home. Always had been, always would be.
His parents had moved to Arizona, his brother and sister matured into their own lives, only he was left to run the legacy left behind by his grandparents. Well, him and four of his cousins, but he wanted to. Farming was in his blood. Ranching was the fun hobby on the side. He was outside, working with his hands, moving his body, and during his down time when he wasn’t at a fire pit with his family, he could play on the computer. And that’s all it was. Play.
Michelle had kept bugging him. Why didn’t he go for an IT job? Fargo was hopping with a technological boom.
He designed a farming game, instead. She hadn’t even told her family. So, he hadn’t told her that he could buy a new laptop from the earnings on his game in the first six months it’d been out. Nothing spectacular, but not an epic fail in his book. If he hadn’t sold one game, he’d still be proud of himself. His parents sure were.
What had driven him to show Kami? As soon as the offer left his mouth, he went with it, willing to endure the fallout, hoping his weekend of being a good neighbor would win him points.
She’d clapped her hands in delight and immediately downloaded the app on her phone. They’d spent so much time hunched over his computer, she’d only had time to assemble sandwiches, his meal du jour. But they tasted better when she made them. Then she’d interrogated him about his food likes and dislikes.
After two days of toiling next to her in the sun, watching sweat glisten along her slender muscles, spending an evening so close to her without touching her had killed him all night long.
She’d arrived Monday evening as he’d ambled into the yard on his tractor. By the time he’d filled the hops back up with seed, she’d whipped up a batch of spaghetti with meat sauce. Then she’d left to work at her mom’s place.
Tuesday, she’d had chicken enchiladas ready by the time he stepped into the coolness of his house. She’d even made an extra batch to freeze, with heating directions across the top. Then she’d left to work at her mom’s place.
She repeated the scenario yesterday and now it was Thursday and her daughter would be back in town the next night. He had five weeks left of meals. Did he make it clear that what he really wanted to taste was her, spread out on his table, or his bed, or on his floor. He didn’t care. The memory of that one night together over a decade ago was enough to revert his adult hormones to those of his needy teenage self.
She’d been so responsive. Just like her kiss the other night. She’d melted into him.
He had to stop. Planting his hand on the warm metal of the tractor, he closed his eyes and dragged in a deep breath. Take it slow. Romance her. That was the plan.
It was a shitty plan.
No, it was the grand plan. Only the timeline had been moved up because Dillon’s wedding was the end of July. Oh, he could tell they were still waffling, but if he secured a date, they might have more confidence that he wasn’t a lost mess.
He wrapped up his duties. The tractor was ready for the next day. He jogged back to the house. Burning off the cold pasta he had for lunch, which packed way more of a punch than his typical cold cut sandwich.
Letting himself into the house, he let the rightness settle into his bones. Kami had the code. Sounds of spoons scraping pans and savory aromas wafted from the kitchen. Coming home, to this house, to a person he enjoyed spending time with was a long-held fantasy come true. It’d been a dream he’d held onto so tightly that it’d stalled one relationship and prompted him to wonder if he really was better off being a bachelor.
Like the other nights, he went to the bathroom to wash up first. He found a fresh shirt that didn’t smell like dust and sweat and changed. His pants would be all right, otherwise he might scare her off if it looked like he was dressing up for her.
Why couldn’t he make another move? Because his first attempt had ended awkwardly.
An arrogant side he didn’t know he possessed thought it should be a slam dunk. They’d grown up together, had already been together, and were reconnecting years later when they were both tragically single. But she wasn’t jumping into his arms. She resisted his help and sped out before dishes were even dry. The deal about the land might be what was fueling her, but what if she genuinely didn’t care for him? Had their one night together been a one-sided fireworks show? She’d walked away, and that shouted at him that yes, it was.
But the way the fire raged between them during that short kiss… No, he couldn’t believe she wanted nothing to do with him.
He inhaled deep but couldn’t identify the smell emanating from the kitchen. Strolling in, he found her bent over the counter, thumbing through her phone.
“Hey. What’s on the menu tonight?” he asked.
She jerked her head up and clicked out of whatever program she’d been in. Her phone disappeared into her back pocket.
“Knoephla soup.” Her no-nonsense tone made it seem like it was just another meal. An ordinary soup.
His groan came straight from the well of wanting his stomach had been living in since he’d moved back home to be cut off from campus food. “Have you tasted the grocery store’s knoephla? I could live off that stuff for a week, but I never get down there quick enough. The damn pot is empty by the time I get there.”
“Do they make it homemade, or heat and serve?” Was that a hint of challenge in her voice?
“I’m so deprived of quality food that it makes no difference to me.”
He crossed to the cupboard to collect bowls and cups. Sometimes she had the table set, but whatever was on her phone must’ve occupied her time. Setting the table was the least he could do. The deal was she’d cook in return for his help, but he hated walking in and sitting down like she was supposed to serve him.
When he turned with his hands full, she was staring at him, her expression incredulous. He lifted a brow in question.
“I have one more question.” When she crossed her arms, challenge written all over her face, he asked, “Do you make your dumplings from scratch, or buy them?”
“Well, I’ll have you know, Mr. Walker, that I can make a double batch cheaper than buying one bag of precut dough. It’s just flour, salt, and baking powder. Add water, and voila.”
She shooed him to the table and came behind him, bearing soup.
As much as he wanted to chat during the meal, he couldn’t. The food was too good, down to her admittedly packaged freezer breadsticks.
When he was scraping the last vestiges of his bowl, she set her napkin on the table.
“Don’t worry, I’ll clean up,” he said before his last bite. She’d been intent on doing everything to level the field between them, but it was getting late. She put in just as full o
f a day as he did.
“Actually…”
His excitement spiked. She wanted to stay longer?
“I was hoping I could bribe you with dessert if you helped me outline a plan for Mom’s property.”
He set his bowl down, held his expression at deadly serious. “What kind of dessert?”
She narrowed her eyes, but her mouth twitched like she was trying not to smile. “Banana cream pie. Not at all homemade, unless you count adding milk to the pudding powder.”
Why’d he have that third breadstick?
Because they were haying tomorrow and he needed the energy. That excuse worked every time.
“Leave the leftovers here and I’ll show you what I already had written up.”
She was mid-rise when she stopped. “You’ve already made an outline?”
He nodded. “It functions as a timeline, too.”
She straightened and stepped away from the table. “Of course it does.”
He watched her go. Any hint of intimacy they’d developed over their meal and short bursts of conversation was wiped out. What’d he say?
Chapter Seven
Kami flopped the pie on the table. It bounced and whipped cream smeared the flimsy plastic cover.
After her late-night research, she had an idea of what tasks she should put on her to-do list, but Travis had it freaking printed out already. With a timeline.
It was nearing the end of June and she hadn’t even asked around about who could hay the land. Or if any of it was even good for haying. As a good daughter, she should at least arrange for a rancher to hay it and sell them the bales at a discounted rate for doing the work. The money would go to her mom until the sale was finished. How long had it been since any of that acreage had earned a dime?
Her confidence didn’t get bolstered from being in Travis’s place, with his bookshelf full of textbooks in alphabetical order. And his library full of references and rows of magazines, all ag related.
Flyers from equipment dealers and seed companies lined his end tables. Reps from the company must bang down his door. Getting Travis to sign off on their product gave their company the Walker Five account.
Guilt Ridden (The Walker Five Book 4) Page 7
