But the fact that she’d signed that note with just an initial and a small heart, well . . . that was a little disconcerting.
When he’d hired Iona last year, he’d been drowning, overwhelmed by a busy practice and trying to have some kind of life while still having clean clothes, decent food, and a house that didn’t look like the Health Department needed to intervene. Iona had laughed at her interview and said he actually needed a wife. He hadn’t disagreed with her. And she’d been an absolute godsend, taking over and running this part of his life with ease. Unfortunately, the feeling that Iona might be wanting to take on that title as well as the job had grown stronger over the last few months.
It’d first become really noticeable when Helena Wheeler had moved back to town last fall. The amount of time he’d spent with her ignited Iona’s jealousy. He’d faced weeks of bland food and scratchy, wrinkled clothes. Once Helena had started dating Ryan Tanner, his life had gone back to normal.
And Iona had starting making him cookies, saying he was too skinny and needed fattening up. Mainly, her supersecret-recipe peanut butter–chocolate chip ones, which he loved. He rubbed a hand over his belly absently. Those cookies would do it for sure.
Last week, he’d found a lacy pair of Iona’s panties “accidentally” mixed in with his laundry, and now she was leaving notes signed with a heart.
Iona danced perfectly right along the line of inappropriateness, never really crossing it and making it impossible for him to call her on it.
He was going to have to do something. Soon. And he was selfish enough to not want to do it simply because Iona took such good care of him, and he didn’t want to hire someone else.
The thing was, there wasn’t anything wrong with Iona Flemming. Cute, sweet, kind—she’d make some man very happy one day. But that man wasn’t going to be him.
He’d have to face that music at some point, but for now, the price of domestic tranquillity and delicious food was ignoring innuendo and playing dense as a tree when she flirted.
Working long, unpredictable hours didn’t hurt, either.
He burned his fingers on the plate as he took it out of the microwave, nearly sloshing the rich gravy off the edge. The smell made his stomach growl as he carefully carried it to the table. Now ravenous, he grabbed a fork, only for his phone to ring before his first bite.
Almost any other ringtone would have been ignorable, but not Sam’s. Since her divorce last year had brought her home—and back to Mom’s house—she’d been a little fragile. And he could talk to his sister and eat at the same time, rude or not. He answered with a “What’s up?” and shoved a forkful of pot roast into his mouth.
“Guess who got a new job today,” Sam singsonged, obviously in a good mood.
“That’s great,” he mumbled around tasty bliss, then finished chewing and swallowed. “Where?”
“Latte Dah. I’m a barista now.” She rolled the R with gusto.
“But you don’t even like coffee.”
“Doesn’t matter. I know how to make it, and that’s far more important.”
He put his fork down. “What about the library?”
“I’ll still have that, too. But Molly’s offering more hours and better money. That means I’ll have the money to get my own place even sooner.”
Sam didn’t like living with their mother—not that Tate blamed her a bit there—but she wouldn’t move into his extra bedroom either, however temporarily. He sighed and rubbed his forehead. “I told you I’d give you the money so you could move out.”
“And that’s very kind of you, but no. I don’t want your money,” she insisted.
Stubborn girl. “Then why don’t you come work at the clinic instead of picking up part-time jobs all over town?”
Sam snorted. “Besides the fact that I don’t want to work for you?”
He sighed. “Yes, besides that.”
“If I had any training or experience in the veterinary business, or even any interest in learning, I’d consider it. But I don’t want a pity job from my big brother.”
It was times like this when he wished Sam was more like their sister, Ellie: sweet, quiet, and much more persuadable—at least when he was doing the persuading. But Sam . . . Sam often made him want to pull his hair out. They were too much alike. “It wouldn’t be a pity job.”
“Then what would it be, exactly?”
He thought for a moment, then grinned, since she couldn’t see it. “Nepotism.”
“Because that’s so much better.” He could almost hear her eyes rolling. “Thank you, but no,” she added seriously. “I need to do this myself.”
“Sam . . .”
“Tate . . .” she echoed in the exact same exasperated tone. “I called you because I wanted you to be happy for me.”
“And I am. I just don’t want you killing yourself when you don’t have to.” He wasn’t rich, but he could certainly help his sister through a bad time. If she’d just let him do it, for God’s sake. Maybe if he . . .
“Put your cape away, Superman. I don’t need rescuing tonight,” she said, as if she could read his mind. “Look, I know the offer’s there,” she continued in a much kinder tone, “and I promise I’ll take you up on it if it all gets to be too much or goes rocketing into hell. But let me at least try to fix my life myself first, okay? I got myself into this mess, and well, I have my pride, too.”
It nearly killed him, but he agreed. Then he ate more pot roast to keep himself from arguing more with her as she moved on to other topics. He’d just start hanging out at Latte Dah more when she was working and make sure to tip well. He could at least slip her a little extra without her being able to refuse it without making a scene.
He heard his mother in the background, followed immediately by a muttered curse from Sam before she said she’d talk to him later, and then left him holding a dead phone. Sam’s pride really was running the show; otherwise she’d be begging him for a loan to get her out of that house.
Hell, he knew that’s why she’d gotten married so young, but since she’d been burned by that choice, she was being more careful this time. And here he was with the money to help assuage his guilt for leaving her and Ellie there with their parents while he went to school, and she wouldn’t take the loan from him. It was frustrating.
Ellie, at least, seemed happy enough up in Mobile, married to a marine biologist she’d met when he’d been down here studying fish or shrimp or something like that. He couldn’t complain about Doug—much—and she had the kids and some volunteer work to keep her busy. She’d warned him that it was best to let Sam find her own way, but at the same time, she wasn’t here, dealing with their mother or watching Sam barely keep her head above the water.
He ate more pot roast, but his irritation at the orneriness of all women in general had sucked all the enjoyment out of it now. He swallowed the last few bites and stuck the plate in the dishwasher.
There was nothing he could do about Sam or Iona or anyone else tonight, and in a way, that felt good to just accept. Anyway, after today, he deserved a lazy, brain-dead evening of doing nothing. He grabbed a couple of Iona’s cookies and took them to the other room with him.
He’d certainly earned them.
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