Cooper (The Family Simon 6)

“You’re not having another?” Good. Her voice was even.

He shook his head, his mouth curving into a smile. “Nah. I’ve got to drive.”

Mouth pursed tightly, she reached for the fridge again and pulled out a Bud Light. She tossed it at Cooper, hoping like hell he’d fail the test, but of course he caught the bottle easily. The most she could hope for was a good eruption of foam when he opened it.

“So your father says you can start Friday?”

“What was that?” Morgan had turned away, but at his words, found herself staring into those blue eyes yet again.

Cooper smiled, an easy sort of thing that drew the eye to his generous mouth and strong chin. I bet he practices in the mirror.

The thought slid through Morgan’s mind, and she nearly smiled in return, but luckily caught herself in time. She tugged at the hem of her sweatshirt, uncomfortable when his gaze followed her actions.

“The attic. I’ve decided that I need it catalogued, organized, and packed up. Your father said you can start Friday.”

Morgan didn’t have a chance to respond. The back door flew open, and Hank Johnson stepped into the kitchen. A lifelong friend and one of the only employees Campbell’s Home Services had left, he was a big man with a big smile, soft brown eyes, and an even bigger heart. Hank had been there for Morgan when her life went sideways and she’d been at her lowest. He was like family, and she was grateful for his presence.

Hank looked from Morgan to Cooper and, without a pause, held out his hand to Cooper. “Don’t think we’ve met. Name’s Hank.”

“Cooper.”

The men shook hands. “You’re Rick’s brother.”

“Can’t deny that,” Cooper responded with a chuckle.

“He’s a good guy.” Hank’s gaze slid to Morgan. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“Nope,” Morgan replied, voice a little high and way too curt.

Hank held her gaze a heartbeat longer, eyes narrowed slightly. He cleared his throat and tugged on his playoff beard. The thing was long and thick, making Hank look a bit like a mountain man. But it suited his rugged features, and he’d been sporting a playoff beard since the 2010 men’s league playoffs. The damn thing had taken on a life of its own.

“I just swung by for the keys to the plow. I’ve got to remove the snow buildup from the church parking lot before Mrs. Anderson hunts me down and makes me recite one hundred Hail Mary’s.” He paused. “They’re not out back in the shop.”

Great. “Okay. Let me see if Dad remembers where he put them.”

She moved past the men, kept her steps slow but sure, and paused just inside the front room. Her father stood in the shadows that drenched the far corner, beside the hutch and the low-slung table filled with family photos. He was still as a statue, one hand wrapped around his Bud Light, the other in midair.

He reached for one of the photos, his hand shaking, and that pit of despair inside Morgan opened like a black hole, making her chest tight and her throat close up. In that moment, Ryan Campbell looked as lost as Morgan felt.

Her father turned slightly and held the framed photo so that the light from the window fell over it. How long he held the picture there, Morgan couldn’t say. But it was long enough for him to set down his beer and touch i

t lovingly with those trembling fingers of his. Long enough for him to grab it close to his chest and hold it there a few seconds more.

It was long enough for Morgan to glimpse a bit of the man he used to be. And long enough for her to know his pain was just as deep and hard as ever. That the scars left on her family after the day-when-everything-changed were nowhere near healed.

Her heart thudded, and she took a step forward but froze when her father shook his head violently and tossed the photo across the room. The sound was sharp and dead and hard as glass shattered against the wall. Morgan could only watch him in silence when he turned to her.

For several long moments, the two of them stared at each other. One, a broken man who owned a bitter, dark heart filled with rage and blame. The other, a shadow of her former self with scars that ran deep. A woman who’d forgotten what hope and love and joy were.

They hadn’t always been like this, but Morgan could barely remember the “before” they’d been.

She cleared her throat. “Hank needs the keys to the Bobcat.”

Her father scowled. “They’re in the shop.”

She kept her voice neutral. “He says they’re not.”

Ryan Campbell’s face darkened, and he finished his beer in one gulp, then shoved past his daughter with a curse. “Damn kids don’t know where anything is around here. No wonder this place is falling apart.”