Hate You Not

She replies a second later. Aww, sweetie. I really wish I could but I’m covering my sister’s shift at the Shake & Bake till 1.

Maybe after?

You’re desperate aren’t u, she asks.

YES. I’m desperate!! Help me. Oh, hell, I forgot the puppies. Bet they’ve peed all in their new crate in the laundry room. G2G, please call at 1 when you get off. Help meeeeee!

Leah sends a winky kiss face. I heave a sigh and wash my hands and flush the empty toilet and check on the puppies, who in fact have not peed, so I haul their fuzzy little selves outside again and point them toward a rough patch in the grass.

Burke’s peering into the castle’s mesh window, but a second later, he and the kids stroll over.

“Margot and Oliver were just asking me about the rodeo,” he says.

“Mmm?” I look at Oliver and Margot. “Whatcha wanna know, babes?”

“Will there be butter popcorn?” Oliver asks.

“There will be. Do you like butter?”

“It’s better than ghee. Sometimes Mom would let us get it at the movies!”

“Is that right? So you want buttered popcorn tonight?” I grin.

They nod their little cute heads.

“Done,” Burke says.

I arch my brows at him. Since they’re both staring at us, I can’t give him the glare I want to.

“My brother was planning to take them,” I tell Burke pointedly. “He’s got their tickets.”

“That sounds good. We’ll sit with him.”

I bug out my eyes—is this guy freaking serious—and he smirks. “No?”

I bug them out again, then look down at the kids. Lord help me. I need some sort of palate cleanser or I’m gonna combust. “I feel like it’s ice cream time, kidlets. What do you say? You want to get a Heat Springs Float?”

Oliver picks up Mario, and Burke scoops up Peach.

“I love ice cream,” Margot sighs.

“I’ll drive,” Burke offers.

I almost say I’ve got the driving covered, but I realize if we roll up in my truck and he gets out alongside me, I’ll be talked all over town. His car would be the smarter choice. Let them know he’s just a visitor, come down to see the kids.

“Y’all want to ride in your uncle’s snazzy sports car?”

Of course they do. I take Mario from Oliver and send the kids toward the potty.

Burke follows me into the laundry room.

He puts Peach into the crate the pups are sharing and then stands up and squints at what’s on the wall beside the dryer.

“Is this a map?” he asks.

“It’s a constellation map. Yes.” I’m trying to look at his face but not stare. He’s so freaking attractive it’s just awful, really.

“Did you make it?” he asks.

“Yeah, you know. I’m mainly a farmer, but on the side I just make these maps.”

I can tell from his face that he’s not sure if I’m serious.

“Of course not.” I give him an eye roll. “It came from Amazon.”

“You guys get Amazon Prime here?”

“Honey, people get Amazon all over the world. Even us little country bumpkins down in Nowhereville.”

I lift my brows, and he looks like he might be contrite. I notice a bruise on his forehead.

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” he says quietly.

I brush by him into the kitchen, mostly so I don’t have to worry that I’ll accidentally stare too long at him.

“Thanks,” I say, grabbing two bananas from the counter. I lift my purse off a kitchen chair and stash them inside.

“Can I get one of those?” he asks.

I glance at him. “A banana?”

“Anything, I guess. But a banana works.”

“Didn’t pack any of your special San Francisco snacks? No organic granola? This banana is organic. That should bring you peace.”

He lets a breath out. “I’m sorry, June. I really am. What else can I say?”

“Oh, nothing.” I shrug. “Never can be too sure that I would understand it anyway, what with my limited education and all.”

The kids come bounding down the hall, and I walk toward the front door.

“Let’s go eat some ice cream, kiddies.”Chapter 8BurkeShe’s right. I was a dick. During negotiations in my corner of the world, it’s pretty normal to low-key shit-talk someone. Twist their arm a little using insults—especially if those insults focus on past failures. Everyone knows tech is mostly one big sausage fest, so I don’t worry about being dickish to the other dicks.

Yesterday, I was in default dick mode. I didn’t think about how she would feel. Mostly because I didn’t give a shit.

Today, that’s not as easy.

I’m driving us toward “town,” where the bookstore/coffee place is—where they apparently they serve some kind of Coke float that the kids are squealing about. June is in the front seat beside me, her knees angled slightly toward the door. She’s wearing pale blue-ish leggings and a big, thick, corded beige sweater, with her blonde hair in a top-of-the-head ponytail, Ariana Grande style. She’s got on big, dark glasses like some kind of movie star, and every time her gaze is pulled in my direction—usually by something the kids are doing in the back seat—she makes an irritated face, which only makes her pretty mouth twist in a pretty pout.