Like You Love Me (Honey Creek 1)

“So . . . ,” Jobe says.

“Thank you for getting the ladder. I know it killed you.”

His lips form a lopsided grin. “It did. But I did it for you.”

“And that’s why the meatloaf I made for you is still in the fridge.”

A shadow crosses his face. “Hey, yeah. Thanks. I didn’t get over here to get it. I got . . . sidetracked.”

“Sounds like there’s a story there.”

“One you don’t want to hear.”

Jobe picks up a picture frame off my desk. It’s of us, our parents, and Liv. It was taken just a few months before they passed away. We were in the backyard, having a barbecue. Dad cooked salmon on the grill. For some reason, I can remember so many details about that random day—the smell of the mesquite chips, the feel of the sun on my face, and how it was almost too warm for an April evening. Mom’s laugh never seemed to stop that night, and she chased Liv and me around with a water gun, making us shriek.

This house is full of memories like that—memories that I can’t make anywhere else. Memories I can’t leave, because if I do, I’ll be walking away from the only parts of my family that I have left. The people who love me for me, regardless of anything else. The promises I made my grandmother.

The person I am.

Jobe sets the picture back down. He runs his hands down his jeans.

I take in the lines around his mouth and the way his jaw flexes. Figuring he’s right, that I don’t want to hear his story, I change the subject.

“How’s the real estate market?” I ask. “Selling any houses?”

“I’m closing on a house out past Shiloh Church tomorrow. The red one just past the cemetery. Remember that one?”

“Ah, yeah. It’s cute.”

He nods. “So is the woman buying it.”

“Oh, Jobe,” I say with a sigh.

He just laughs. “So what’s going on around here? I saw paint cans out back and all kinds of shit. What are you doing?”

I scoot back from my desk and stretch my legs out in front of me.

Usually, projects like this would end up being a family affair. It would start with Liv traipsing over because she can’t stand not to get involved in, well, everything. And then she’d end up calling Jobe for advice or help, depending on what she was doing. He’d bitch and moan about it. But a little while later, he’d come over, too, and we’d spend all night refinishing floors or hanging new curtains.

Now, though, I’m not sure how it works. Holden is still here. It would be weird to ask Jobe for his help, although I could totally use it, but I can’t ask Holden either. For one, it’s not his place. And for two, I don’t know his time line for staying.

“I’m painting,” I say simply. “I’m starting in the hallway leading upstairs because I feel like it’s the worst. So many suitcase dings and dirty hands and traffic smudges. Then if I like the color, I’ll work on the bedrooms and stuff.”

“Ah, don’t paint the bedrooms, Soph.” He makes a face. “It’s a part of the Honey House lore.”

“Yes, but no one knows that lore but me, you, and Liv. No one else cares. Everyone else wants fresh and fancy-named paints.”

He looks unfazed.

“I don’t make the rules, Jobe. I just have to work within them if I want to get this place going again at full speed.”

He leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. “Is this your husband’s idea? Because it sounds like something a city slicker would say.”

“What? No.” I laugh. “This is all mine.”

“He’s rubbing off on you, then. I’m going to have to take him out for a drive sooner than I thought.”

I give him a look that makes him laugh.

“So, really, what’s going on?” Jobe asks. “Something is happening in your head, because the house smelled like bleach a couple of days ago and now you’re painting.”

I bite my bottom lip.

“Just spill it,” Jobe says.

I take a deep breath and study his face. Beneath his debauchery and totally womanizing ways, I know he’d understand my predicament. He wouldn’t like it, but he would get it. And right now, that’s what I need.

Forcing a swallow, I shift in my seat. “When you married Shelby—”

“We’re not talking about that.”

His words are abrupt. Cold. Hard. It’s a topic, a person, that we never, ever talk about. Shelby Laine is the only thing my brother has cared about outside of our family, and she broke his heart into a million jagged pieces.

His eyes are as chilled as his words as he stares at me with a warning not to proceed.

“Fine,” I say. “I won’t ask.”

Irritation swirls across his features, muddying the usual softness he has for me. He leans back in his chair, his shoulders rigid, as his internal fight over what to say plays out on his face.