We Have Till Monday

by Cara Dee

  When: 8 p.m.

  Who: The participants of the August King Cooking Class (Spouses are welcome.)

  Click the link below to RSVP, and we need your response by 11 a.m. on Friday.

  We look forward to seeing you!

  Best regards,

  Clara Pierce

  Discomfort tightened in my gut, and I briefly wondered what the fuck I was doing. All this started with a “Why not?” that I was now questioning a shitload. I wasn’t the type to enter contests and giveaways. I hadn’t considered actually winning. There’d been a post by a famous chef asking his followers what they’d last had for dinner, and I’d obviously seen the information for the giveaway. I remembered also thinking, “Huh, that’s the weekend before the music festival.” Then I’d entered my response with a shrug and a “Why not? Let’s see what happens.”

  Well, this happened.

  This shit was happening.

  “Are you gonna tell me why you look like you wanna puke?” Nicky asked blandly.

  I didn’t wanna puke. I didn’t know what I wanted. For fucking real? Me, at a barbecue with August King?

  As if the cooking class weren’t weird enough.

  I laughed, which caused Nicky’s forehead to crease.

  “The chef hosting the cooking class at the festival invited the participants to a barbecue tomorrow,” I answered.

  Nicky lifted his brows, probably stuck on my reaction. “Okay…? Isn’t that fun?”

  I didn’t know. I didn’t know a fucking thing.

  But I did know how to make my brother understand what I was going through. “Imagine if I went to one of those speed dating events,” I said. “It’d be weird, right? Uncharacteristic. Awkward as shit.”

  His eyebrows pinched together, and he nodded. “Yeah. Sure.”

  “That’s how I feel about this too,” I said. “Leaving Brooklyn, attending some damn food festival on my own, and a fucking cooking class? This ain’t me. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  Understanding flashed in his eyes. A faint grin followed. “That’s part of tryin’ shit that’s outside your comfort zone, innit? I think it’s great you’re doin’ this.”

  I guess I’d succeeded then, ’cause I wasn’t comfortable at all.

  Nicky pointed to my phone. “You should go. If the cooking class feels awkward, I bet the barbecue will help. You’ll have a chance to talk to King—and the other participants.”

  He had a point.

  “And you know you can always call me, right?” he went on. “You could be in fuckin’ China for all I care. Call me if you need a pep talk.”

  I exhaled a chuckle, finding him too sweet sometimes, and shook my head at myself. When did I turn into a coward? I hadn’t always been this unsure.

  “Thanks, bambino.” I cleared my throat and opened the email again. “I’ll go to the barbecue.”

  Chapter 3

  Drive All Night

  The growing crowd loved seeing my brother with a banjo, and he was a stellar entertainer.

  He flirted with them using his skills and charisma.

  I strummed on my electric and sang of needing a new path to go down, a new look, a new everything. The music had me in a tight grip, and I felt the buzz flowing through all of us, connecting us. Sylvia on the piano, Chris and Nicky moving to the beat, and Luiz showing off behind the drums.

  We raised the roof with the last chorus, when Matthew led the choir.

  Fourteen hours on the road had only one upside.

  I was too exhausted to be nervous and worry about making a fool of myself.

  I’d paused at a roadside motel for a few hours of bad sleep somewhere in Nowhere, Virginia, but that was it. Not counting quick breaks to buy coffee and gas.

  Even though I knew exactly where I was, I felt utterly lost in my surroundings. The past hour or so, I’d seen nothing but ranches, never-ending pastures, and animals. Horses and cattle. I was officially in a state where plantations existed.

  I might as well be on another planet.

  Right next to the dirt road, framed by a white-painted wrought-iron gate welcoming me to the Littlefield Ranch, was a place to park, and I pulled in there just to grab a smoke and stretch my legs.

  Four mailboxes were attached to the white fence that enclosed the King land.

  The silence was something else. I’d never experienced anything like it.

  One problem, though. In my worry not to fuck up and get lost, I’d thought, I’ll check out the ranch first, and then I can go to my motel. In other words, I was approximately five hours early, so I wasn’t staying here.

  I exhaled some smoke and rubbed a kink out of my neck.

  The afternoon sun felt good on my skin. Hella good.

  I’d shed my hoodie before I’d reached the Nashville area. I didn’t know what direction that city was in at this point, because I had no actual business there. The food festival took place in Franklin, a suburb. The music festival would bring us to a wooded area near Murfreesboro, its own city and another suburb. My motel was near there too. And Littlefield Ranch was closer to Franklin but still located in the middle of fucking nowhere.

  I needed a drink. A long shower, a nap, and a strong drink.

  I took a deep drag and leaned back against my truck.

  All right. I knew where the ranch was now. I’d finish my smoke, and then—

  The sound of a vehicle slowing down interrupted my planning, and I pulled down my shades to see a truck appearing in the blazing sunlight. It could be someone who worked for August King—or the man himself. Either way, I was probably in the way, and I shouldn’t be here in the first place.

  I was opening the door to my truck when I heard a man holler.

  “You lost, sir?”

  In general, or…?

  I shook my head and flicked a glance his way. Fuck. It looked like it could be King. The sun prevented me from seeing past a hazy image of him surrounded by a halo of light, but it reminded me of him. Now I couldn’t just say no and drive off.

  “Just stretching my legs,” I replied. “I thought I’d swing by to make sure I knew where the ranch was before checking in to my motel. I’m one of the participants for tomorrow.”

  “Oh.” He sounded a little surprised, and then he opened the door and stepped out.

  Jesus.

  The white tee he wore underneath an open flannel shirt stuck to him like a second skin and revealed a stocky frame with defined muscles and a broad chest. He was taller in real life, too. Undeniably handsome. A lot of silver in his hair. Well-worn jeans that hugged his thighs.

  He put a polite smile on his face and extended a hand.

  I’d studied those hands more times than I cared to admit.

  “An early introduction, then. I’m August King.”

  Yes, you fucking are.

  “Anthony Fender.” I shook his hand, a warm, firm grasp, and I was glad I was wearing shades. Because I wasn’t sure I could eye-fuck him discreetly without them.

  “The New Yorker,” he replied with a smirk. A too-charming grin that reached his eyes and crinkled the corners. “Camden was happy when he told me you’d RSVP’d for the barbecue tonight.”

  That didn’t really compute. I didn’t know why Camden would be happy about that.

  It sounded like confirmation about him attending tonight, though. Even though they were married and lived together, this was King’s event, and I wasn’t assuming I’d meet Camden too. Especially not since they appeared to make it a habit to keep things separate.

  I didn’t know how to respond, and luckily I didn’t have to. King excused himself and retrieved his phone from his pockets; it must’ve been set to vibrate.

  “I’m almost home, darlin’,” he said to…Camden, probably. “Seven, like you said.”

  While he was distracted, I couldn’t not take the opportunity to memorize his features. He had more silver in his hair than I’d anticipated. Maybe the lighting in the videos changed the color. It made me wonder how old he
was. His Wikipedia page didn’t actually reveal his age, but I’d guessed late forties, early fifties.

  I stubbed out my smoke and put it into my pack.

  August and Camden were discussing ingredients, perhaps for the barbecue tonight, and there seemed to be an issue about the number of something.

  “There’s no need for that,” he said in a reassuring tone. “I’ll make kabobs instead.” He paused and quirked a grin my way. “Yup, I’ll be home in a minute. I stumbled upon a New Yorker at the gate.”

  I felt my forehead crease with bewilderment. Was I missing some inside joke here? ’Cause that’s what it sounded like.

  King relayed what I’d said, about driving by to make sure I knew the location, and then Camden must’ve interrupted King, who laughed and scratched his car key against his eyebrow.

  “I had a feelin’ you’d react that way. I’ll ask him,” he responded. “See you soon.”

  Impatience surged forward within me, and I folded my arms over my chest.

  I was definitely missing something.

  “Apologies for that.” He pocketed his phone again. “If you don’t have any plans right now, Camden would love to meet you.” He smiled faintly at my evident confusion. “He picked the winners and became an admirer of yours after checking out your account.”

  I had to look like a fucking question mark, but it didn’t seem like I was gonna get any further clarification.

  Maybe Camden wanted to learn how to play the guitar or something. It was the only reasonable explanation.

  “I don’t have any plans.” I shrugged with one shoulder.

  “Great.” He gestured past the gate. “Just follow me.”

  Not for the first time lately, I wondered what the hell I was doing.

  We got back into our trucks, and I drove after him, past the gate and up the long road that slanted over an expansive hill. And once we reached the top and started descending, it became clear exactly where we were. This was the background to most of their cooking videos.

  A large ranch sat at the bottom of the hill, pristine white against the green grass. Only the center of the house had two stories. Then there was a left wing and a right wing.

  Did the two live here alone?

  A stand-alone building was to the left, a large carport, housing three cars already.

  As I got closer, I drove past a sign that directed left for parking and right for “staff only.” That dirt road disappeared somewhere behind the house.

  I followed King past the circular driveway and toward the garage, where I took the last available spot next to his truck.

  Everything was mind-numbingly big, and I hadn’t even seen the entire property. But mannaggia, coming from New York, everything larger than a shoe box was impressive.

  My phone buzzed in my pocket as I left my truck, and I opened a message from Nicky.

  Just remember.

  There was a link to one of the songs we’d performed together. The title, “Count on Me,” made me smile. He was a good kid, my brother. I appreciated his reminder that I could call him whenever.

  Pocketing my phone, I stepped out of the carport and took in my surroundings. Clear blue sky, trees in bloom, sun shining, and fuck me if I didn’t hear country music coming from somewhere nearby.

  “This is some sight, man.”

  August slid me an easy smile. “Welcome to the South.”

  Aside from being all but dead on my feet from driving so long, my mood had lifted. The nerves and unsettlement—gone.

  The house appeared to have two main entrances, one on each side of what I banked on being the kitchen. I knew that large window at the center from all the videos.

  “Is this a workin’ ranch?” I asked.

  “Oh yeah. My sister breeds horses here,” King replied. “A bit of a drive, though.” He gestured over the house. “She has her own house about two miles that way.”

  Jesus. Two miles on the same land.

  King led the way indoors through the left entrance, and I was met by the scents of wood, coffee, and spices.

  Past the small entryway, you could veer left down a hall with several doors, or right, which led straight into the wide-open kitchen and dining area. Old and rustic met trendy and state-of-the-art. Flooring, rugs, beamed ceiling, and built-in shelves looked like they came straight from the 1800s, whereas the appliances and work surfaces appeared brand-new.

  On the other side of the open space was a den of some sort that was lowered into the ground, framed with plush couches and a fireplace. The windows there were even larger, and they revealed a pool and barbecue area right outside. And more green hills.

  Some people lived like this.

  “Camden?” August called, walking farther in. “I’m surprised he wasn’t waggin’ his tail at the door when we came in.”

  I copied his move and kicked off my shoes before trailing into the kitchen.

  There was a big Dutch oven on the stove, a name I knew only because I’d bought one for Nonna for her birthday once.

  “Eh, the boy will show up,” August said. “I gotta go back out and get the groceries for tonight. You get comfortable on the patio.” He nodded to the fridge next to the other entrance. “Grab yourself a beer or a Coke—or there’s coffee on the counter.”

  “You need any help?” I asked. I didn’t know how many were showing up, but I was guessing most of the participants.

  “No, that’s fine.” He gave my shoulder a quick squeeze as he passed me. “If you drove all the way from New York, you must be tired.”

  I was, and I also liked that firm grip of his.

  Then it was just me.

  I couldn’t stop looking around the kitchen. How many times had I opened a video to this view? Now I was here. In their kitchen.

  The walls in the kitchen area were filled with shelved pots, pans, old tins, and pictures. Squeaky-clean countertops along the large bay window with practically nothing on them, except for a coffee machine—the fancy kind that gave you espresso and shit—and what looked like a deep fryer. Then those cluttered walls. But it fit, somehow.

  I ghosted my hand over the countertop on the island as I slowly made my way to the fridge.

  The country music went silent.

  I couldn’t help but chuckle. I was really here.

  “Madonn’,” I muttered, opening the fridge. August and Camden would probably not like the sight of my fridge at home. Theirs was fully stocked with a sampling of virtually everything you could find at the store. I had beer, Styrofoam containers, and condiments in mine.

  “Hi.”

  I whipped my head to the left and spotted Camden, and I nearly swallowed my tongue. He stood there, hesitating by the den, and grinned shyly. Dressed in only a pair of sweatpants drawn up to his knees.

  Could he even buy his own beer? No, really. His entire appearance was a complete mindfuck. Boyish looks combined with the average height of a middle schooler made me wanna ask if he wanted a juice box. But the young man also had ink covering his calves, and he had piercings in both nipples and his right eyebrow.

  Not a single mark on his upper body, though. Just pale, soft-looking skin.

  I swallowed hard.

  Camden Adair wasn’t my usual type, but there was something intoxicating about that boy. It was the mixture of sweet innocence and attitude. I saw it in his eyes every damn week.

  And I was staring.

  I cleared my throat and closed the fridge again.

  But before I could say something, King was back. He opened the door and strode in with two large bags that he set on the kitchen island.

  “There you are, darlin’. Did you get to introduce yourself to your latest favorite New Yorker?”

  Camden laughed and walked toward me. “I was just about to. Hi, Mr. Fender. I’m Camden.” He stuck out his hand.

  I managed to snap out of my state, and I grasped his hand. “It’s Anthony. Nice to meet you in person.”

  “You too!”

  Just as I was ab
out to break the handshake, I dropped my gaze to his hand and instinctively tightened my grip. You gotta be fucking kidding me. I clenched my jaw. There was a tattoo of a small snake slithering up his thumb.

  I released his hand quickly and took a couple steps back. He was peering up at me with curiosity and…something else.

  Was it him?

  “Did you find anythin’ to drink, Anthony?” King asked.

  I ignored how my heart was suddenly pounding furiously, and I forced myself to turn away from Camden. King was safer. He was busy unloading groceries onto the counter.

  “Ah—no. I was thinking. With introductions out of the way, perhaps it’s best if I head over to my motel and return tonight. I don’t wanna interrupt whatever you’re—”

  “But you just got here,” Camden protested. “I wanna know everything about the Fender Initiative.”

  I side-eyed him. At least those words brought me some relief. Music was a topic I didn’t have to worry about, and it made perfect sense if he had an interest in playing an instrument and wanted to discuss that. What didn’t make sense, however, was the possibility of Camden calling me hot behind an anonymous BDSM account on Instagram.

  Because if he was the guy who’d followed me and liked several of my photos, I’d just walked into some kinky dynamic that was none of my business.

  “It’s your choice, of course. I understand you must be exhausted,” King said patiently. “But you’re not interruptin’ anythin’. My only plan is to throw the meat for tonight in marinade and park my ass on the patio with a beer.”

  “It’s settled, then!” Camden said triumphantly. Then he legit grabbed my arm and tried to drag me toward the patio. Emphasis on tried. He didn’t pack a whole lot of strength in his perfect little body.

  His behavior wasn’t very reassuring either, because he reminded me of the unfiltered glimpses I’d seen of my buddy Moshe.

  “Did your feet grow roots?” Camden grunted and stared down at my feet.

  My mouth twitched with humor.

  He had to know he wasn’t acting…normal.