A Bet Worth Making (Grayson County #2)

by Heather Hildenbrand

  “Your … brother?” I repeated.

  “Yes. He was calling me—again—to see if I’d done the second thing I came here to do. Visit my grandparents. They live in Windsor and I’ve never even met them, but I promised my dad I would just before he died so here I am.” She broke off and growled, stomping back to the stove to snatch the bacon, and I went quiet, replaying it back in my mind.

  The guy on the phone, Gavin, was her brother.

  And she had family in Windsor. Grandparents that she’d never met.

  Fuck me. My guess had been right.

  No wonder she was all riled up and pissed off. She was probably already nervous enough and I’d come stomping in and made it worse. And if the rest of her family tree was any indication, it wasn’t going to make her life any easier once she’d met them.

  “Shit, Jordan. I’m sorry,” I said, my shoulders sagging.

  “Forget it,” she said flatly. “It’s not a big deal. I just have to meet them, spend a few dinners making small talk, and then my promise to my dad is fulfilled. It’s not a big deal,” she repeated.

  “Sounds like a pretty big deal from where I’m standing. And I’m sorry for being an ass about it. I mean it,” I said, stepping closer.

  She put up a hand to stop me, her usually pouty lips drawn tight in a hard line. “I don’t want your sympathy,” she said quietly. “Just your truck.”

  I picked up the keys and put them in her hand, curling her fingers gently around them and hanging on. “Well, too bad,” I said. “You’re getting both.”

  Jordan’s bottom lip trembled once before she sucked it between her teeth. I didn’t let go of her hand, too afraid any movement would spook her. She slowly withdrew and I let her even though I wanted to grab her and tuck her into my arms. I couldn’t. Not yet. Not when she didn’t trust me with her secrets much less her tears.

  “Thanks,” she said finally, her voice once again clear and steady. “I’m going to grab a shower. I’ll see you later?”

  I nodded and watched her stride out.

  She’d be seeing me for sure. No way was I letting her do this alone.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Jordan

  The truck smelled like French fries and there was a layer of mud caked into the floor mat that hadn’t been there on Friday. I wondered how long it had been since Casey cleaned this thing. I missed my old Nissan as I glanced over the worn upholstery with a wrinkled nose. The sight of old burger wrappers on the passenger floorboard almost changed my mind about doing this today. I could go back inside, change into sweatpants, borrow Casey’s couch instead and spend the day watching movies.

  But I’d made a promise to two people that meant more than anything in the world—and I was running out of time to fulfill it. So, I begrudgingly put it in drive and rolled over the gravel driveway and out onto the road, written directions on the seat beside me.

  I glanced back at the house once in the rearview, half-expecting Casey to come barreling out. I’d waited until he was in the shower to sneak off. He’d insisted on coming with me when I’d broken down and told him where I was going and why. But I couldn’t let him see this. Even if it went well, this meeting was not something I could do with him watching me the way he did. Not when he always seemed to see farther inside me than I wanted anyone to.

  So, I’d taken the chickenshit option—Gavin was right after all—and snuck off while Casey was otherwise occupied. There’d be hell to pay for it later, but it was better than trying to survive my fucked-up family AND my annoying attraction to the hot guy who slept across the hall now trying to also be my … what did one call a fling? A booty call? Friends with benefits?

  By tonight, he expected an answer about this stupid bet idea. God, what had I been thinking last night? I snorted, because the answer to that was nothing. I blamed it on one too many refills from the keg. Tipsy and horny were not a great combination for making sound relationship decisions.

  But if I was honest, even today, sober … I wanted to take that bet. Badly.

  And it had nothing to do with the breakup I knew would inevitably happen at the end. I wanted to touch the sexy country boy who slept across the hall. I wanted to do very dirty, very improper things with him. I wanted to see him naked. And I almost didn’t care how we got there. Almost.

  Too bad he’d decided to make it about more than that. Why couldn’t he just want sex? That would make it so much easier.

  The fact that he’d pulled the truth about my family out of me held me back. I had no idea how to handle that side of whatever this was. He made me talk about things I didn’t want to talk about. But somewhere deep down, I knew if I said no, I’d ruin whatever small friendship we’d found. And I suspected I’d hurt him, although it seemed ridiculous. We barely knew each other. He and I were from two different worlds.

  The drive took longer than expected, first due to getting stuck behind a tractor for a winding stretch and then being forced to stop for a cow crossing. A legit cow crossing. I stared as they meandered across the narrow pavement and when the farmer tipped his hat, I could only shake my head and wave at him.

  Forty minutes and two wrong turns later, I found a prim mailbox that looked like a red barn sporting the correct house number. I swung in and stomped the brake, stopping abruptly to take it all in.

  Set far back from the road on a straight and narrow paved drive, the house was like something out of Gone with the Wind with a dash of King Arthur. At the front of a massive porch, columns rose like a castle gate—a mixture of medieval royalty and Southern Belle—and propped up a balcony on the second story that overlooked a yard dotted with weeping willows and crepe myrtles. Massive oaks bordered the yard on both sides like a natural wall shutting out the rest of the world—or shutting my grandparents in.

  It should have been intimidating, some sort of architectural warning to turn back.

  I hated that I loved it on sight.

  My stomach flipped. I took a deep breath, rolled my shoulders back, and eased forward on the gas. The tires rolled over the smoothly paved drive, the house growing larger as I got closer, until concrete gave way to patchy grass. I parked beside another pickup, this one much newer and probably better smelling than the one I was stuck with. Farther down, a three-car garage sat quietly, the white paint glistening in the warming sun.

  My heart thumped wildly and I braced my hand on the door handle, sucking in deep breaths. But it only made my hyperventilating worse, so I gave up, resolved not to think too much.

  Just do it, Gavin would say if he were here.

  But he wasn’t. Apparently, whatever inner peace he’d made with our grandparents had satisfied Dad. It was me who still held on to the anger.

  I got out slowly, on edge at how exposed I was against so much empty space between me and all those windows looking down on me. A soft squeaking grabbed my attention, and I froze, squinting up at the house. Between the thick columns, I caught sight of a porch swing sliding lazily back and forth.

  Halfway up the steps, I stumbled when I heard a voice.

  “You with those Jehovah’s Witnesses from Calvert?”

  I caught the railing just in time to right myself and looked up into the weathered face of a man, his eyes sharp and discerning and not particularly friendly as he studied me.

  “No, sir. I don’t subscribe to organized religion,” I said.

  “Magazine sales?” he asked, still wary. I studied him right back, wary for other reasons, as I took in his worn flannel tucked into weathered jeans and thick-toed boots. My eyes caught on a rifle lying tucked up against the house beside him and adrenaline rippled through me.

  “Not selling anything,” I said.

  He frowned. “Charity?”

  My chin came up. “I don’t believe in handouts.”

  He grunted, eyes narrowing, but I caught the smirk lying just out of reach. “Democrat or Republican?” he barked, but now there was a sparkle in his eye. Despite all of my fear and reservations, I found myself enjoying h
is little game.

  My lips twitched. “My daddy taught me religion and politics don’t get discussed until dinner’s over,” I said.

  His hard expression fell away and he smiled until crow’s feet creased the corners of his eyes and mouth. “I’ve always said the same thing. Lemonade?”

  He didn’t wait for my answer before he gripped the glass pitcher on the table beside him and filled an empty glass. “This was supposed to be for my nephew but he’s late,” he explained. “Early bird gets the worm, I always say.”

  I couldn’t help it; I smiled back as I took the outstretched drink. “Thanks,” I said.

  “Have a seat.”

  I sat, some of my nerves returning at being so close. Who was this man? Was he my grandfather? I saw traces of my dad’s nose shape and sharp cheekbones but it didn’t prove anything. I’d never seen so much of a picture of my family here—at my own angry insistence.

  In recent years, Mom had stopped offering, and then she’d stopped bringing it up altogether. It was my own fault I was so clueless.

  The man sipped his own iced drink and pushed off the floorboards with his toes, letting the swing squeak back and forth. I sipped my lemonade, very aware of the picture we made as we swung. It was so stereotypical. Lemonade on a porch swing in the south. But it was charming, nonetheless.

  The silence stretched until my curiosity won out over my nerves and I couldn’t wait any longer. “I’m looking for John DeWalter. You wouldn’t happen to be him, would you?” I asked, trying for—and failing at—nonchalance.

  “I guess depends on who’s asking,” he said, staring off into the trees that bordered the property.

  I hesitated a second longer, but in the end I decided to just rip the Band-Aid. I shifted until I looked him square in the eye and said, “His granddaughter. The one he disowned.”

  His lips parted in a slack “O” shape but still, he only stared off into the distance. My nerve endings tingled until I couldn’t feel my feet. This part—the reaction—was the part I’d been dreading all along. Everything before and after was easy. Probably.

  The man put his toe down and the swing jerked sideways then came to an abrupt stop. He turned to me. “You’re Jordan?” he asked, and the look in his eye resembled the jumpy feeling I was currently fighting.

  What the hell did he have to be scared of?

  “I am,” I said, my voice smaller than I wanted.

  But the man simply stared back at me, eyes searching the angles of my face. He grunted. “You’ve grown,” he said simply.

  I stared back, completely at a loss.

  A sound from inside the house broke the spell between us.

  He blinked at me and then blurted, “Go home,” before jumping up and darting for the front door. My jaw fell open, mostly at how fast a man his age could move, and then surprise gave way to insult.

  I shot up after him just as he tried slipping inside. “What the hell?” I demanded.

  He froze, muttering something that sounded like, “You’ve done it now.” Beyond him and the half-opened screen door, footsteps sounded. Heels from the sound of it.

  “Really? That’s all you have to say to me?” I demanded.

  I slammed my lemonade down on the porch bannister and turned to go, but a woman’s voice had me turning at the last step. “Jordan DeWalter? Is that you?”

  A woman, aging lines marking her eyes and mouth, stood in the doorway. She stood stiff, shoulders back, her sharp eyes and perfectly piled hair sending a regal message. Despite the vulnerability in her words, everything about her felt cold and absolute. If this was a castle, here was its queen.

  “Yes,” I said slowly, planting my feet and squeezing my keys in my fist. How did they know it was me? “Who are you?”

  Her expression softened and then retreated into some sort of pasted-on politeness. “I’m Sharon DeWalter, this is John.” She gestured to her husband, busting him for trying to slink inside. He straightened, shot me a look, and stepped back onto the porch, hands stuffed in his pockets. “We’re your grandparents.”

  I stood mute, unsure what to say to such an obvious and loaded admission.

  “Would you like to come inside?” Sharon asked.

  Meeting one, I told myself. No matter what happens next, I’d successfully completed meeting one. Only two more to go.

  I took a deep breath. “Sure,” I said and followed them both inside.

  The screen door banged shut behind me—the same exact sound it made at Casey’s. Another southern trait.

  The house was bathed in cherry wood stain; the hardwood floors, the furniture, even the mantel over the huge fireplace was all stained to perfectly match. I walked into the sitting room and chose an uncomfortable-looking armchair opposite my grandmother.

  My grandfather, John, kept walking straight through and disappeared into what looked like a mudroom. I heard a door open, and then a sharp bark as paws scraped over the floor in a hurry. A second later, two beagles appeared, mouths open, tongues out, as they hurried straight for me.

  “John, you are not going to let those things jump all over her right now,” Sharon scolded.

  The two dogs jumped up, straining to land their tongue on my face and settling for my hands and arms as I reached out to pet them.

  “They’re family too, they deserve to be here,” John said.

  “What are their names?” I asked, smiling down at the pups. At least someone in the house had greeted me warmly.

  “Butch and Sundance,” John said and I laughed.

  Our eyes met, and I smiled then turned back to the dogs. “They’re adorable,” I said.

  “They’re drooling on you,” Sharon said in disgust. She pinned John with a look and he frowned.

  “Come on, you two,” John said, adding a whistle. Butch and Sundance followed him out, tails and tongues still wagging as they disappeared. I listened as the back door opened and then closed again before everything went silent.

  I found Sharon watching me and suddenly wished I’d brought Casey with me after all.

  “Most people would have called first.” She frowned and before I could form a reply, added, “Your hair is lighter than your pictures.”

  “My … you’ve seen my picture?”

  “Of course,” she said like this wasn’t the first time we’d ever met. Like she hadn’t kicked my parents out, disowning my dad years ago and banishing him from the family.

  “Why?” I asked, sincere in my curiosity—and in the outrage that was getting harder to hide.

  “You are my granddaughter,” she said again, her brows drawing together.

  “Am I?” I asked, heat rising along my neck. “Because I could have sworn you told my father—your son—that he was no longer a part of your family before I was ever born. Which would make me a stranger. A guest at best. But definitely not your granddaughter.”

  Sharon’s eyes narrowed fractionally and her slender fingers tightened in her lap. Otherwise, she gave no reaction to my words and I knew then this woman was a force. “If that’s what you believe then forgive me for my confusion at why you’ve come in the first place,” she said coolly.

  “Believe me, I’m at a loss for that same damn answers right now,” I muttered.

  Sharon’s mouth tightened into a white line at that. I plunged onward before she could snap back and break what little hold left I had on my temper. “Look, my dad wanted us to meet. Despite everything that happened between you, he … I needed to come here. I didn’t have any choice.”

  It wasn’t warm fuzzies but it was the truth.

  Instead of offering up appreciation or admitting how hard this was for all of us, Sharon’s eyes lit with a gleam. “I still don’t understand. Your mother made it clear you wanted nothing to do with us. So, the only reason I can think of for you sitting here is—well, I can’t think of one actually.” She tilted her head at me, a movement that made me think of a snake coiling to strike. “Unless this is history repeating itself?”

  “Re
peating itself? What does that even mean?”

  She rubbed her temples and blew out a breath, her shoulders sagging as if I’d somehow just defeated her. Except I had no effing idea what was even happening.

  “How much do you need?” she asked, standing and crossing to a two-tiered rolling desk. I stared at her back, uncomprehending, as she rummaged.

  “Need for what?” I asked.

  When she swiveled back to me, she held a checkbook and a pen poised over it—and that was all I needed to understand her meaning. If I’d had a plan in coming here today, this was not it.

  “Obviously it is none of my business whether you decide to keep it,” she said brusquely. “But know that my gift today is just that. A gift. And it will only happen once so if you think you can keep this child and I’ll stroke a check every time you hit a rough patch, you’re wrong. I told your father the same thing all those years ago.”

  “I bet you did,” I said, my teeth clenched, but she didn’t bat an eyelash.

  “I won’t have you walking in here after all these years just because you weren’t careful and taking the inheritance that dissolved the moment your—”

  “Whoa, whoa. You think I’m pregnant?” I put up a hand to stop the madness that was coming from her mouth.

  Sharon sat up straighter and looked down her nose at me. “Aren’t you?”

  The heat in my belly turned to nausea. I laughed, harsh and biting and with zero humor. “No. And even if I were, I damn sure would not come in here asking for your charity. I think we all know how that would turn out.”

  Sharon’s mouth tightened.

  I stood. “I don’t want your money. Trust me, after meeting you in person, I don’t want a goddamn thing from you. In fact, all I do want is to leave and go another twenty-five years without you in my life. I’ll see myself out.”

  Sharon didn’t move a muscle as I strode out, my keys still clutched tight in my fist. I saw red at the edges of my vision but managed to blink it back long enough to navigate back to the front door. I slammed through it and stomped outside.