Reckless (The Mason Family Series Book 3) by Adriana Locke (online e reader .txt) 📗

I’m sure she has. I was just hoping that she was in a different, maybe easier, phase of grief by now.

“How are you doing?” I ask her.

She laughs, but there’s no amusement in the sound. “I’m alive. Does that count for anything?”

“Sure does. Some days that’s a victory in and of itself,” I say, watching Rosie nearly tip over a jar of pink paint.

“I’m sorry I haven’t called you. Between calls with my attorney, messages from Ted asking that we handle this civilly,” she says, mocking his tone, “crying fits, and the standing date I have with cinnamon rolls from the bakery on the corner from eight to ten every morning—I’ve been a little busy.”

“Well, I have intentionally not called you because I wanted to give you some space. I figured your hands were full, and you would call me if you needed me. I hope you enjoyed my encouraging texts.”

She laughs. This time, it’s a little livelier. “I considered mailing a box of spiders to her house after your suggestion the other night, but my attorney wasn’t a fan.”

“I didn’t know you were running my ideas of revenge through your attorney. That takes the fun out of it.”

She snorts.

I open the fridge and take out a roast that Siggy brought or had delivered when they were here last weekend. I spent all morning looking up recipes to use this hunk of meat and finally found one that feels doable. I also find it convenient that Siggy bought everything I needed to fix it.

I grin as I think of Boone’s mother. I’ve never known anyone like her.

“What does your attorney say—besides the spiders?” I ask, grabbing the carrots and celery out of the fridge too. “Surely, you’ll be set up, considering he’s the one who screwed up.”

I bite the inside of my cheek as I contemplate how happy I am that I haven’t seen Ted around since the news of the affair. Or maybe he’s lucky that I haven’t seen him. According to Chuck, I have a violent streak. I personally think it’s just called low tolerance for assholes, and Ted is definitely one of those.

I glance at Rosie to see if she’s listening. She’s not.

“He promises me I will be. They call him the Rottweiler or kingpin or bulldog or some kind of aggressive name. He says he’s going after Ted’s balls.”

“Take a finger or two for good measure,” I say, finding the bag of potatoes I saw earlier today.

“I wonder if Ted ever went back home,” she says. “I have a suspicion that Kimmy was meeting him in California, but that’s just a hunch.”

I rifle through the kitchen drawers until I find a paring knife. “I think you might be right. We haven’t seen him at all. I snuck over there last night and grabbed more of your clothes and some of your nice pots and pans.”

“You’re the best.”

“I know.” I start peeling the potatoes. “I might’ve also added some Nair into a shampoo bottle by mistake. So if you’re ever back there, bring your own shampoo.”

“You did not!”

“Maybe.” I grin. “What you don’t know won’t hurt you.”

“That’s one way to look at it.” She blows out a breath. “So, enough about me and my misfortunes. What’s going on with you? Where are you? Do you forgive me for being a shitty friend and cousin lately?”

“You’re not a shitty anything. You’re a little preoccupied.”

“You can say that again.”

I glance at the table. Rosie seems perfectly happy with her finger paints, so I leave her be.

“I’m kind of glad you called because my life has taken a series of interesting turns, and I feel bad for not having told you.” I set a potato aside and grab another. “I didn’t want to burden you with my bullshit while you’re in the middle of a pile of your own.”

I cringe and look up to see if Rosie heard me curse. She seems oblivious.

I’m going to have to start watching myself.

“What’s happening, Jaxi?” Libby asks.

“Well, it turns out,” I say, turning away and lowering my voice so Rosie doesn’t overhear anything, “that Jeanette passed away.”

She gasps. “I’m so sorry. Oh, my gosh. You’ve been dealing with this and didn’t even call me?”

“Yes. It’s fine. You didn’t even know her—”

“But she’s your sister. I feel terrible.”

I roll the potato around on the counter. “I feel bad too. Apparently, she died of sepsis. I have a call in to her doctor to see if they’ll tell me anything else, but I don’t think they will with all of the healthcare laws and things.”

“This must be really hard for you.”

“It’s not a walk in the park, but I haven’t talked to her in ten years. It’s sad, and I wish things were different—that we’d had a chance to catch up before she passed, but we didn’t. I can’t fix it. I have to let it go.”

“That’s really mature of you.”

“I kind of have some other things going on that I have to be mature about.”

I hover the knife over a potato and look up at Rosie. She's painting purple paint on her forearms. Stopping her now won’t made a difference, so I just ignore it for now.

“What's going on?” Libby asks.

“Nettie had a daughter. Rosie. She’s four.”

“Have you had a chance to meet her?”

“You could say that.” I toss the peeled potato aside and grab another one. “It turns out that my sister named me as the custodian of her child just before she passed away.”

Libby's gasp pretty much sums up the situation. “You’re in Hawaii, right? I’ve lost track of time. Do you have to fly back to the mainland now?”

“So, Hawaii is canceled,” I say with a laugh. “And I am trying to figure out what in the hell I'm going to do.”

“I... I don't even know how to say it right now. You have a kid? Are you kidding me right now because this is not funny.”

“I’m standing in Boone's kitchen peeling potatoes for dinner while Rosie paints on her stomach with purple