We Have Till Monday by Cara Dee (moboreader .TXT) 📕

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 about 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