Chapter Twelve

Shane downed two more ibuprofen pills as he drove his Aston Martin. Well, it wasn’t technically his car. He’d borrowed it from Mark because he couldn’t remember where the hell his place was, or where he’d left his car keys.

He scowled as a hammer pounded his head again. He really shouldn’t have had all that scotch and gone to sleep without drinking at least a couple glasses of water. Then he wouldn’t have wasted all morning trying to figure out where Ginger’s parents lived or how to get a set of wheels so he could drive up there. Or feel this awful. It was already almost three, but he still felt like crap.

Happy Bastard Farm.

He blinked at the sign. Was this even the right location? The sign seemed so inappropriate for a place owned by two retired high school teachers. He’d expected something more…mainstream and respectable with none of the words that would’ve gotten him in trouble back then. But Mark had been very sure when he’d given directions. And he was not an asshole like Dane.

Shane parked his car at the end of the driveway and got out. The air smelled of wet, fertilized soil and manure—probably the cows he’d seen on the way here. He stared up at the house.

Three stories. Sprawling. Sort of old-looking with the exterior that could use a new paint job. Maybe he was at the right place. He didn’t think retired teachers had a lot of money to throw at renovations.

A small blue sedan that looked to be about five years old or so plus a flashier car were parked outside. A separate set of tire tracks showed another vehicle had been here, something bigger and more powerful than the two in front of him. Probably a tractor.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Shane looked up. A man in his thirties who was built like a semi stared down at him from the roof. Sweat and grime stained his dingy old t-shirt.

“Stay right there.” He disappeared from view.

Who could that be? According to his quick research, Ginger had a half-brother. But he didn’t live on their parents’ farm.

Soon, the man came around the corner. His eyebrows were low over deep-set eyes, which were currently shooting death-rays in Shane’s direction. He pumped his fists as he walked, each stride big and purposeful, his jaw muscles bunched.

Shane braced himself for a fight, changing his stance to block whatever the other man would throw. Damn, what wouldn’t I give for some of Iain’s MMA training?

Wait, what? Shane blinked as a thread unknotted in his mind.

The other guy stopped less than an inch from Shane’s face. “You got some fucking nerve coming here.” Dark veins stood out on his forehead and neck. “If we were anywhere else, I’d break every bone in your body.”

Too close to focus on, Shane looked right through him. “I’m not here to see you.”

“Oh, that’s fucking rich. Guess you’re here to harass Ginger, then? Cuz you know she’s not gonna do what I’m gonna do to you.” He put a finger into Shane’s chest. “Stay the fuck away from her. Users like you make me sick. You don’t even deserve to breathe the same air she does.”

“Where’s Ginger?” Shane asked calmly.

“You’re going to have to beat it out of me.”

“Good god, Trevor. Your mother and I taught you better than this.”

Shane stepped back to take a look at an older man coming up behind Trevor’s huge frame. He was shorter than Trevor, maybe five ten or so, and had kind eyes that reminded Shane of Ginger. So… This must be Fraser Maxwell the retired math teacher and Ginger’s father.

“Dad, this man’s the enemy,” Trevor said.

“Nonsense. Shane’s always welcome here. He’s your sister’s fiancé.”

“Not anymore!”

“That’s not true,” Shane said, then addressed Fraser. “Sir, I’m here for Ginger.”

“She’s not here right now. Went to the store with Zoe,” Fraser said. “Why don’t you come help me while you wait?”

Shane looked at Fraser and Trevor’s outfits—simple t-shirts, faded jeans and work boots—and his own—an expensive pale blue dress shirt, sharply creased dark slacks and leather Italian loafers. He shrugged. “Okay.”

A corner of Fraser’s mouth turned up. “Come on, cupcake. We got a lot of work to do.”

* * *

Ginger stared as her mom dumped two sacks of potatoes into their cart. “Does he really eat this much?” she asked.

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Doesn’t he eat while he’s on a mission or whatever?”

“I don’t know,” Zoe said. “But I feel like it’s my duty to make sure he gets enough, you know? He always tells me the food is terrible.”

Ginger snorted. “He should learn to cook then.”

“I’d rather not have our farm burn down.”

They laughed together. It was so good to be at her parents’ place, applying herself to simple activities that didn’t twist her insides or make her do crazy stupid things.

Ginger looped her arm through her mom’s and said, “It’s so good to be home.”

“You should visit more often. Make the time even if your job keeps you busy.”

“Technically I’m the boss, so I can give myself some time off,” Ginger said.

“Good. You deserve it. Nobody can work all the time. When do you need to go back?”

“Not for a while. I’ve cleared my calendar for the next few weeks.”

Zoe patted her hand. “Excellent. Although I feel sorry for all the couples. You do take the most romantic pictures.”

Ginger smiled. There was something really ironic about her being a wedding photographer with a reputation for capturing romance and hope when she couldn’t even get her own fiancé to stick around. Maybe she should consider the idea that the relationship might have run its course even if she didn’t want to admit it. The sex was still hot, but there was more to a relationship than sex.

Her phone buzzed with a new text. It was from Trevor. The enemy’s here.

She frowned. What enemy?

Shane. Don’t worry. Gonna break his legs before you come back.

She gasped.

Zoe tilted her head. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Trevor being Trevor.” Don’t you dare! she texted.

“Oh dear. Should we go home now?” Zoe said. “I have everything we need for the week.”

“Yes.” Ginger shoved her phone into her purse. “Let’s get back before Trevor does something.”

* * *

Shane gritted his teeth at the way his muscles were protesting. He exercised regularly, but hoisting barbells and dumbbells in an air-conditioned gym was nothing like farm work. He could see Trevor smirking, and Shane buckled down to push harder. He’d rather smear cow shit all over his face than to admit he couldn’t do the work.

There was no way Trevor was related to Ginger by blood. He was a complete jackass, and proud of the fact that he was a complete jackass. Guess every family had an asshole. The only saving grace was that he wasn’t juvenile on top of that, refraining from tripping Shane when it was obvious he wanted to.

Or maybe it was Fraser’s presence that was stopping him. The man didn’t miss much. Shane bet he’d controlled his classes with the same kind of mastery.

“There they are,” Fraser said, looking at a Honda coming their way.

“I’ll go give them a hand bringing the groceries in,” Trevor said. “You can help Dad put away the rest of this stuff.”

Damn it. Shane wanted to see Ginger immediately, but there was no way for him to do that without appearing to be a shirker.

Fraser shook his head as Trevor jogged off. “He just wants to see what they brought home for dinner.”

“I guess.” Shane probably hadn’t gotten along with Trevor before.

“Ginger told me you’re suffering from amnesia. That you still don’t remember everything, and that was the reason why there’ve been some problems with your relationship with my daughter.”

“That’s right.”

“She also told me you don’t want anyone to know about it.”