I swallow hard. “We’re good.”
“So, when your mom asks you if a cake has been ordered for the party, you’ll tell her yes so my mom gets off my back?”
I clutch my heart. “I can really feel the love, Cooper.”
Rolling his eyes, he turns away and takes off, leaving me to watch his retreating backside. When the door shuts behind him, I audibly exhale as I take a seat at the counter-height stool we keep next to the register.
Cooper Chance.
Can’t remember the last time I saw him.
Oh wait, I can . . . when he was slinking out of my bedroom. But that time, as I watched his retreating back, it was naked.
CHAPTER FOUR
PALMER
“Hey, sis, what’s up?”
I twirl a roll of tape around my wrist as I stare down at the pile of boxes in the middle of my Meatpacking District apartment. The old parquet floors have seen better days, the walls are caked in paint from years of repainting, making the windows almost impossible to open, and there’s a watermark in the right corner of the ceiling where my upstairs neighbor let her bathtub fill too high. And now, the space I called home is practically empty.
“Ford, are you really on your way to Marina Island right now?”
“On the plane as we speak.”
“Wait, what do you mean . . . are you flying private?”
“Larkin signed me up for a private rideshare in the air, or something like that. Either way, how are you? Are you in the country? Or back in Europe, soaking up all the local cuisine like usual?”
I stare down at my bank statement, a flood of anxiety filling up my chest as I absorb the numbers, or lack thereof. With my forefinger and thumb, I curl the edge of the paper. “Oh, you know, just taking a break for a second while the next adventure presents itself.”
“So, you’re in New York, then?”
“Yup. The Big Apple,” I say awkwardly just as someone outside screams a profanity that shakes the very walls of my apartment. “Anyway, you’re really going to be in Marina Island for a month?”
“Yes. I’ll be working on some important things and figured what better place to do it than where the store first originated. Plus, I’ll have a chance to help with the anniversary party if time permits. I have the feeling Cooper is overwhelmed with the planning.”
“Overwhelmed or lazy?” I ask. “I mean . . . an email, Ford? Really?”
He chuckles. “Cooper doesn’t care about the details like we do. I’ll have a talk with him when I see him. Larkin tried scheduling a meetup with him, but he has yet to get back to her, so we’ll see.”
“Maybe try texting him.” I chuckle. “You know, since you’re his brother and Larkin won’t be on Marina Island to be at your beck and call.”
“She’s not at my beck and call,” he says in an annoyed tone. “And she’ll actually be there.”
“You brought your assistant with you back home?” I ask, surprised. “Are you really . . . wait . . . oh my God, are you staying at Mom and Dad’s house?”
“No, despite Mom trying to convince me that it would be normal to have Larkin sleep in my childhood bedroom.”
A sharp laugh pops past my lips. “Oooh, I think that would be a brilliant idea, actually. Makes me want to call Mom so she’ll cry to you on the phone about needing all her babies under one roof.”
“That would require you to actually come home.” His tone is light, but I know there’s some seriousness to his words.
I can’t remember the last time I was home, or with my entire family under the same roof. I’ve visited Ford in Denver here and there while passing through, but Marina Island . . . yeah, not so much. As a food influencer, I’ve spent the last five years traveling around the world, blogging about food, and building my Instagram following to over 250,000 followers while getting paid to try food in the most beautiful of places.
But the funny thing about building a platform on social media is that anyone can do it, and even though I’m one of the top influencers, my invitations have started to slow down, leaving me in a tough spot.
The bank account is drying up.
My rent is too expensive.
And I have no real professional experience under my belt to apply for a job.
But, if I’m anything, I’m scrappy like my dad, which means I’ve come up with a plan.
It might not be my first choice . . . or second, or maybe even third, but it’s all I’ve got at this point.
“Funny you mention coming home.” I turn over my bank statement, blocking out the negativity it’s emitting. “I was thinking about flying out to Marina Island early. You know . . . to help out with the party.” Lies, but I can’t possibly tell him the truth. Not super-successful Ford. “And then I was thinking of putting together an epic Instagram journey for the PNW. Something earthy and real, from a girl who actually grew up there.” Also, another lie.