Page 37 of Take Me Home

“Oh, I met Poppy, but I didn’t realize there was a brother too.”

Hank chuckles, then grows somber. “Three kids. Their dad was my best friend.” He looks down and stares at his bowl.

I swallow, my throat feeling like sandpaper. “Was?”

His chest heaves with a deep breath. “Yeah, their parents died in a plane crash two years ago. Buddy of ours was a pilot and owned a biplane. We had some unexpected winter weather that day and the runway was slippery.” He pauses. “The plane slid and flipped during landing.”

My hand comes up to cover my mouth while I compose myself. “That’s awful.”

“I know Linc can be a little surly and rough around the edges, but he’s a good man. He has a lot on his plate, helping me and keeping tabs on their small farm and his siblings.”

I shake my head. “I didn’t know.”

Hank nods. “It doesn’t give him an excuse to be a jerk, but I think there’s a big heart under that tough exterior.”

I shoot Hank a sardonic glance and he laughs heartily at my disbelief that Lincoln could be a big softie. But deep down, I believe it. I saw the softness in the way he was with his nephew, in how he interacts with the horses, and in the way he always jumps in to help Hank and Otto.

Irritation prods at my brain again that I haven’t won Lincoln over. I love a challenge; I love winning…but this hurdle seems impossible to get over.

CHAPTER 14

Lincoln

Saturday, I wake up extra early to make breakfast. I have all the supplies in hand after stopping at Wolverine Market last night which Lanie agreed to keep it open for me again. I have a feeling she’s expecting something for all these favors, but I really don’t want to go out with her. Maybe some of Poppy’s homemade cinnamon rolls will suffice as a thank you. There’s something about Lanie that rubs me the wrong way, and not only because she’s rude to my sister.

The house is dark and quiet as I pad into the kitchen, careful not to step on any of the creaky spots on the floor. I grab a cast-iron skillet from one of the lower cabinets and get it heating on the stove before tossing a few tablespoons of butter into it. While the butter melts, I soak slices of ciabatta bread into a mixture of milk, eggs, vanilla, and cinnamon. French toast is one of the few meals I’m decent at making.

Jackson and Owen are coming over for breakfast. They claim I owe them after skipping out on them so much the past few months. I offered to cook here so I can multi-task and spend time with my friends and my siblings. Having just passed the second anniversary of my parents’ deaths, it’s hitting me that I should spend more time with the important people in my life.

I’ve got to stop pretending I’m the only one who’s busy. Wayne tends the fifty acres of barley, and Poppy’s taking online classes to finish her degree—on top of being a single mom and making sure we’re fed. We have plenty to keep us fed and clothed, enough for me to take some time off on the weekends.

While the first batch of French toast is sizzling in the pan, I brew a pot of coffee and mix up some chocolate milk with a healthy dose of chocolate syrup.

“Well, this is a nice way to wake up,” Poppy says from the steps between the kitchen and living room that lead to the bedrooms upstairs. Tripp is beside her, holding her hand and smiling. Her hair is in a messy bun, and Tripp’s cheeks are pink, as though he just woke up. The tightness in my chest relaxes at their happy, well-rested faces.

“French toast?” Tripp asks, his eyes bright.

“Yep,” I answer with a smile I can’t hold back.

Poppy steps further into the kitchen, already dressed for the day in jeans and a sweater, while Tripp is still in his flannel Spirit pajamas.

Poppy eyes the French toast in the skillet, then worries her bottom lip.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, looking down to make sure the toast isn’t burning.

Poppy hesitates, reaching up and removing a large mug from the cabinet and filling it with freshly brewed coffee. “I thought you’d be working today, so I texted Hattie last night and invited her over for breakfast.”

I groan, flipping the French toast so aggressively it nearly flies out of the pan.

“I know she chored all day yesterday with you guys, and I thought she’d need a hearty breakfast.” Poppy sets her mug down and crosses her arms. “Why don’t you like her?”

“It’s not that I don’t like her. I just don’t think about her at all.”

Poppy arches a dark eyebrow. “Hmmm. Okay.”

“Stop.” I arch an eyebrow back.

“Can’t you just admit that you’re attracted to her, and you don’t know what to do with your feelings?” my sister asks, meeting my gaze with confidence. “And that you’re afraid of getting attached.”