Page 26 of Hideaway Whirlwind (Big Boys of Berenson Trucking #4)

Teagan

Although Davis had set up a toddler bed for Kendall to share Lily’s nursery, she’s asleep on top of me, having refused to let me put her down, reminding me of her newborn stage.

Davis had also set up a bunk bed for my older kids, squeezed in next to a full-sized bed for me in their spare bedroom.

Dustin, however, is tucked into my side.

I’m not sure who he’s more upset at losing—the dogs or Elliott—having hardly touched his dinner and never giving more than a grunt when spoken to, which he picked up from Elliott.

Sydney had resolutely turned her back on the bottom bunk and cried herself to sleep, refusing to let me comfort her.

She was friendly enough with Lily, playing with Lily’s stuffie collection after we had unpacked, but she hasn’t spoken to me since I carried her out of the cabin.

I scratch my neck and hope that when she’s older, she’ll understand why we had to leave.

Please let me be right. I’ve put her and the others through enough as it is .

From beneath the crack at the bottom of the door, a dim light flicks on farther down the hallway. I ease out from under Kendall and tiptoe into the large kitchen of warm neutrals with red gingham curtains, where I find Marigold sifting through the pantry.

“Want to share?” she asks, holding up a package of mini chocolate chip muffins when she spots me in her periphery.

“Sure.” I reach under the collar of Davis’s navy blue sweatshirt with a big silver star on it that Marigold said I could borrow, scratching my chest. It’s not nearly as comfy as Elliott’s flannel.

Neither does it smell as nice. Clean, but the scent doesn’t have that comforting quality I’ve grown accustomed to.

“Couldn’t sleep?” I ask around a bite of my muffin when we plop onto her couch, leaning back against opposite armrests, sharing a blanket over our outstretched legs.

“I’m starving twenty-four-seven. Between Rowan and Davis, I still have to eat for two to keep up my milk supply,” she says, motioning to her breasts that tent her long-sleeved T-shirt, which I suspect also belongs to her husband.

I nearly choke on my muffin, my eyes watering as I cough until I can clear my throat. “Davis drinks your milk? You’re into that sort of thing?”

Even with the low light, I can tell her pale, freckled cheeks have gone flaming red. “Pretend you didn’t hear that.”

“Ha. Not likely.” I snicker and pluck a second muffin from the package. “Guess he’s not lactose intolerant.” Is Elliott? Might he be into that sort of—stop it, Teagan!

“Oh my god, don’t make me laugh like that or I’ll pee myself.” Marigold crosses her ankles, cupping a hand over her mouth so as not to wake the household.

Everything about this new chapter of my life is so strange. I haven’t simply hung out with a friend, another girl, alone in years. Not since elementary school, when I was invited to all the fun pool parties and sleepovers. Now, I’m not sure if I even remember how to swim.

We chew in silence while I glance around the room. There’s hardly an inch of space between all the giant framed family photographs hanging on the walls, like a personal art gallery or museum. It’s a meticulously curated timeline of their growing family and wonderful life.

“I was so jealous when you came back to Vegas,” I say quietly, running my short nails over my left forearm.

Marigold frowns and shifts uncomfortably on the couch. “Because of Davis?”

“Because of your new life. I wanted so badly to strap the kids to my back and hitchhike to Texas with you, and it ate me up inside that I couldn’t.

Then you came back, and your life was perfect.

I wanted to be you.” She’s two years younger than me, yet she has her whole life together—her own house, a wonderful husband, and a solid community—while I’m hanging on by a thread.

“It was far from perfect,” she says, offering up the package so I can take another muffin.

“I know that now, but at the time…” I sigh.

Nothing could have prepared me for the wild story Davis shared over dinner about what happened to Lily, leading to the deep, gnarled scars on Davis’s arms and Marigold’s legs.

I shove my hand under my sweatshirt to scratch my stomach, vowing to work on my nail-biting habit so I can decently scratch an itch.

“So…” Marigold starts slowly after our conversation lags. “Do you want to talk about him?”

I don’t have to ask who she means. “Do you believe in fate?”

“I didn’t, at first, when I got here. Sounds like you don’t either.”

I shake my head. “But you do now?”

“After meeting Davis and all his friends…yeah, I do.” There’s a dreamy quality to her voice that I never once heard when we were working together in Vegas.

Back then, there wasn’t much to look forward to, both of us simply surviving one day to the next.

“It’s been one whirlwind romance after another. ”

There’s that word again. “So you think this ‘whirlwind’ thing is real and not some urban legend? Because I’m not buying it.”

“One hundred percent. That’s what it was like with me and Davis. I’ve seen it happen to a few others, too. Did Elliott mention it?” Marigold chuckles when I nod. “I take it there’s a reason for that.”

“He’s fifty-five,” I whisper as if it’s some kind of secret. “The kids call him “Papa”, as in Grandpa.”

She shrugs. “Davis was thirty-four when we met.”

I knock her knee with mine. “Uh, our age gap is double yours. Massive difference.”

“Eh. The whirlwind doesn’t care. Only what’s in your heart.”

“But he’s been to prison.” If anything, that should have Marigold second-guessing this whirlwind nonsense. “For murder,” I stress.

“Eh,” she says again. “That’s weirdly common around here. Davis almost went to prison. Russell, too.”

“Again, big difference.” Why do I seem to be the only one who can see things for what they are—absolutely, mind-bogglingly nuts?

Marigold shrugs, then laughs and pivots. “I can’t wait ‘til the old-timers hear all about this. I hope I’m there when they find out. We’re talking close to a thousand dollars on the line by now, I bet.”

“Who are the old-timers and what does money have to do with anything?”

“You’ll see,” she says in a sing-songy, teasing voice.

I groan, rolling up my right sleeve to scratch my inner elbow. “You sound just like your husband.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment, ma’am,” she says in a deep, fake southern accent, mimicking Davis, then yawns. “You ok over there?” she asks, taking the last muffin and crumpling the packaging.

“I think I’m allergic to your laundry detergent. What kind do you use?” I stop scratching when I find out it’s the same brand I use. “Do you use something different on your bed sheets?”

“No. Same one. I have some allergy meds that are safe to use while pregnant if you need some.”

I suck in a breath. “I’m not pregnant.”

She raises a golden-red brow.

“I’m not. Why would you think that?”

“You’re literally scratching your baby bump.”

Crap . The maddening itch makes me want to peel my skin off, and I hadn’t realized I’d lifted the sweatshirt to scratch my torso again. “Please don’t tell anyone.”

“Alright,” she says, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “But only if you stop calling me Marigold. All my friends call me Goldie.”

Even stranger . To not only have a real friend but also have my wishes respected instead of my secret being used to manipulate or control me is so foreign that, for a second, I don’t quite believe I heard her right .

And then she reaches across and holds my hand. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

My eyes turn hot when I whisper, “Me too.”

After discarding the empty muffin package, I follow Goldie into the hall bathroom, where she keeps some of her meds stored on the top shelf of the medicine cabinet.

She whispers a goodnight, and I carefully measure out the dose I need to take.

A flash of silver from the corner of my eye draws my attention to the bathroom window, and the little hairs on the nape of my neck stand on end.

It’s so dark outside that I can’t tell where the sky ends and the trees surrounding Goldie’s property begin when I press my nose to the glass like a moth drawn to an invisible flame.

The baby chooses that moment to kick me for the first time, and I fall just a little bit more in love with them.

The allergy meds must have worked lightning fast, because the itch is gone by the time I lift Davis’s sweatshirt to press my hand to my lower belly.

My cheeks ache with the strength of my smile when my baby kicks me right in the middle of my palm.

I carry that smile with me into the spare bedroom, choosing to climb into bed beside Sydney, where my sweet, heartbroken little girl sniffles and immediately turns over, allowing me to tuck her in close.

Elliott

I breathe deep in through my nose and out through my mouth repeatedly as my vision darkens, trying to remain calm so I don’t do something stupid like break into Davis’s house and snatch Birdie up as I watch her through the bathroom window.

It’s especially difficult to stay in control of my animalistic impulses when Birdie lays her palm on her rounded belly with the most serene expression… while wearing Davis’s sweatshirt.

My skin is as inflamed and itchy as hers when she turns off the light and leaves the bathroom, and I ball my fists to keep from tearing my skin to shreds when I quietly jog around the side of the house, then down the driveway past the brown Bronco that I’ve left for Birdie.

Russell idles in his white dually pickup with his headlights off, parked halfway in the ditch that runs parallel to the two-lane road, waiting to drive me back home.

“You good?” he asks when I wrench open the passenger side door and throw myself onto the seat, rocking the truck side to side like a skiff on rough water.

“No.” I resist the urge to slam the door shut and disturb the peace with my rising hysteria.

Russell drums his fingers on his steering wheel faster as I find it harder and harder to breathe the farther away we get from my family on the way back to my cabin. “Care to share?” he asks.

“She was wearing Davis’s sweatshirt.” I crack my neck, rolling my shoulders, trying to shake off the violence threading itself through my mind when I picture Davis leading my boy out of the cabin by the hand.

“Ah,” he says with understanding. “You know nothing’s gonna happen between them.”

“‘Course I know that.” Davis is as obsessed with Goldie as Russell is with Layla. “Doesn’t mean I want her wearing his clothes.” More than that, I want to set every piece of his clothing on fire so my Birdie can never borrow any of his ever again.

Back at my cabin, I stroke Storm’s fur when she greets me at the door and make sure her food and water bowls are full before I stuff my travel duffel bag with a few more of my shirts, half my collection of sweatpants and socks, and my denim jacket.

On my way out, I grab my jug of laundry detergent and fold up the two comforters Birdie and the kids had used.

At the last second, I remember to sift through my junk drawer until I find a pad of paper and a pen.

Then I’m back on the road, this time alone and in the blue Bronco.

Since my noisy vehicle will give away my presence and run me the risk of getting shot by Goldie if she finds an intruder on her property, I park farther down the road.

I jot down a quick note with my phone number, praying Birdie will call me the minute phone service is back up.

If I can’t have all of her yet, I at least want to hear her bird song.

Like a lovesick teenager, I fold and kiss the note, then run in a crouch up the driveway with my haul.

Since I had left the brown Bronco’s keys taped to Goldie’s front door, I have to jimmy open the driver’s side door to deposit my haul inside.

There .

Now I can leave.

Except that I can’t.

I need one more look.

At least with the power still out, the motion-sensing floodlights on the exterior corners of the house don’t flick on as I make my way to the right side of the house, cupping my hands around my eyes when I press my forehead against the spare bedroom’s window so I can see inside, wishing I could scoop up Birdie and Sydney and curl up on the bed beside Dustin and Kendall .

The sun is just starting to break the horizon when I can finally pull myself away from the window.

My back is screaming all the worse, and my eyes are probably bloodshot after being hunched over all night, staring at my family as they slept in fits and starts, tossing and turning in bed.

They would have slept so much better at home, where they should have been, instead of here in a stranger’s house.

I shouldn’t be pleased by that, but I shamefully am.

I want to stay and watch Birdie’s reaction to finding the Bronco and all I’ve left for her, but I’m not confident in my ability to control myself if I were to see her or any of the kids come outside.

Since kidnapping apparently isn’t out of the question of what I might do, I force myself to leave so I can prepare for the next step of my plan, knowing I’ll be back as soon as the sun sets.