Page 35 of Tempt (Peachwood Falls #1)

M egan

“Well, that sucks.” Kennedy turns the corner from the stairs and moves into the living room. “I just wanted to take a shower.”

I turn down the volume on the television. “And why can’t you get in the shower?”

“Because it’s storming.”

As if on cue, a rattle of thunder shakes the house.

“And why can’t you shower when it’s storming?” I ask, not following her.

She shrugs and slumps into a chair by the fireplace. “I don’t know. Pap always says not to shower or be on the phone in a storm. Doesn’t make any sense to me, but he also texts me his name after every message, so there’s that.”

I snort. “He does?”

“Yeah. Love, P . Or Call me back, P . Or Did you want some fried potatoes for supper? P .” She shrugs again. “Like, yeah, Pap. I can see the number and your face when you text me. It’s on top of the screen. There’s no need to identify yourself.”

Something about that is ridiculously adorable, and I can’t help but giggle. Kennedy, although not as amused as I am, laughs too.

She snuggles down into the chair. “What are you watching?”

“This woman went missing for fifteen years, and the only clue about where she went was a yellow bandanna next to her cell phone on the side of a road. Long story and I’m not sure if it’s relevant yet or a red herring.

I’m ninety-nine percent sure her husband did it, but the investigators seem to think it was the neighbor. So who knows.”

She hums.

“What do you like to watch?” I ask.

“Nothing, really. I YouTube nineties music videos. Sometimes I’ll watch something if everyone talks about it, but I usually don’t like it enough to become obsessed.”

“Nineties videos, huh?”

“Yeah,” she says.

“Did you know your uncle Gavin hasn’t seen the ‘Opposites Attract’ video by Paula Abdul?”

“What? That’s a classic .”

“I know.”

“I’m a big Paula fan. She doesn’t get enough clout from my generation.”

“Agreed,” I say, impressed with her stance on this important fact.

We sit in silence for a few minutes before my stomach growls. Kennedy looks at me as I press my hand to my tummy.

“Hungry?” I ask her.

“I’m always hungry.”

A kid after my heart . “Let’s go make a snack.”

“Who did your nails?” she asks as we walk to the kitchen. “That color is the bomb.”

I hold up a hand and inspect the shitty job I did before bed last night. “I did them, and this is not my best work. Please don’t judge once you see them in the light.”

“What color is that?”

“Offset,” I say, grinning at the memory of the night we came up with that name. “We named it after … Well, I can’t tell you that because you’re a minor. But someday, I will, if you want to know.”

She slides onto a barstool on the island. “What do you mean you named it ?”

I find the peanut butter, caramel, and mini cookies I bought at the grocery yesterday. Then I find the apples.

“I mean, I named it,” I say, pulling out the cutting board they use for veggies.

“Well, I can’t say that. It wasn’t just me.

But the team worked late one night, and we might’ve had some wine in plastic cups, and we came up with Offset.

” I hold up a hand. “It didn’t make the cut for fall last year, but I snagged a few samples because I loved it so much. ”

Kennedy’s brows pull together, and the dimple in her chin, like her dad and uncles, shines.

I take out a knife and begin to peel the apples. “You do know that I worked for Iyala Nails, right?”

Her jaw drops to the counter. “ No, I did not know that .”

I smile at her reaction. This must be what it feels like to be a celebrity .

“Are you joking?” she asks, still in disbelief. “You did not work for Iyala.”

“No, I did . How do you think I got the pink tote from the spring collection?”

“I don’t know. I just thought you were cool or something. You worked for them ? For real?”

I laugh. “Yes. I promise. You can look at my email if you want. They got ahold of me last week to offer me my job back.”

“Did you take it?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

I slice the apples and set them aside. Then I smear a few spoonfuls of peanut butter on the board.

“It wasn’t a good fit anymore,” I tell her, relishing the peace that comes with those words. “I worked there for a long time and had a lot of great experiences. But I’m just not a California girl.”

“Where do you live?” she asks, watching me drizzle caramel on the peanut butter.

“Well, I’m from Dallas. That’s where my mom lives. So I guess I live there.”

She looks confused.

“I’m between jobs,” I say, snapping the caramel bottle closed. “Sometimes being an adult sucks.”

She throws her chest onto the counter and sighs dramatically.

I laugh. “What’s that about?”

“You think being an adult sucks? Try being a kid.”

“I was one once, you know.”

“Yeah, but a single dad didn’t raise you.”

Okay. Where are we going with this?

I place some cookies, chop a banana, and add it to the board's periphery.

“You’re right,” I say carefully. “But I was raised by a single mom.”

“Yeah, but moms know about periods and boyfriends. Dads are just … cringy.”

I grin and slide the board between us. She takes an apple and drags it through the peanut butter and caramel.

“Like, I know he means well, and he wants the best for me,” she says, crunching down on the fruit. “But he has no idea what it’s like to be a teenage girl.”

“No, he wouldn’t know that. But what about your aunt Kate? Can you talk to her about stuff?”

“Ha.” She drags the apple through the board again. “Kate is busy. I love her and know she’d do anything for me, but I can’t call her and ask her to buy me tampons.”

Wow. I never thought about that.

I nibble a piece of banana and watch Kennedy pick out a cookie.

I’ve always looked at Kennedy and this situation as a child with a fantastic family. She has love out the ass. Her behavior, I’ve decided, is just typical teenage crap.

But is it?

I’ve never considered having to ask a man for tampons or help when starting your period for the first time. Or how to do makeup. Or wanting pretty bras and panties—how does she manage that?

What about boys? Dating? Oh my gosh—birth control?

“Do you have a boyfriend?” I ask, testing the waters.

She laughs at me. “Right. Like Dad is going to go for that.”

“That doesn’t mean you don’t.”

She smiles coyly.

“Look, Ken, I’m not naive. I know what it’s like to be fourteen. You’re getting attention from boys. But are you giving them yours?”

She bites a cookie and watches me curiously. “I don’t know. Are you asking me as my friend or my babysitter?”

“I’m not your babysitter.”

“Yeah. You kind of are.”

I grip the edge of the counter. “Well, whatever you want to call me—I’m here. If you want to talk to someone, not your grandma or aunt, you can talk to me.”

“But you’ll tell my dad.”

“Tell him what?”

She grins. “Nothing. There’s nothing to tell.”

I shake a finger at her before taking another piece of banana. “You’re cute.” I head to the refrigerator to get a drink.

She sighs behind me. “You know what would make me happy?”

“I have no idea.” I take out two bottles of water and let the door slam shut. “Do you want to tell me, or do you want me to guess?”

She takes the drink I offer her. “It would make me happy if I could be seen just for me. Just Kennedy Marshall, a fourteen-year-old girl from Peachwood Falls, Indiana. A girl who loves beauty supplies and hates math.”

“Okay. Seen for that and not as … what?”

Her face falls, and she looks down at the board.

My heart immediately hurts for her. I want to reach out and hug her, but I don’t. I don’t know how she would take it. Besides, I don’t want to disrupt her from talking to me.

“Do you know about my mom?” she asks softly.

“Yes. Your dad told me.”

The corner of her lips rises before her eyes do. “And that’s what I am before I’m anything else.”

She holds my gaze with a decade of pain and frustration floating through the green orbs. It’s a shot to my soul because I know that pain. I’ve felt it too. Maybe differently, but I know what it feels like to carry a burden I did not create.

“Can I tell you a story?” I ask, hoping that if I open up to her, she’ll feel more confident in opening up to me. And hopefully trust me because I know what it’s like to have few people to trust .

“Sure.”

I walk around the counter and join her at the island. I slide onto the stool next to her and get comfortable.

“When I was growing up,” I say, “we lived in a tiny town in Texas. Literally in the middle of nowhere. My mother was born and grew up in that small town.”

“What’s her name?”

“Denise.”

She nods.

“My mom had a very rough life. She was dealt a shitty hand from birth. A lot of unfair stuff happened to her, and it made her make many choices that she wasn’t equipped to make—choices she shouldn’t have had to make,” I say. “I had a rough and lonely childhood. Do you want to know why?”

“Why?”

“Because I was the daughter of Denise Kramer before I was anything else. And that wasn’t a good thing to be.”

Kennedy takes a cookie and breaks it in half.

“That’s how I feel, sort of. I mean, I don’t even know anything about my mom, so I don’t know if she made good choices or not.

But when my family looks at me, they see that .

They see the little girl they picked up in the office with blue carpet and a big metal desk. They don’t see me. ”

A lump settles in my throat, and I can’t help it. I put an arm around her shoulders and pull her against my side. She rests her head against mine for longer than I anticipate and then sits back up again.

“I understand what you’re feeling,” I say softly. “I understand why you feel that way.”