Rare Blend (Red Mountain #1)

7. Marisa

CHAPTER 7

Marisa

A TOOTHPICK INTO A LOG CABIN

I can do this. I’m calm. This isn’t weird at all.

Preparing myself, I stand in the backyard, feet stuck to the grass, as I creepily look through the sliding glass door at the scene in front of me. Two teenagers, who I assume are Sadie and Caleb, are seated at a dining table while my dad and Jennifer are working together in the kitchen. It radiates staged perfection as rays of light filter through the windows, providing a golden backdrop to the image. Perfect weather, perfect family, and then there’s me. My feet remain planted for several more seconds, battling my fight-or-flight instincts. Taking a few deep breaths, I gear up to enter this new world. A world where my dad is married to a woman I’ve never met and I have two step-siblings. It’s much easier to pretend none of this exists when it’s not right in front of my eyes.

Here goes nothing.

“Good morning. Come join us.” My dad is standing in front of an electric griddle, pancakes laid out in perfect, even circles. He’s wearing an apron that says Kiss the Chef .

A woman—Jennifer—stands at the sink with her back to me. She turns at the sound of my dad’s booming voice and wipes her hands on an apron that matches his, except hers says I Kissed the Chef . Her arms open as she approaches me.

“Marisa,” she says, enveloping me in a hug. It’s a real hug too, tight and warm. She pulls me in so close I can feel the bones in her chest press against my cheek. My hands remain at my sides, clutched down by her arms. She releases me, keeping her hands on both of my shoulders and admiring me. “My goodness, you’re beautiful. It’s so good to finally meet you.”

“G-g—good to meet you, too, Jennifer.”

Her hand waves off my formalness. “Please, call me Jenn.”

Smiling at me brightly, she practically exudes warmth. She has the kind of smile that immediately puts others at ease, her eyes crinkling at the corners, cheeks lifting beneath deep smile lines. Even her blonde hair, with hints of gray, glows like the sun is shining down on it. I was prepared to hate her. Mentally, I was going to catalog all of her flaws and use them to build an evil stepmom narrative. Unfortunately, she’s nice and it seems sincere. I can’t help but feel as if I’m betraying my mom by having one positive thought about her.

“Sadie. Caleb. Come meet Marisa. Your phones will survive if you set them down for a few moments.” She gives me a look that tells me this is a daily annoyance for her.

“Hi,” Sadie says shyly. She looks like a young Jennifer with her long, honey-blonde hair, a youthful round face, and the most piercing, cornflower blue eyes. She looks nervous, and I’m reminded of myself at her age—painfully shy, nose always buried in a book. I give her a half wave, and she smiles back.

“Sup,” Caleb says, sounding every bit the teenage boy he is. He looks similar to Sadie, but his features are sharper and his hair is chestnut brown. His cheeks and jaw are covered in patchy, uneven hair, an attempt at growing a beard that forces me to bite back a smile. It’s comforting to know there are some things, like teenage boys, that remain utterly predictable.

“How do you like your eggs?” Jenn asks.

I walk around to the kitchen island, using it as a barrier between us. “Over easy, but I’m not picky, whatever is easiest.”

“We are a runny yolk household.” She gives me a wink. “Oh, and if you’re a coffee drinker, help yourself.”

After making myself a cup of coffee, I take the far seat at the table, wincing from the giant bruise on my ass, a reminder of last night’s debacle. I clasp my hands in my lap, unsure of what to do with myself. Sadie and Caleb are focused on their phones, randomly kicking each other under the table. I’m guessing it’s some form of sibling communication, but as an only child, I can only assume.

My dad and Jenn work in the kitchen like a well-oiled machine, sensing and anticipating the other’s movements before they even happen. It’s a rehearsed dance they seem to perform often, and I’m hit with a pang of jealousy. I never got the two parents in the kitchen happily working together as a team. My parent’s relationship was rocky for as far back as I can remember. If they weren’t fighting, they were silent. Seeing this version of my dad is so foreign to me, he may as well be a stranger. In many ways, he is a stranger. I’ve never met this man.

The breakfast spread is akin to something from a TV show—impeccably prepared and ready for the main characters to take a single bite of toast as they race out the door. All of Jenn’s dishes are a matching crisp white porcelain. So unlike my mom’s array of colorful dishes, acquired over years of thrifting.

Dishes are passed around the table, family style, while Jenn walks around, serving each person their preferred egg order. Is this real? Do people actually live this way?

Finally, she takes her seat next to my dad. “Is there anything you need for the cottage? Kitchen supplies, towels, household basics?” she asks, spreading a layer of butter on her toast.

“Not that I can think of. The cottage seems fully stocked with things like that, and I also brought a ton of stuff.”

Jenn looks to my dad. “Did you show her around the property?”

He shakes his head. “I figured she was tired.”

“We definitely should, or have one of the Ledgers do it.” Focusing her attention back on me, she says, “Not sure if your dad mentioned it, but one of the cottages is being used by Jack’s son, Ethan. In case you see a strange man around, no need to freak out.”

My dad’s eyes snap open wide, as if until this very moment, the information had slipped his mind.

I swallow harshly, the toast lodging in my throat, and a choking cough attacks me.

“Caleb!” Jenn yells. “Go get Marisa some water.”

I swallow again, this time more successfully. My cheeks flame. She mentioned Ethan, and suddenly I felt like she knew something, like she could read the embarrassment from last night on my face.

Caleb sets a glass of water in front of me, and I give him a nod of thanks.

Gulping down the water, my throat slowly relaxes.

“How about you take the next few days to unpack and get settled. On Saturday, if you haven’t already explored, we can show you around the vineyard property, and then venture into town. There’s the most adorable farmers market that takes over the whole downtown area. I think you’ll love it,” Jenn happily states. “It’ll be a nice little family outing.”

Family.

The word tastes bitter in my mouth. Jenn is nice—I can admit that— and the kids seem okay, but these people are not my family.

After breakfast, it’s time to face the one thing I’ve been dreading. Unpacking.

It feels pointless to settle in when I could just as easily be packing it all right back up in a week. Well, maybe not a week. That’s more wishful thinking than anything.

But before I can begin unpacking, I need groceries. Badly.

Last night, my growling stomach woke me from my nap, and of course, it was after everything except a questionable-looking convenience store had closed. I didn’t even want the food, none of it sounded good, but I was starving and desperate. When that got ruined, I had to scrounge through my work purse, hoping I had a snack or two in there. I was in luck. There was a week-old Ziplock bag of salt and vinegar chips, broken down into tiny pieces and stale. It was great. Super satisfying.

Never again will I let myself be that unprepared. I think what upsets me the most about last night isn’t that his dog jumped me and ruined my shitty dinner, or that I was accused of being a criminal, it’s that Ethan didn’t apologize. Not once. Or offer me food when clearly I was hungry. Aren’t small towns known for being able to borrow a cup of sugar from your neighbor? A granola bar would’ve sufficed.

My nails dig into the steering wheel as I think about my jerk of a neighbor and turn into the parking lot of Harvest Grocers, Red Mountain’s only grocery store. I nearly missed it entirely because the faded sign and modestly sized building blend in with the other small storefronts around it.

Inside, the aisles are narrow but well stocked, and the scent of freshly baked bread fills the air, adding a touch of rustic charm. It may not have an overwhelming variety of options often found in big supermarkets, but once I find the freezer section, I’m quickly debating between a single-serve meat lovers frozen lasagna or a chicken Alfredo. I enjoy cooking, but something about cooking for one is incredibly depressing. Thankfully, my appetite has recently started to come back. For a while there, Hillary had to force feed me. I’d take one bite and feel the food slide past the emotional lump in my throat, effectively killing any interest in eating.

Instead of choosing one or the other, I drop both in the cart and move on to the pantry aisles. I stock up on pickles, some canned foods, a decently sized bag of rice, and other random prepared boxed foods, all the while keeping a mental tally on the total, because money is tight.

“Hey!” a familiar voice calls to me from the left, startling me, and I drop the bottle of olive oil I was about to put in my cart.

I bend down to grab it, looking up to see my dad’s smiling face. Even though I was just with him, it’s weird running into him in public. Standing, I see he’s not alone.

“Jack, this is my daughter, Marisa. Marisa, this is Jack Ledger, who I made the cottage arrangements with.”

Jack towers over my dad. He’s an older man who looks about mid to late sixties, with salt and pepper hair and plenty of fine lines, especially deep in the outer corners of his eyes and around his mouth. He smiles warmly at me, and the lines sink deeper.

“Nice to meet you, Marisa,” he says, tipping his head at me like a cowboy in a western film. If he were wearing a cowboy hat, he’d be spot on. He shakes my hand firmly but gentle. “And my apologies about the mixup last night.”

My dad rears back, looking confused. “Mixup?”

Jack shoves his hands in his pockets, shaking his head as if he really feels bad. He looks more remorseful than Ethan. “I forgot to tell Ethan about Marisa staying next door, and his dog attacked her.” He turns to me. “I feel just awful.”

“It’s fine, really. I didn’t get hurt. No harm, no foul.”

“Sweets, why didn’t you say anything earlier?” It’s been ages since my dad has called me that, and a little corner of my heart pinches.

I force a smile. “It’s not a big deal. I didn’t think it was worth bringing up.” Really, what was I supposed to say? Thanks for the accommodations, oh, by the way, the neighbor, who’s also the owner, hates me.

“Well, let me or Ethan know if there’s anything we can do to make your stay more comfortable,” Jack says. He seems like such a nice man, unlike his son, so I hold in my scoff. If I need anything, I’m certainly not going to Ethan for help, unless his personality does a 180 and he actually apologizes to me.

“We should get going,” my dad says. “We were just popping in to order some sandwich trays for Caleb and his teammates. There’s a big game on Friday, if you’re interested?” He waggles his brows at me, as if that may entice me more. I have zero interest in going to a high school football game.

“We’ll see,” I say noncommittally, but my dad doesn’t seem to notice my lack of enthusiasm.

We part ways, and I finish my shopping.

Ten minutes later, I’m unloading a trunk full of groceries as the sun beats down against my back. I can’t tell if it’s an unusually warm day for fall or if this is normal for the southeastern portion of the state. Seattle has already dropped down to a rainy fifty degrees, and my body feels out of whack, trying to acclimate.

I retrieve the last bag, feeling way more winded than I should as sweat forms around my temples, and slam down the trunk.

Behind me, someone coughs, causing me to still. It’s Ethan. I can sense it’s him without even having to look. I muster a forced smile, reminding myself to be friendly. Maybe yesterday was a fluke and I caught him on an off day. But as I turn to look at him, I see he’s standing closer than I thought, arms crossed, stance wide and domineering, with an irritated scowl to match.

“Hi, neighbor,” I say cheerfully.

His scowl deepens, causing my smile to falter.

Definitely not a fluke.

My smile fully drops, and I suppress an eye roll. What’s crawled up his ass now?

“Can I help you?” I ask, because his only response to my greeting was a grunt.

His eyes flick over me, giving me a dismissive once-over. “You can’t park here.”

Looping my arm through the grocery bag handle, I cross my arms and pop my hip. “And where exactly am I supposed to park?”

He points to the pathway that leads to the sidewalk. “Street parking.”

“Where’s the sign that says that?” Maybe if he had brought it up nicely, I would gladly park there. But he didn’t, so now I’m going to be a bitch.

His jaw hardens. “Don’t need a sign,” he grits. “No one is supposed to be staying here.”

No way in hell am I moving my car right now. I’m hot and sweaty and have way too much to do. “Are you always this rude? Because I’m starting to take it personally. Have I done something to offend you besides exist?”

He huffs, shaking his head. “I’m just telling it like it is. Didn’t realize I needed to treat you like a delicate flower.”

God! He is the most infuriating man I’ve ever met. I’m at my breaking point. Lucky for him, my phone rings before I can scream. It’s my mom. She’s usually not one to call without a reason, especially since we spoke yesterday.

“I should get this.” I drop the grocery bag—the one with my canned food—aiming for his feet.

He winces when it lands right on his toes, and his gaze tightens as he tries to look unaffected when I’m sure it hurt like hell. I bite my bottom lip to stop from laughing.

I assumed he would take the hint and leave, but doesn’t move an inch.

Ignoring him, I answer the call. “?Bueno? Mamá. ?Qué onda?” (Hi, Mom. What’s up?)

My mom and I have an understanding that if I start a conversation in Spanish, it’s intentional. The same goes for her, because for the most part she tries to speak primarily in English. Though when it’s just her and I or she’s talking to someone else who speaks Spanish, she’ll weave in and out of both languages seamlessly.

“?Me puedes dar la contrase?a de Netflix?” (Can you give me the Netflix password?”)

It’s really not a good time. “Espera un momento, estoy ocupada gritándole a mi vecino cabrón.” (In a minute, I’m busy yelling at my asshole neighbor.)

She sighs, clearly annoyed. “órale, llámame después.” (Fine, call me when you’re done.)

We end the call, and Ethan eyes me curiously, the corners of his lips tilting. He looks unnatural with a smile. It clearly doesn’t belong on him.

“Have a nice chat about me?”

I let out a contemptuous laugh. “Some ego you have. Trust me, you’re not that special. That was my mom and she’s Mexican, so sometimes we speak in Spanish. Based on your use of grunts, I’m going to assume English is hard enough for you.”

His jaw ticks. For someone as abrasive and rude as he is, he sure is sensitive about any little digs I aim his way. He glares down at me, eyes more green than brown today. “So, your car. Are you going to move it?”

Oh. My. God. What is the big deal about parking here? He just wants to pick a fight.

“I’ll move it when I’m ready.” I pick back up the grocery bag and hit the lock button on my key fob. “I was giving you the benefit of the doubt, but you’re worse today than you were yesterday.”

His face is unreadable. Hard. Impassive.

It’s such a shame that he’s the personality equivalent of Oscar the Grouch. He doesn’t deserve to look as good as he does in a simple black T-shirt and jeans, with biceps straining against his cotton sleeves and his broad chest looking strong and prominent. He’s all thick muscle and hard lines. He looks like the kind of man who could turn a toothpick into a log cabin if you handed it to him in the wilderness. I feel the feminist in me leave my body for a moment while I appreciate how absolutely masculine he looks. It’s likely toxic, but a girl can still look.

My cheeks heat, in both fluster and anger that I’ve become this pathetic, checking out a man who looks at me like I’m gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe.

It seems we’re playing the silent game. I thought he would have a quick comeback, but instead, he stays mute and unmoving.

Our quiet beat morphs into an awkward silence. And I hate awkward silences.

Unable to stand it, I continue talking. “Look, I don’t want to be here any more than you want me here. But it is what it is. Are you going to keep being difficult, or can we come to an understanding?”

Finally, after what feels like years taken off my life, some of the tightening around his jaw releases and his mouth relaxes. “Fine.”

I still. “Fine?”

“Fine,” he repeats. “But I have rules.”

I stare at him with my brow arched, waiting to hear about these so-called rules of his.

He sighs, as if just being around me exhausts him. “Rule number one, no visitors.”

That seems unreasonable. “What about my dad?” I quickly shoot back.

“I’ll allow family to visit, but no strange men and no parties. I like my privacy, and I don’t need any loud, rowdy noises around.”

It’s not like either of those things will be happening, but I don’t like being told who I can and can’t have over. “And if I do?”

“Then you’ll have to stay somewhere else, or better yet, go back to Seattle.”

“Okay,” I agree, begrudgingly. “Any more rules?” I put air quotes around the last word.

“Keep to yourself and I’ll do the same. Me and you”—he points between us—“we’re not friends.”

As if I want to be friends with his grumpy ass anyway. No, thank you. “Works for me,” I say, sugary sweet.

I wait for a third rule, but he doesn’t continue.

“Is that all, sir?” I smile prettily, daring him to crack.

He doesn’t. Instead, he stares at me blankly, eyes dull and mouth flat.

The energy it must take to not show any emotion other than anger and irritation—could never be me.

He turns on his heels and stalks back to his cottage, muttering under his breath something that sounds a lot like damn city girl.