Free You Are the Reason by Renae Kaye Page B

hour.
    At home that evening, I celebrated the financial windfall that would filter through to me from the new contracts I’d signed. I cracked a beer with my stirfry dinner and stared at Mr. Magic 8 Ball where he sat on my coffee table, waiting with his advice. What would he say?
    I flicked on the TV, watched some news, and deliberately ignored Mr. Magic 8 Ball. Once my dinner was finished, I even picked him up and, being very careful not to tip him up, hid him from my view.
    In the laundry cupboard.
    Behind the bleach and the toilet cleaner.
    Where no man would ever think to look. Right?
    I flicked through my DVD collection until I found a classic Clint Eastwood film. Clint would keep me occupied. I deliberated between Pale Rider and Unforgiven , before deciding that Pale Rider would do for the night.
    I was deep in the story when my mobile beeped from the kitchen bench. I ignored it, deciding that the message could wait until the end of the scene. Then it occurred to me it could be Lee.
    My eyes flew open. Would he message me? Didn’t he say that he would wait for my call? Or was he going to ring me? What if he asked to come over to my place?
    Shit.
    I scrambled for my phone but collected the coffee table in my mad flight. My foot hit the edge of table, and I crashed inelegantly to the ground, smashing my knee on the floor tiles and bashing my cheek on the edge of a chair. Ignoring the pain, I climbed over the back of the second sofa—the shortest route to the kitchen—and limped to the bench where I could reach the device.
    With frantic fingers I swiped at the screen.
    Jake Manning.
    I sighed, and I’m not sure which emotion won. Was I feeling more relief or disappointment that it wasn’t Lee?
    I opened the text. What works for colic?
    Colic?
    I blinked rapidly but the word “colic” stayed there. I searched my memory banks and came up with a solution. My sister had married a horse trainer some years back. The year before, she missed Christmas Day at our parents’ house because one of their top gallopers had colic. They’d spent the day with the sick horse. I tried to remember what she gave the horse.
    I typed my answer. Castor oil and lots of walking?
    Caroline had told me they’d dosed the horse with oil and then walked him nonstop so he wouldn’t lie down. Apparently a horse lying down was bad, so they paced with him until he passed the bad stuff.
    My shin was throbbing, and I was examining the large chunk of flesh I appeared to be missing when Jake messaged me again.
    WTF? You want me to feed Maxine oil and make her walk?
    Then two seconds later.
    Oh, fuck. Wrong person. Sorry. I meant to send that to my sister. I’ve been up with Maxine for over thirty hours. She doesn’t want Patrick, only me, so he went to work today and isn’t home yet. He’s sulking.
    I frowned as I remembered the nights that Jake had partied on through the early hours of the morning with me, then got up and went to work for ten hours the next day. I gave the only sympathy I knew.
    Red Bull? In a six-pack?
    I could feel the heat of his glare coming at me from eight suburbs over.
    Prick! Patrick will be home soon, and I’m going to bed. I don’t care how loud Maxine screams. Tell me, how did it go with Lee?
    Oh, and there was the question. How to answer? Blurt the whole thing out? Pretend I didn’t even remember who Lee was? (Ha.)
    Gutless wonder. That’s what Jake would call me.
    I messaged him back, lying through my teeth. Still considering my options. Hope Maxine stops screaming soon.
    Then I flung my phone down and limped to the laundry, digging through the cupboard until I found Mr. Magic 8 Ball again. “Should I message Lee now?”
    My sources say no.
    I scowled at the answer and shoved it back in the cupboard.
     
     
    T UESDAY NIGHT I just happened to pull out my cleaning supplies and came across Mr. Magic 8 Ball. Doesn’t every man clean his toilet and shower on Tuesday night after he’s worked the whole