Rebel by Savannah Kade

Author:Savannah Kade [Kade, Savannah]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Griffyn Ink

31

Emma Kate had worked late with Melanie again that evening. Keith stayed out running a last-minute emergency call for Housley. They managed to drive up the driveway at the same time, Em in her little silver car and Keith looking like a badass in his leather jacket and gloves on his bike.

She knew that the leather jacket and gloves were because he was cold—he’d not thought such a southern state could get to freezing temperatures, and he’d not been prepared. She also knew that, under the biker jacket, he was wearing a white thermal shirt and his blue scrubs top. She didn’t care. Her husband looked like a badass.

She’d been the first up the stairs to the little porch and she turned to watch as he took off his helmet and tucked it under his arm. Then she put the key in the lock and held the door for him, accepting a soft, lingering kiss as he went by.

Once inside, she’d walked through her ritual of hanging up her coat, stuffing her gloves into the pockets and setting her purse on the floor just inside the door. There was no entry way table nor coat rack, and she was grateful the Barkers had installed the hooks just inside the door.

“So how was your day, dear?” He asked it with a sarcastic tone, but that was for the “dear” part. Keith always really wanted to know about her day.

“We went out to the Forsythe house—”

“You really have Forsythes here? I thought that was just on Dallas or whatever those TV shows were.” He was raising one eyebrow as if she needed to explain herself. When it came to “normal” in the south, she often did.

“Where do you think the TV shows got that name?” She raised an eyebrow right back at him.

“Touché,” he conceded, “So you went to the Forsythe house…”

“Mrs. Forsythe wants to do a charity ball, in her own ballroom—”

“Because, of course, she has her own ballroom.”

Em could almost see him looking around their tiny house and knowing it would fit in the Forsythe ballroom ten times over. “Yes, she does. But what grabbed me is that the furniture in the living room is threadbare. The floors are worn along the pathways people have walked—probably for more than a century.” Em flopped back on the couch. “Her grandchildren are running around, weaving in and out of these priceless antiques, and she doesn’t think anything of it.”

“But how is she throwing a charity event—don’t those things cost money?—if she doesn’t have it? I mean, you said the house was worn.” He’d peeled the scrub top, usually not willing to wear them inside the house, before he leaned back on the couch with her. Both of them splayed out, feet in front of them, her in heels, him in sneakers with his top balled up in his fist.

“She does have it. That’s the thing. Clara Deacons drives a twenty-year-old car with paint chips and dings.”

“What’s your point?”

“That’s what old money is. Mrs.

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