Her eyes sparkle as she beams at me. “Definitely!”
“What? No way! Ma, let’s go!” Beck yells, grabbing Lana’s hand and dragging her away. She laughs, jogging to keep up with him as we do the same.
It’s silly and in the end it’s more or less a draw. Their line was longer but our pizza took more time to cook. Beck declares them victorious and gloats while we eat. The conversation is easy, Beck talking about football and Holland filling us in on the drama in second grade.
It is eye-opening to say the least. I’d never really had friends growing up besides Bodhi, so I’d been oblivious to the social constructs in school. Lana talks about some of the things happening at the university, and I tell some of the more outlandish stories about working with Case and Otto Thayer.
As dinner winds down, I catch Holland staring longingly at the people dancing to the music, her toe tapping on the grass as she bounces a little in her seat.
“Can I have this dance?” I ask her, those big green eyes like her mama’s lighting up as I hold out my hand to her. She nods, putting her small hand in mine and letting me lead her into an open spot. The band starts playing a cover of “My Girl” by Dylan Scott, and I swing Holland around, spinning her this way and that as she learns the steps.
We’re on our second dance before Beck holds his hand out to Lana, and the pure joy on her face is absolutely everything.They’re far less coordinated than the steps I’m doing with Holland, the two of them doubled over laughing as Beck hooks his arm in hers and spins her around.
But I know that means more to Lana than anything I’d be doing out here given the chance.
And I do get the chance a short while later as Beck starts doing the steps to some popular dance on social media, Holland chiming in helpfully to tell him he’s doing it wrong. Lana fits herself under my arm, angling her body so it’s pressed against mine as we watch them.
“Thank you for this,” she says, her expression one of pure contentment as she looks up at me. “Tonight was perfect.”
I grin and hold her tight because,yeah, tonight was pretty damn perfect.
“How do you feel about hot air balloons?”
21
MASON
“Icannot believe I let you talk me into this.” Lana yawns as she climbs into the passenger seat of the SUV I borrowed from Montana. My truck would be less than comfortable for the hour-long ride, and this way Beck and Holland can sleep a little before we get there.
In the time since our first night out together, I’d made it a point to be present and available. I’d played catch with Beck and a couple of board games with Holland. Lana had made dinner, and a couple of times I’d picked up takeout.
We were still taking it slow, Lana and I showing minimal affection in front of the kids, but everything else was fair game. I wanted to get to know them and I wanted them to get to know me.
Which is how I’d convinced them this would be the perfect weekend outing. I’d never seen a hot air balloon up close before, and the fact that they’re willing to do this with me—to humor me at least—is all I can ask for.
Holland had given me a sleepy wave before climbing into the back and promptly passing out. I couldn’t see Beck’s face underthe hood of his sweatshirt, but I figured the nod was more than sufficient for a four in the morning wake-up.
“I promise not to talk to you before we get there,” I murmur, taking her hand and kissing her knuckles, figuring it’s a quick and safe affectionate display out of sight of her kids.
But to my surprise, Lana doesn’t release my hand, twining our fingers instead and resting our joined hands on her thigh.
“Smile quieter,” she says, her eyes closed but her lips tipped up in the corners as she leans her head back against the headrest.
Chuckling softly, I back out of the driveway and follow the GPS through the winding country roads.
I’ve seen a lot of sunrises in my life, but something about the prospect of this one has warmth blooming in my chest. The ride is soothing, with Beck’s light snoring mixing with the tires on the pavement and Tristan Prettyman’s melodic voice, the combination one I’d listen to on repeat.
It sounds like home.
And forever.
And family.
Lana’s thumb rubs gently against mine, both her hands now wrapped around mine in her lap. I love her need to touch me, the physical contact something I always craved but seldom received growing up.
The parking lot is already filling when we pull into the grassy field and find a spot. I back in and Beck snorts as he rubs his eyes with his fist.
“Not a word, Beckham,” Lana chastises, but her lips twitch as she turns to look at him.
