“He’s so good to me. And the kids. And it’s just nice to have someone who wants to be here.” I pause. “That’s sad, isn’t it?”
“It’s real. And you’re finally seeing a man who wants to put in the effort.” She chuckles. “Not to mention, he is crazy about you.”
“I’m crazy about him too.”
“I can tell.” My mother pulls me in for a hug, holding me tight as everyone comes in for dessert. “I’m so happy for you,” she whispers before releasing me and moving to help the kids get slices of pie before Beck ends up trying to scoop out half the thing for himself.
“You were right,” Mason whispers, dropping a kiss on my cheek.
“About what exactly? I mean not that I’m complaining; I love being right.” I wink and his eyes sparkle as he looks at me.
“I really like your parents.”
“And they really like you, so the feeling’s mutual.”
“It helps.”
“What does?”
“Knowing they approve of me. Ofus.”
“Just wait until my father challenges you to a cannonball contest this summer or?—”
“I’m still undefeated!” my father yells from the table, making Beck’s head whip toward him.
“What? No way, Grandpa! I totally beat you that last time!”
They argue as my mother shakes her head and Holland giggles, taking her grandfather’s side and then squealing when Beck tickles her until she relents.
“Just wait,” I whisper, leaning back on Mason, my heart so full it’s close to bursting.
“I don’t want to.”
Turning to look at him, I press my fingertips against his lips and shake my head. “Tell me tomorrow.”
He kisses them before taking my hand and holding it in his. “Tomorrow.”
MASON
I leftLana’s not long after dessert, my body and mind spent after enduring so much over the last few days. I needed the time to process, to breathe, and to give thanks for the way it had all worked out.
I’m halfway home, Descending North playing through the speakers, when I spot someone on the roadway up ahead. They’re walking, and while plenty of people walk in this town, they don’t quite walk like this.
Slowing my truck, I creep up beside the elderly figure and smile as I roll down the window.
“How ya doing, Grandad?”
“Mason, my boy. It’s a nice night for a walk, isn’t it?”
I chuckle. “Sure is. Can I give you a ride?”
“I guess if you’re offering,” he says, trying to sound put out as I throw the truck into park and jump out, my boots hitting the pavement with a soft thud. Despite his grumbling, he lets me help him into the truck.
Hal Greene is the kind of man people aspire to be—old and still driving half the town mad with his antics. He’s wearing a light flannel with well-worn jeans, cowboy boots, and a hat, the whole look very much southern small town.
“Montana know you’re out here?”
“Listen, boy. Not everything that I do needs to be micromanaged. A whole bunch of mother hens,” he grouses, and I chuckle as I climb into the driver’s seat. He’d had a heart attack the year before and we’d all taken turns fussing over him.
