“For what it’s worth, Blair thinks you’ve been a good influence on him.”
“Nah. He was a great kid long before I came along.”
Denny stretches out his shoulder—slinging an arm across his chest with a small groan.
“You think you might want to be his stepdad someday?”
“Without a doubt.”
I can answer that question with more confidence and speed than if somebody were to ask how to spell my last name.I love that kid.
I’m not trying to be something Jonas doesn’t want me to be. Not trying to take the place of a man who never bothered to step up. But I’m there when he needs someone he can open up to, and I’m there when he needs someone to kick his ass at video games. I know what sparks the fire in those vibrant green eyes he gets from his mom, and how to draw out the softest laugh from the little boy he tries so hard to shove aside.
In my heart—title or no title—he’s already mine. Much in the same way Whit is.
Giving me a friendly punch to the shoulder, Denny makes his way to the door. “Looks like you already got yourself a kid.”
An indescribable sensation swells in my chest. A full breath. My first in weeks.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m turning out my horse for the night. The gate slams shut, vibrating up through my arm and rattling tears loose from my eyelashes.
Sticky wind blows up the fence line, finding gaps in my soggy clothes and chilling my already frozen bones. And I blink up at the star-filled sky, immediately searching for Cygnus lying low on the horizon, wiping the rogue tears with the back of my hand.
With more stars in more galaxies than we can comprehend, the reminder that I’m nothing but a crappy speck of dust with equally insignificant heartache is reassuring, somehow.
Pulling my wet coat tighter around myself, I shuffle against the wind. Once she realizes I’m heading to the bunkhouse, Betty darts from her sheltered bed in the barn, and her fluffy butt is wiggling through the dog door before I reach for the handle. It’s hot dogs for dinner here, apparently. The potent smell wafts through the air, and I pull a face while simultaneously reaching for a hot dog bun, because what the hell else am I going to eat tonight?
Mom always says hot dogs are made of lips and assholes—from what type of animal, I don’t know. And boiled rather than grilled?Felony.
If Ihave toeat a hot dog, I’d rather be sitting around a table with Jonas and Whit, talking about our days. Maybe we’d finish dinner early enough I could kick Jonas’s ass at a racing video game while Whit’s toes knead my thigh. And I’d touch her—everywhere,often.We’d exchange flirty looks all night, and when Jonas went to bed, all bets would be off.
For that, I’d raw-dog a hot dog.
Whit
Jonas scrambles out of the passenger seat, eager to be on school grounds for the first time in his life. And on a Thursday night, no less.
I stuff my keys into the pocket of my cardigan, wishing I’d worn something warmer for the short walk through the parking lot, and follow him toward the elementary school. It’s bustling with activity, as kids and parents and random community members file into the building for the 4-H art show. Jonas has never been the artistic type, and he doesn’t have a piece on display. But Theo has a painting in tonight’s show, and I’m never going to discourage supporting our friends. I’m also not one to turn down a bake sale.
Rummaging through my purse for our tickets, I follow Jonas into the school and join him in the entry line. I didn’t bother inviting anyone with us tonight, since Jonas isn’t actuallyinthe art show, but looking around at the families present, I’m wishing I had. There seems to be an average of four adults for every kid here.
I hand Jonas his ticket with a thin-lipped smile. “You see Theo around here anywhere?”
Raised on the balls of his feet, he looks around. “Not yet. He’s probably already in there.”
A family I’ve never seen before—with both parents and two sets of grandparents hovering around a kid who looks tobe about thirteen—is in front of us. The pretty blond mom turns to us with a surprisingly sweet expression. As somebody used to pity or disdain or apathy from people in this town, I give a smile in return that is awkward as hell.
“Do you have a piece in the show tonight?” she asks Jonas.
“Uh…no. We’re here ’cause my friend does.”
“What a great friend you are.” She smiles at Jonas, then up at me.
My heart soars, and I rest my hand on Jonas’s shoulder to keep from hugging this strange woman and embarrassing everybody. “He’s a great kid.”
“I’m Charlotte,” she says, extending her hand. “Are you guys in 4-H?”
“Whit.” I shake her hand, it’s firm yet soft, and she has the most stunning cobalt blue nails. “Jonas just joined, actually.”
