“Lunch on the couch, then,” he says, carrying grocery bags through the house to us. The smell of roasted chicken fills the air. Jamison’s main pregnancy craving.
Jamison scoots up. “Rotisserie chicken?”
“We were told we’d better not show up without it.” Durban’s behind Haven with his arms full of paper towels and disposable plates. “We were also told that we’d better not touch the thighs or you’ll gut us.”
His deep voice ripples over my skin in a way Haven’s doesn’t. I need to go, or I’m going to be a mixed-up, turned-on mess, while Durban is as handsomely casual as can be.
“I’ll fight a bitch for those thighs.” Jamison pats the spot next to her. “Wanna sit by me, Campbell? The guys can join us and have the chairs.”
The warm brush of Durban’s gaze strokes over me. My belly somersaults. If I have one bite of the food, I’ll heave it all over the coffee table. I don’t need that on top of the wedding stress. “Uh, no. Thanks. I should get going.”
“You’re missing out. Living room picnics are the best.” Haven digs out grapes, sliced melon, and fresh bread that makes my hunger knock on my stomach walls. It’s from Elodie’s bakery. Maybe I’ll run there right now, buy a dozen of everything, and hide from the way Durban’s studying me, as if he wasn’t just leaning over me less than forty-eight hours ago, telling me what to do as if he knows my body better than me.
“You’re leaving?” Jamison puts her legs down, but I wave her off.
“They want to be proper guests on the ranch tomorrow,” I say, “so I have to check in with the staff and make sure we’re good to go.”
There’ll be branding, and that’s always a huge draw. Daddy makes it a production with roping and wrangling and hot-from-the-fire iron brands, instead of chutes and panels and electric branding irons.
She rolls her eyes. “They aren’t going to appreciate it.”
They’ll be horrified. I can’t wait. “No, but maybe they’ll get shit on them and I can celebrate that it’s part of the experience.”
“Don’t forget to peek at the kittens.” She rubs her belly and eyes the food. My stomach clenches at the delay. “Patches is keeping them in the barn, and they’re ready for interaction.”
“Sure.” I told her I’d help get the kittens used tohumans before Kacey charges in a little too loud, a little too unpredictable for the mama cat.
I give the guys a tight smile without meeting their eyes and scurry out of the house, using the door off the kitchen.
The pressure doesn’t ease off my chest as I cross the gravel loop to the barn on the other end. I find Patches curled up in an old rabbit hutch that Jamison found in a thrift store.
“Hey, Patches,” I say softly and crouch by the fenced sides to let her get used to me. The little tortie that showed up last fall blinks and meows and pushes her face against the wires. I chuckle and scratch her cheeks before rising to coo at her and the four little kittens snoozing on her. “Look at you, Mama. Doing a good job.”
A tiny orange kitten hisses at me before I carefully lift him. His little ears stick straight up. He closes his eyes and leans into me when I scratch him.
The three others start moving around, their little mews reaching me.
“Just wait your turn.” I giggle at the wiggling body in my grip.
“I think Iverson’s been out here spoiling them.”
I whirl around at the deep voice. Tingles race down my spine and spread outward. Guilt immediately follows. “You’ve got to quit sneaking up on me.”
Last time, I was the one who snuck into the room he was in.
He lifts his chin at the kitten I’m cradling. “I think they’ve been getting human attention for far longer than Jamison knows.” His shadow only amplifies how wide hisshoulders are. They blocked out the storeroom when he was in front of me.
Envy joins the other tangled emotions. My sister has the man, the house, the kids, a dog, and even kittens. I’m planning my ex’s wedding while living with my parents.
I set the kitten down with the others and pick up another tortie with one white paw. “Are you accusing your own brother of spoiling barn cats?” I ask lightly. I want to run, to get away from his confusing presence, but not as much as I want to stay.
“Yes.” He shoves his hands into his jeans pockets. The move pulls his dark-green T-shirt tighter. “That one’s going to be my next barn cat.”
I clutch her to me. She bumps her tiny nose against my chin. “Putting her to work so early?”
“She’s got a month, and then she’s moving.”
And the mama cat is getting fixed. I knew the plans, but I didn’t know which kittens were going where. “What are you naming her?”
