“It’s my personal idea of hell,” I agreed.
“Don’t worry, Harlan. Jessa conned us into helping.” Holt sat down on my other side. “She talked me into doing demos all weekend long on how to build a campfire, and Ridge is going to teach people how to cook over one.”
“Great.” I wasn’t sure how I felt about her reaching out to my friends for help. Part of me was relieved since it meant it wouldn’t be up to me to fill the whole weekend with events. But it also meant this event was going to be big—much bigger than I was comfortable with.
“Relax, big guy. We’ll all be there to share in your misery.” Ridge chuckled.
“And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”
“Hell, if you don’t want to feel better, I’ve got something that’ll make you feel worse,” Dane offered. He was Thatcher and Holt’s younger brother, though he was still older than Jessa by a couple of years.
Thatcher shook his head. “Not now.”
“What?” I leveled a glare at Dane. The kid didn’t flinch. Maybe I was losing my touch.
“You sure you want to know?” Thatcher asked.
I looked around at the other guys. None of them would meet my eyes. None except Dane who clearly had something to share.
“Tell me.” I grounded myself by sinking my hand into the thick fur on Bubbles’s back. He’d given up on scraps until after dinner and laid down next to me.
Dane pulled out his phone. “Somebody started a poll in the comments of the Ex-List post. They’re betting on which guy from the Ex-List is going to be off the market next.”
“You’re shitting me.” That damn list had been haunting me since someone had anonymously published it a couple of months ago. Hell, it had been haunting all of us. But no one had figured out who’d posted it, at least not yet. We all thought Nellie had something to do with it, but she wasn’t talking.
“You won’t believe who’s got the most votes,” Dane continued.
“Probably you, hot shot,” I said. He was the only one of us who hadn’t given up on dating. Well, except for Thatcher who hadn’t stopped smiling since he met Joely, and Holt who’d finally admitted he was all in with Calla, his son’s nanny. Both of them were already taken, though.
Dane let out a deep belly laugh. “Good one, H. It’s actually you. Sounds like someone thinks you and Jessa would make a good pair.”
The color drained from my face, leaving my cheeks cold and numb. I hadn’t told a fucking soul about the secret feelings I had for Jessa. No one, and I mean no one, had any idea I’d been fantasizing about my best friends’ little sister. Hell, I didn’t even want to admit it to myself.
“Some folks in this town have too damn much free time,” Thatcher said. “The two of you might be more likely to strangle each other than hook up. No offense, man, but you’re not exactly her type.”
He was right. Jessa went for good-lookin’ city boys who had their shit together. Not guys with arms full of tattoos who preferred riding a Harley to navigating the twisty mountain roads in a tripped-out, overpriced, all-wheel drive SUV. She’d always been looking for a way out of Hard Timber, while I couldn’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be. The two of us made about as much sense as ketchup on steak. Both had their place, but they sure as hell didn’t go together.
“Are we any closer to figuring out who put up the list?” I asked, hoping to turn the conversation away from me and Jessa.
“Nellie still isn’t talking,” Holt said. “She might be a little worried about what you’ll do to the person who decided to call you ‘The Warden.’”
All of us on the list had been given awful labels, but mine was the worst. Some anonymous poster who didn’t have the balls to share his or her real identity had described me as a jailer. I’d read the damn post so many times, I could recite it in my sleep.
Harlan Flint doesn’t date—he issues orders. Step into his world and suddenly you’re not a girlfriend, you’re an inmate. He’ll tell you how you pack your gear, how you tie your boots, and probably even how to breathe. He’s not just broody, he’s bossy, the kind of man who’ll watch you like a hawk and call it “keeping you safe.” Some women call that protective. Most call it exhausting. Around here, they don’t call him The Warden because he’s charming. They call him that because once you’re his, good luck getting paroled.
Fuck that. And fuck the person who wrote it. If that was the way women in Hard Timber saw me, then I didn’t want to have anything to do with them.
“Steak’s ready.” Ridge’s announcement brought a welcome change to the conversation. Even Bubbles perked up.
“Can I get you another whiskey?” Holt offered.
I shook my head. My dad had racked up enough DUIs to support the entire sheriff’s department for a decade. I might follow in his footsteps when it came to running the business and being able to live off the land, but that was where I drew the line.
Conversation died down while we dug into steak, potatoes cooked in the coals of the fire, and fresh corn on the cob. We’d come a long way from the first few Trail Night Suppers when we roasted hot dogs. I looked at my buddies sitting in a circle around the fire. We’d been there for each other through everything. I’d never risk their friendship for anything, not even the woman who made my heart beat just for her.
After polishing off every bit of steak and a thorough discussion of where the current best fishing spot was, it was time for me to call it a night. I had to be at the store early to go head-to-head with Jessa over changing any more of my displays.
I left the cookies for the guys to finish off and headed back to my place. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust Jessa to lock up, but it was only a few minutes out of my way to stop by the store to double check the door.
