I willingly sacrificed years of my life for the happiness emanating from every part of her. And I’d do it all over again. I’d do anything for my little sister.
So why do I feel like I’m standing outside a window, watching a party I wasn’t invited to?
The bell over the door jingles, and in sweep four women I recognize instantly. The town’s unofficial surveillance committee. Chronic meddlers with a PhD in other people’s business and a firm policy of ignoring their own.
They flock to a booth by the window, chattering like crows with fresh gossip, a good three booths away and blissfully unaware of Kitty and me tucked away in our shadowy corner.
“Speaking of training...” Kitty's eyes get that look. The one that means she’s about to poke something I don’t want poked. “How are things going with Daniel?”
I blow hard enough to slosh coffee over the side of the cup. “He’s very... organized.”
“Uh-huh.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” She smirks, the little traitor. “Tom reckons Daniel’s been distracted lately. Extra grouchy.”
“Daniel’s always in a mood,” I say wryly. “The man has two settings: controlled and more controlled.”
The truth is, I’ve been distracted too. By Daniel’s forearms flexing as he hauls feed. The way his jeans mold to his muscular thighs. And how he looks at me when he thinks I’m not paying attention.
“So, tell me about the garden,” I say, steering the conversation toward safer waters. “You mentioned you were planting tomatoes?”
Kitty launches into a detailed description of soil pH and companion planting, and I let her voice wash over me. This is good. This is normal. This is what sisters do—they talk about tomatoes and pretend the world isn’t complicated.
The bell over the door jingles again. This time, the pressure in the diner shifts. It’s subtle—a change in the quality of the silence, the way conversations stutter and restart.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
I don’t look up. I’m listening to Kitty. I’m being a good sister.
Don’t look. Don’t you dare look.
I look.
Daniel Sutton fills the doorway like he was built to block out the sun. He nods once—acknowledgment, nothing more—and heads for the counter. Probably here for ranch errands. Picking up supplies. Reasons that have nothing to do with me.
I force my attention back to Kitty. “So, the tomatoes. You were saying about the cages?”
“I was saying about the mulch, actually, but nice try.” She smirks. “You should see your face right now.”
“My face is neutral.”
“Your face ispink.”
“It’s warm in here.”
“It’s sixty-eight degrees, Laney.”
I blister my mouth with another sip of hot coffee.
I’m not watching him order. I’m not noticing the way he leans one hip against the counter, or how his forearms flex when he reaches for his wallet. I’m listening to Kitty talk about mulch.
Mulch is fascinating.
Mulch is far more interesting than the way Daniel Sutton’s jeans fit his firm ass.
“The mulch,” I say firmly. “Tell me about the mulch.”
