“Nonsense. You’ll have another plate. I’m sure those washboard abs can handle it.” Her wink makes Beckett groan, but I only chuckle, attempting not to blush when Betty quickly rakes her gaze from my face to my stomach, then away. If Mama Hughes weren’t like a mother to me, I’d take offense, but never with her.
“Georgia,” Mr. Hughes chides his wife as a flush creeps up over my cheeks. I’ve grown used to people making comments about my body. I’m the typical cowboy. All defined, rugged muscles built both out in the fields and at the gym. The sprinkle of gray in my beard—when I let it grow—and at my temples draws women to me like flies at a picnic. However, I’ve never been overlyconcerned with my appearance. It serves no purpose in my line of work.
“It’s alright,” I laugh. “They might hold up tonight, but I hear forties are no joke.” The table bursts into laughter, Betty’s eyes glistening with unshed tears as she continues to cackle and snort. A sound that should not be attractive, but shoots straight down to my cock. “What were you asking me, Beck?” I redirect the conversation.
“The time we had the team sleepover here, and we knew Case was a sleepwalker?” Beckett’s face is bright red from his laughter as he tries to get the words out for what must be the second time.
“You leave that poor boy alone,” Mama Hughes chuckles. “We found him out in the fields trying to ride the chickens.”
Betty laughs louder, her palm pressed to her flat stomach as she curls forward. “Is that what happened? Dad said I had to stay in my room, so all I heard was the commotion of y’all trying to get him back inside the house.”
Mr. Hughes grunts. “That’s because that boy was out there in his underwear.”
Betty only laughs louder, her hand cupped over her mouth as her face turns a shade of red that could only be found in a crayon box.
“Yeah, the guy had dreams of bull riding. He would try to ride random animals all the time,” Beckett confirms.
Betty’s nose scrunches as she straightens in her seat. “So weird.”
The laughter finally dies down, and all five of us lean back in our chairs after Mama Hughes insists we eat massive bowls of peach cobbler and homemade vanilla bean ice cream.
“Beckett, why don’t you boys go grab some drinks and sit out on the patio. It’s a beautiful night,” Mama Hughes croons, gathering several empty dishes in front of her and stacking them.
Draping an arm around her waist as she leans into him, he kisses her temple. The gesture is so tender, so familiar, as if it’s second nature. They’ve always been like this. I used to think maybe Katherine and I would be too, but we were more likely to punch one another in the shoulder than share a heartfelt moment. “My wife is a genius,” Mr. Hughes sighs.
Beckett disappears into the kitchen, wandering back out with three beers moments later. “Let’s go, Nash.”
“Actually, Mama Hughes, why don’t you take my spot. I’ll get these dishes cleaned and the food put away with Betty,” I volunteer with a wide grin.
There’s no missing Betty’s sharp intake of air at my suggestion, those toned sun-kissed thighs pressing together as she forces a smile. Her hands knot in her lap before she places her palms on the table, shoving out of her seat awkwardly. The scent of her light perfume drifts my way, and I try my hardest not to inhale deeply like a fucking creep, but I can’t help it. She smells like the river or the ocean after it’s just rained. It’s my favorite scent.
Before I can stand to help, she’s gathered a stack of dishes and glasses in her hands and is already shuffling off to the kitchen.
For a woman who’s supposedly in love with me, she acts like she can’t wait to get away from me fast enough. I told her that nothing had to change, that I wouldn’t treat her any differently, and I haven’t, though I want to.
I’ve found myself wondering more often how her lips would taste and what her skin might feel like if I could touch her anywhere I wanted. Would that tan hue turn pink under my palm? Is she the type to purposely disobey her man, or would she follow every command with a “yes, sir” as those big doe eyes focused on my face?
The fantasies I’ve had about that woman would make most blush.Fuck, my cock twitches just thinking about it, forcing meto adjust myself beneath the table. Shoving out of my seat, I grab the bowl of mashed potatoes and our plates, stacking them.
“It’s okay,” she breathes, returning from the kitchen for the next load, her hand stretching out as if she were going to touch my arm, only to pull it back. “I can do it myself.”
Grabbing my glass, my gaze meets hers. “Just do as I say.”
Heat blazes in her stare, the most beautiful dark pink flooding her cheeks. Yet her mouth purses as she slowly gathers what’s left on the table and disappears into the kitchen without another word.
Tonight might fucking kill me.
No, Nash. She will.
Chapter 8
Betty
The second pile of dishes clangs into the sink, each one cleared of its remnants of food, after the leftovers were sectioned into the glass containers I bought my parents for Christmas. My mother was still using those plastic ones that eventually melt in the dishwasher and microwave, and I was tired of them.
Nash stops beside me as I grab the bottle of dish soap, sprinkling far more than necessary. Slamming the bottle down with enough force bubbles shoot out into the air, there’s no one to be upset with but myself.
Turning the water to scalding, I’m determined to ignore the man hovering at my side until the baritone of his voice washes over me. “I’ll wash, you dry,” he says, his arm brushing mine.
