Beau grinned. “Can’t see nothin’ wrong with it. And besides…Rhett has to play the big brother even though we’re all adults now, and if you don’t introduce yourself soon, he’ll track you down himself.”
“Oh,” I said, blinking. “He…knows I exist?”
Delilah smirked. “Babe, you’ve been sleeping in Beau’s bed. Ofcoursehe knows you exist.”
My cheeks went warm.
Beau didn’t deny it.
“Besides,” Delilah added, reaching for the last bite of pie on Whit’s plate and ignoring his grunt of protest, “I already told June about you. She said she’s dying to meet the girl who’s got Beau all tangled up.”
“I ain’t tangled,” Beau muttered.
Delilah tilted her head toward me. “He’s tangled.”
I laughed despite myself, and then looked back at Beau—his arm stretched across the back of the booth, his fingers grazing the top of my shoulder like he hadn’t even realized they were there.
I wanted to go. God help me, I really wanted to go.
But I hesitated, because this…this wasn’t just sex anymore, wasn’t just a story. This was his family. His people.
And if I said yes, I wasn’t just playing tourist.
I was putting down roots.
Still, I heard myself say, “Alright. I’m in.”
Beau’s lips twitched like he was trying not to smile too wide. “Really? I mean…my family can be a lot. You sure?”
No.
“Yeah.”
Delilah clapped her hands together. “Perfect. I’ll text Willow and tell her to set an extra plate. You’ll love her—she’s like if a midwife and a tree nymph had a baby.”
“That’s not inaccurate,” Whit said thoughtfully.
I laughed, unsure how much of this was supposed to be funny.
“Welcome to the family,” Delilah said, like she meant it.
And that was the part that scared me the most.
Because I didn’t want to leave.
And I was starting to think they didn’t want me to, either.
CHAPTER 11
Noelle
The Ward housesmelled like something out of a daydream—cornbread, pumpkin pie, spiced wine.
That was the first thing I noticed—how warm it was. Not just the temperature, but the feel of it. The kind of warm you only got in houses where people actually loved each other, where someone always had something in the oven, and someone else always had a baby on their hip. There were books stacked under the windows, handmade throw blankets draped over the couch, and a mismatched gallery wall of old family photos that hadn’t been curated for aesthetic. Just life.
It reminded me of Catherine Donnelly’s house. She’d been my best friend in third grade—the first kid who ever invited me over for dinner. Her mom had hugged me without hesitation and served hot dogs and noodles on paper plates, and I’d thought it was magic. That was before Catherine got braces and decided I was too poor for sleepovers.
The Ward house felt like that. Like magic.
