“What’s so funny?”
“I just—” I shake my head, my smile softening as I watch the landscape roll by. “I didn’t think I could picture anyone with something like that. But then I picturedyouwith it, and it made sense. It’d look good on you, baby.”
She’s quiet, like she’s pretending her phone dropped or she’s underground in a cave with no reception. I open my mouth to say more, maybe even something sappy, but then?—
HISSSSSSSSSSSSSSS.
I nearly swerve. “Jesus Christ, was that Rex?!”
She snorts. “Yeah. He’s fine.”
“He hissed like he was summoning demons.”
“He heard your voice.”
“Well, tell Satan’s hairless minion to chill the fuck out. My ears are bleeding.”
“You’re dramatic.”
“I’m traumatized.”
She let out a small laugh, and I hold onto that sound as if it were oxygen.
“Drive safe, quarterback.”
“Always do.” I grin. “And hey, don’t go falling for me while I’m gone.”
I end the call with a grin still tugging at my mouth. The silence settles in, broken only by the steady rumble of the engine and the hum of tires rolling over the road.
The night air feels cool through the cracked window, carrying a faint scent of hay and manure as I drive down the long gravel road to Blue Moon Ranch. Headlights sweep across the pastures, illuminating the silhouettes of horses lazily shifting in the field, their breath fogging under the moonlight.
Carter’s place comes into view, his porch light casting a warm glow that cuts through the Tennessee night. I kill the engine, pocket my keys, and step out, gravel crunching under my sneakers.
My hand touches the cool brass of the front door handle, the wood solid beneath my palm. I grab my key, unlock the door, push it open, and step inside.
Intertwining smells of whiskey, honey, and the twang of bar-b-q sauce, Carter’s famous smoked ribs flood my senses, making my mouth water instantly.
Fuck yeah, he made ribsssss.
I take a breath and let the door swing shut behind me.
It’s boys’ night. Or at least, it was supposed to be. Just as I reach for a cold one from the cooler, I freeze.
Sitting cross-legged on the damn couch, like she owns the place—which she does—is Catalina.
She’s wearing lavender fuzzy socks, an oversized tee that says ‘my husband is hot,’ with her hair pulled into a high, aggressive ponytail, and murder in her eyes.
I point at her dramatically. “You are not a boy.”
She doesn’t even flinch as she pops a grape into her mouth and says, “And you’re not very bright. Yet here we both are.”
Carter’s already snorting from the other side of the room, sprawled in his recliner like the grumpy old man he is, sipping his beer like he didn’t just let his wife invade our sacred night of testosterone and trauma bonding.
“Can someone explain why your beautiful wife is here on boys’ night?” I ask, turning to Carter.
“She lives here, dipshit,” he mutters.
“Yeah, well, leave somewhere else,” I grumble, grabbing a beer anyway.
