“Surgery went well, but it will take some time for him to recover. Quinn came back to make sure he gets back on his feet ASAP.”
Harold’s gaze swings to the woman standing next to me, eyes widening and his lips splitting into a grin. “Quinn, I didn’t realize it was you standing there. It’s good to see you, sweetheart.”
She smiles up at the old man. “It’s nice to see you too, Harold. It’s been a while, but you’re looking well.”
“Well, my knees are actin’ up, but I can’t complain much. I’m not cooped up in a hospital bed, at least.”
She nods, combing her fingers through her hair. “Hopefully, Pops will get out soon. I just got to town, but I’ll feel better when I can check in on him myself.”
“And Tripp already has you out on a date?” He leans in and whispers loudly in my ear. “You work fast, boy.”
I chuckle and shake my head. People around here still remember me as the man I was in my twenties. They’d be shocked to know how longit’s been since I’ve been out on an actual date—let alone how long it’s been since I’ve had sex.
I’m in a self-imposed dry spell. I had my reasons, and once I find what I’m looking for, I’ll be all too happy to break it. But I promised my dad before he died I’d turn over a new leaf, and these days I’m trying to use my head more often—the one on my shoulders, that is.
“She hadn’t had supper yet, and I’m not much of a cook. I couldn’t leave her to fend for herself with whatever was in Pops’ fridge.”
“Course not. You’re a gentleman.”
Quinn’s huff of disbelieving laughter makes me narrow my eyes. I nudge her with my elbow. “Oh, hush, Quinnie. I’m much more of a gentleman these days.”
“If you say so,” she mutters.
“Sorry about the wait,” Rita says, rushing over, looking a bit harried. “Just the two of you?”
I nod and give Harold a quick wave as he exits. My hand brushes across Quinn’s lower back as Rita leads us to a small table. I pull out her chair and smirk.
“I stand corrected. You’re quite the gentleman these days.”
“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”
“Don’t waste your breath, Tripp,”she scoffs.
I stare into her skeptical baby-blue eyes and turn on my most charming smile. “I’m not the same boy you used to know. I might surprise you.”
“I doubt it.”
“I’m hurt,” I tease. “They don’t make ‘em like me in the city.”
She bursts out laughing and so do I.
“Ain’t that the truth,” she says.
Things have always been light and easy with Quinn. She might be my best friend’s sister, and yeah, we might flirt, but I’d never cross that line.By the time I was old enough to stop caring about the two-year age gap, Wes had already made it clear she was off-limits. Having a little sister of my own, I understood. So instead, Quinn and I built a friendship every bit as important to me as the one I had with Wes.
After we order, we catch up. She tells me about the clinic where she works as a vet in the city, about sharing an apartment with her best friend Marlowe and Marlowe’s wife, and about house-hunting for a place that ticks all the boxes on her list. I listen, soaking up every detail like I’ve been starving for it.
When it’s my turn, I realize I don’t have much to offer in return. I still work on her family’s ranch. Her brother is my boss—and my best friend. I’ve lived in the same house since I retired from the rodeo circuit when my dad got sick with ALS. Not much about me has changed. I’m the same guy I’ve always been.
Mostly.
It makes me a bit uncomfortable to realize how little I’ve actually changed. I might not be fucking women left and right anymore, but I’m still the goofy guy everyone loves to have at a party. I work hard, play hard, and I still haven’t fulfilled my father’s dying wish—to find someone to settle down with and start a family.
Thirty-four might not seem old to the world, but in this dinky town, people have been paired off with their high school sweethearts for nearly two decades. They got married. Bought houses. Had kids. I feel over a decade behind, and folks like Mrs. Mackey are happy to remind me I’m “not getting any younger”.
Granted, a good portion of the people who got married so young are divorced, miserable, or both. So, maybe I’m doing okay.
Quinn’s long fingers drum on the table, her nails short and painted a subtle pink. I force myself not to imagine exactly what those fingerswould look like wrapped around me, the shiny polish glinting. I don’t need to make it any harder for myself by putting images like that in my head.
