Tank's hand finds my knee under the table, warm and steady. I cover it with mine.
Tex leans back in his chair, beer in hand. “So. You two finally done being dramatic, or should we expect another crisis by dessert?”
“Tex.” Jane’s elbow connects with his ribs.
“What? I'm just asking. First, the accidental marriage—which, by the way,legendary—then your agent showing up like a villain in a Hallmark movie.”
“He drove six hours to stage an intervention,” I say. “In a cashmere coat.”
“Incashmere.” Tex clutches his chest. “The horror.”
“To be fair,” Saint says mildly, “you did confront him in your underwear.”
“Tank’s flannel,” I correct. “There’s a difference.”
“There really isn’t,” Sadie says, grinning.
Tank’s thumb strokes my knee, and when I glance at him, he’s watching me with that soft, private look—the one that still makes my stomach flip, even now. Especially now.
“She handled it,” he says, as if it’s simple. Like I didn’t tear up annulment papers and fire my agent and choose him, choosethis, not the man who thought he could manage me back into my old life.
“Handled it?” Tex snorts. “Sheendedhim. I heard Albert couldn’t get cell service for twenty miles, just sitting at that gate, stewing in his little rental car.”
“It was a Mercedes,” I offer.
“Even better. Rich guy karma.”
The table dissolves into laughter. Jane raises her glass. “To Jessie. For telling that man exactly where he could shove his commission.”
“And his opinions,” Sadie adds.
“And his cashmere coat,” Tex finishes.
I duck my head, cheeks warm, but I'm smiling so hard it hurts. “I didn’t tell him where to shove anything. I just... chose differently.”
Tank’s hand tightens on my knee. When I look at him, his eyes are soft and fierce all at once.
“You chose us,” he says quietly. “You chose home.”
The table goes still for a moment—not awkward, just... full. Like everyone feels the weight of it.
Then Tex ruins it, because of course he does.
“Okay, that was disgustingly sweet. Someone pass the whiskey before I get emotional.”
“You’re already emotional,” Jane says. “You cried at a truck commercial last week.”
“It was aretirementcommercial. The dog was old, Jane. The dog wasold.”
The bickering picks up again, warm and easy. Saint catches my eye across the table and raises his glass in a silent welcome. I raise mine back.
The meal stretches long, plates emptying and refilling, wine flowing freely. The men give each other endless grief about some incident involving Saint and baby goats that no one will fully explain.
“Tell her about the sweaters,” Tex says, grinning like a cat with cream. “You have to tell her about the sweaters.”
“There’s nothing to tell.” Saint’s voice is carefully neutral, but his ears have gone pink.
“Nothing to—” Tex turns to me, delighted. “So we get these orphaned baby goats, right? Three of them, barely a week old. Someone’s got to bottle-feed them every few hours or they'll die.”
