God…that mouth.
My gaze snapped back to hers. Now wasn’t the time to be thinking about her mouth…or the way she ruined me with it five years ago.
I cleared my throat. “I just am.” My voice came out too low, too hushed.
She licked her lips. “You have too much faith in me.”
“And you don’t have enough.”
Her eyes lowered, and I felt that heavy stare of hers like a caress over every inch of my body, leaving liquid fire in her wake. “Lee…”
The distance between us became smaller and smaller, like two magnets being pulled together. My heart pounded in my chest, my head went light as our noses brushed?—
Her phone rang.
Stephy backed away and pulled it out of her pocket. “It’s my mom,” she said, breathless.
“Answer it.” She looked up at me, a silent question. “Go on. I know she wants to talk to you.”
“Okay… Goodnight, Lee.”
“Night, Stephy,” I murmured as she walked towards the door and answered her phone.
Sunday came faster than expected.I found Stephy on her porch that afternoon, staring at the main house in the distance like it might bite.
"We don't have to go," I said. "They'd understand."
"No, I want to. I'm just..." She gestured at herself. "I don't have anything nice to wear. Everything I have is Sophia's pajamas or work clothes."
"It's Sunday dinner, not a state dinner. Come as you are."
"But—"
"Steph." I caught her hands. "Half the time, Clay shows up still covered in arena dirt. Hunter usually has engine grease under his nails. Once, Maggie came straight from mucking stalls. Nobody cares."
She took a breath, squared her shoulders. "Okay."
The walk to the main house took ten minutes, Stephy's hand gripping mine tighter with each step. But the moment we walked in, all her worry evaporated.
The house was pure chaos.
Clay and Hunter were arguing about something involving a carburetor. Maggie was yelling at both of them from the kitchen. Sophia was on the couch, painting her nails and providing commentary on everyone else's life choices. Wyatt and Ivy were tucked in a corner, Wyatt reading while Ivy scrolled through something on her phone that was probably cattle genetics data. Uncle Owen was watching a game on TV, occasionally shouting at the referee.
And in the middle of it all was Louisa, orchestrating the chaos like a conductor, spoon in one hand, dish towel in the other.
"Stephanie!" Louisa spotted us immediately, crossing the room to pull Stephy into a careful hug. “Oh, honey, you look so much better. Come sit, let me get you something to drink. Are you hungry? Of course you're hungry, dinner's almost ready."
Before Stephy could respond, she was being ushered to the couch, a glass of sweet tea in her hand, Sophia scooting over to make room.
"That color would look amazing on you," Sophia said, holding up the nail polish. "Want me to do yours after?"
Stephy looked like a deer in headlights. “I... okay?"
And just like that, she was absorbed. No grand entrance, no big production or formal introductions. Just instant acceptance, like she'd always been there.
Dinner was exactly as advertised—pure, unfiltered Blackwood chaos. Everyone talking at once, three different conversations overlapping, food being passed in every direction like a culinary tornado.
Clay stole a roll off Maggie’s plate. Maggie retaliated by dumping half a bottle of hot sauce into his sweet tea without breaking eye contact. Clay took a sip, choked so dramatically you’d think he’d been shot, and the whole table erupted.
