Prologue
Kellan
I shuffled the deck of cards, trying to focus on the familiar motions rather than thoughts of home. Nine months into this deployment, and every night the ache got a little worse. Not that I’d admit that to anybody. The worn edges of the playing cards felt smooth against my calloused fingers, a small comfort in the stark military barracks. I thought about my landscaping business back home, about my best friend and business partner, Tate, handling everything on her own. She was more than capable—hell, she’d always done a better job than I ever had of wrangling the clients—but I missed our easy partnership, the way we could finish each other’s sentences while planning out a project.
But lately, I’d been missing a hell of a lot more than that.
I eyed Clint where he was stretched out on his cot, reading some letter—probably from our pal Rhett’s sister, Austen. “Are you gonna share any of those cookies you’re hiding under your cot?” I was desperate for any taste of home. The crew at Pie Hard made the best damned cookies in three states.
He glanced up and played dumb. “What cookies?” Like I couldn’t see the handful of crumbs stuck to his T-shirt.
“The cookies from Pie Hard that I know damned well Austen stuck in that care package she sent with the latest batch of books.” Rhett’s sister owned the local bookstore and had kept a steady supply of reading material and treats coming our way over all these months in the desert. It was part of what had made this deployment bearable.
“No cookies in this box. Maybe she put them in Rhett’s. The last time they didn’t survive so well in the box with the books.”
Deflection. Fine. I could switch targets. No shame in my game.
I turned to Rhett, who was busy cleaning his boots. “Hey MacAvoy, your sister holding out on you? No cookies in your box, either?”
“Nope.” He didn’t look up from his task. “Just books and a letter telling me to stay safe.”
“That’s harsh. Your own sister sends cookies to Ramsey instead of her flesh and blood?”
Rhett’s mouth twitched. “Maybe she likes him better.”
“Oh, she definitely likes him better.” I shuffled the cards again, watching Clint’s ears turn red. “Remember when we were kids, and she used to follow us around like a lost puppy? Now she won’t even send her big brother cookies.”
“Fox, I will throw this boot at your head.”
“Empty threats.” I compulsively shuffled the cards again, the rhythmic motion oddly soothing. “Though I guess it makes sense. Clint’s got that whole Eastwood thing going on. What’ve you got? Just that ugly mug you were born with.”
“Says the man who can’t get a date to save his life.” Rhett lobbed a ball of socks at me instead of the boot. “How long you been dancing around Tate now? Ten years?”
My hands stilled on the cards. Below the belt, MacAvoy. Below the belt. “We’re business partners.”
“Keep telling yourself that.” He went back to his boots, but I caught his smirk. “Maybe if you’re nice, I’ll share some of those cookies Austen definitely didn’t send me.”
“You’re both full of shit.” I flipped over the first card. “And terrible liars.”
From the cot, Clint folded his letter. “Isn’t it about time for poker?”
“Won’t say no.” Rhett slipped his boots back on.
We shifted to the front of the tent, gathering around the make-shift table. In moments, we’d settled into our usual spots, piles of nuts serving as our betting currency. Since I’d cleaned up in yesterday’s game, dealing duties fell to me. My fingers moved with familiar ease as I distributed the cards, launching us into our nightly ritual of five-card stud.
But my thoughts kept drifting back home to Huckleberry Creek. To Tate.
Distance had a way of clarifying things, and being out here in the desert had stripped away all the noise, all the distractions, until I couldn’t ignore what had probably been true for years: I was in love with my best friend.
The realization had hit me like a ton of bricks about three months ago, during one of our video calls. She’d been laughing about some disaster with the leaf blower, her honey-blonde hair escaping its messy bun, cheeks flushed, and something in my chest had just... clicked. Like the final piece of a puzzle falling into place.
I dealt the next hand mechanically, barely registering the cards. When Gabe finally joined us, the conversation turned to home, as it usually did these days.
“Man, I can’t wait to get back home and go fishing again,” Clint said. “Nothing like those misty mornings out on the creek.”
Rhett chimed in about autumn in the mountains, and I found myself asking, “What’s the first thing y’all are gonna do when you get home?”
I listened to their answers—sleep, cobbler, beer—but all I could think about was Tate. About our late-night talks on her back deck, sharing a couple of beers, watching the stars come out. Before I could stop myself, I admitted, “You know what I miss most? Late nights with Tate, talking about anything and everything over a couple of brews.”
