“Getting there.” I carefully raise my arm to show off the six-inch scar on the back of my elbow.
“I mean, have you recovered from embarrassing yourself in front of everyone you know in Texas?”
Nash appears at the side door now, along with Dad. They both wipe their boots on the mat before coming inside and hanging up their hats too. They smell like fresh air and sunscreen, scents that have my chest cramping for a different reason.
I wish I could be out there with y’all.
“My timing is perfect as always,” Nash says. “I feel a fistfight brewing.”
“It’s not a fair fight when she’s only got one good arm.” Mack motions to my sling.
I roll my eyes. “Please. We all know I could take out any of y’all with one arm, no problem.”
Mack grins, his dimples popping. “You win. Still sore?”
“It’s not so bad anymore.”
“Good. Hasn’t been the same around here without you.”
“Yeah, it’s been much more peaceful.” Dad’s eyes twinkle. “But a lot more boring too.” He moves toward the stove. “Hello, Wife. Whatcha makin’? Smells good.”
“Hello, Husband.” Mom puts her hand on Dad’s face, and he leans in for a kiss. “I’m making your favorite—smoked pork chops with ’shrooms and potatoes.”
“Kissing is gross.” Dean makes a face. “That’s how you get germs.”
Nash ruffles his hair. “I believe the scientific term is ‘cooties.’”
“Coo-ties!” Beck singsongs, and I immediately think of Ryder singing because apparentlyeverythingmakes me think of Ryder right now.
I must have the worst case of lady blue ballseverfrom that kiss-slash-lifesaving-CPR-moment. How the hell do I come back from that?
Was it the most romantic—erotic—thing to ever happen to me even though Ryder got nowhere near my pants?
“I’ll take Mama’s cooties anyway,” Dad says.
Colt gives them a look. “I still think it’s weird that you call her Mama. And Wife. And Love Dove.”
“I don’t care what you think,” Mom replies. “I like it, and that’s what matters.”
Dad gives Mom’s backside a playful tap. “That’s right, Love Dove.”
CHAPTER 5
A Brunette and Some Blondies
BILLIE
Even though myparents have done very well for themselves over the years, they still live in the single-story ranch house they built when they outgrew the old foreman’s cabin after I was born.
It’s fifteen hundred square feet. Four bedrooms, two baths, with a kitchen that’s big enough to hang out in. But we always, always have eaten in the formal dining room.
“Formal” is a bit of a misnomer for the cozy but less-than-fancy spot where we eat all our meals. It’s dominated by a huge oak table and the antler chandelier that hangs above it.
We’ve ribbed Mom more times than I can count about that light fixture.
“How many innocent bucks had to die so you could pretend that you’re John Dutton?” Tate asked her once.
Mom just smiled, ignoring him as she drank her longneck of Miller High Life. Her style of decorating can best be described as “shabby chic meets hunting lodge,” and while it’s not my personal favorite, she’s made it work over the years. Our house is comfortable, lived-in, and full of memories. A true family home, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
