Lainey turns and smiles in greeting. “Hi, Officer Holmes. How are you today?”
I stiffen, hardly glancing his way. Police officers always make me uncomfortable. Every single officer in this county knows who my father is, and they can’t stand him. It’s nothing out of the norm when Holmes registers who I am and gives me a sharp look. I move to the side while he orders and takes a seat. I don’t blame them—I’m Daryl Hawkins’s daughter and I’m sure he’s one of Cottonwood Valley’s most wanted.
Lainey passes his order to a barista before returning to our conversation.
“What about you? How’s your fancy businessman boyfriend?” I ask her, casting a quick look back at him. He’s wearing a suit and has been on his phone since she walked away.
She blushes. “It’s good, things are good. We’ve been dating since this winter, but we’re taking it slow.”
“Good, I’m happy for you. He better treat you right, or I’ll kick him in the dick,” I say just loud enough I know he’ll hear me.
“Who are we kicking in the dick?” Trey asks as he walks up and steals my coffee.
I snatch it back. “Touch my coffee again, and it’ll be your dick.”
He cringes. “Easy, Hawkins. I’ve got rave reviews from women in fifteen states.”
“Gross, I don’t need the details of your buckle bunny sexcapades.”
“Have I ever told you how I used to show bunnies in FFA?” he asks as Lainey hands him his coffee.
“No, and I’d like to keep it that way.” I grab him by the front of his shirt and drag him out of the coffee shop. I call goodbye to Lainey over my shoulder, carefully avoiding looking in the officer’s direction.
“That’s not how you’re supposed to do it,” Trey argues as I brush paint onto the door.
He removed all the doors and drawer faces and sanded them down while I was at work the other day. His back has been feeling better, and he’s going stir-crazy, so he was excited to have something to do all day. Now, all that’s left is to paint them. We have everything covered in plastic and the cabinet doors propped up on sawhorses.
“Yes, it is.”
“No, Barbra said—”
“Enough about Barbra! Unless she’s going to come paint these cabinets herself, I don’t want to hear it,” I snap, pointing my paint-covered brush at him. We’ve been working for a couple hours and about every twenty minutes I hearBarbra thisandBarbra that.
Trey showed me several videos of the middle-aged brunette woman with a massive platform for DIY content on TikTok.With her peppy voice, black-framed glasses, and can-do attitude, she gave me theick. Trey, however, is obsessed.
Trey’s shoulders shake in silent laughter. Today, he opted for a ridiculousFBI-Female Body Inspectorcut off T-shirt, work jeans, and backwards ball cap. I glare at him and feel my face flush red. Ultimately, I want to do this right. I want to be proud of my little house. “Ugh, you’re insufferable. Show me again.”
“I was fucking with you. It looks great. Barbra would be proud.”
“Wait a second . . .Barbraas in tile floor DIY Barbra? You learned how to lay the tilein my kitchenfrom a lady on TikTok?” The pieces snap together as I recall Knox mentioning a woman named Barbra and Trey quickly brushing it off. “You mother fu—” I charge him, armed with my paintbrush.
He dashes around the doors, using them as protection. “Easy, Hawkins. The tile looks great and I just like to fire you up. You get those cute lines on your forehead when you’re angry.” He laughs as I run around the doors, hunting him down. He dips his brush into a tray on his way by, coating it in paint. He holds it out like a sword. “On guard!”
A laugh bursts out of my chest right as I flick my brush. A proud smile follows when it streaks across his shirt and up his face, speckling his hair and hat.
His eyes flare wide before he attacks. “That was a huge mistake.” Lunging for me, he swipes his brush across my arm and shoulder.
I squeal and dart away.
He chases me through the kitchen and into the adjacent dining room, also covered in plastic. I don’t make it far before one arm wraps around my middle, the other—wielding a paintbrush—rushes toward my face.
“Okay, okay! I surrender!”
The brush pauses, but he doesn’t release me. My back held tightly to his front. “I don’t take prisoners.” He whispers in my ear before brushing paint on the very tip of my nose.
I laugh as I squirm against him, blindly swinging my brush behind me.
He swings me around, brushing paint on my legs, arms, and anywhere else he can reach.
