“Ican.”
He just shrugs and adjusts himself on the bed, like he wants to end the conversation.
“Do you want kids?” I ask.
“Not for a while,” he sputters.
“But eventually?”
“Yeah.” He sighs. But it doesn’t come across very promising. Like maybe he’s just saying that to keep me from prying?
“I’ll see you this weekend, right?” he says, changing the subject.
“Mm-hmm,” I hum. I’m not looking forward to it, but I don’t want him to know that.
“Good. I’ll be there early, so come whenever. Text me when you get there and I’ll come out and find you. If I can.”
“I will. Mason’s coming with.”
“Good. Maybe you can find him a girlfriend.”
“That’s my plan,” I joke.
Mason’s never had a girlfriend, but it’s by choice. He’s just wired differently; he’s not into flings or wasting anyone’s time. He’s the kind of guy who wants to meet someone and know immediately that she’s the one for him. No games, no “let’s see where this goes.” He’s always been like that.
Mason’s unique in that he’s the perfect mix of Cody’s and Jesse’s personalities . He’s got a little of Cody’s cockiness anda little of Jesse’s stoic and mysterious side. He’s solid though. He shows up. He’ll listen when you’re falling apart, tell you what you need to hear, and do whatever he has to do to fix the problem. He’s not flashy about it, but you’ll always know he’s in your corner, and honestly, that’s probably one of the best qualities someone could have.
When I see it’s almost 11 p.m., I tell Brantley I have to get some sleep or I’ll have a headache tomorrow. He tells me he loves me and hopes I sleep well before hanging up. The silence of my room settles over me, the peace and calm I couldn’t wait for. I close my eyes and drift off to sleep in seconds.
Chapter 5
Addison
Mason puts his truck in park. “Remember, she’s gotta be blonde, no taller than 5’5”, straight teeth, and no fake boobs,” he rattles off.
I unbuckle my seat belt and glare at him. “You and your height preference. Why does it matter?”
“Because shecannotbe taller than me.” He shakes his head. “Absolutely not.”
I laugh at him, observing his almost six-foot frame get out his truck. I step out onto the loose gravel realizing I should’ve worn my other boots. These soles are worn out so much that I can feel everything that lies beneath them.
We just got to the rodeo arena. It took forever to find a parking spot, because of course we couldn’t park near anyone who looked like they didn’t know how to drive. Mason’s too worried someone will scratch his truck with their door. All my brothers are very particular about their trucks. Mason’s probably the worst, but Cody and Jesse are not far behind when it comes to wanting to keep it “clean and mean,” as they say…whatever that means. I don’t pay much attention to trucks. Ford vs. Chevy, black vs. white, I don’t care. If it looks cool, I’m in.
I walk around to the other side and wait for him, watching him shove his off-duty handgun into his belt holster and adjust his flannel over it just right.
All the men in my family carry, especially out and about at events like this. I’m not old enough to get a carry permit yet, but I honestly don’t feel much need to. As long as one of them is with me, I’m covered. It’s like having your own private security.
Once Mason shuts and locks his truck, we head into the arena. I am kinda glad it’s indoors; this hot air outside is playing with my gag reflex a little too much for my liking.
I did pretty good on the way here. I had one little anxiety flare-up, but it was manageable with water and scrolling on my phone. I caught up on all the random videos my family sends. Wesley’s too. He mostly sends videos of little kids doing funny or cute things, following them up with the text: “This is your kid.” They’re always spot-on too.
The one he sent me late last night was cute, a little boy sitting in a garden eating tomatoes straight off the vine. Thatwouldbe my kid.
I usually send him the same sorts of things. Like when I sent him this one of a little girl, probably three years old, sitting on the floor of a combine eating Goldfish crackers with a doll tucked under her arm. I told him, “Definitely your kid.”
Brantley never sends me videos like that. His are always rodeo-related or some dumb redneck thing that he thinks I’d find funny. I never do.
I look to Mason. “Brantley said he’s at the second gate. Do you want to come with me or stay in our seats?”
