June reaches for the bleach that sits on the communal detergent shelf hanging over the washer and dryer. “What about it?”
“Is it—” Grace searches for the words, hoping to not convey how nervous she is about the prospect of attending a rich person’s birthday party. “Is it like aneveryone’s invitedkind of thing? Do you all usually go?”
June chuckles, but there’s little mirth in the sound. “Yeah, we all go.” She lets the top of the washer slam down, then angles her body toward Grace. “Haven’t you figured out by now that these idiots will jump at any chance to get shit-faced?”
Grace smirks. “Right.” She presses the start button on the dryer, and the rumbling sound of her clothes beating against the machine starts to echo through the room. She angles her body toward June, too, and folds her arms over her chest. “Let me guess—no one showers? Everyone quits work and walksover in their sweaty jeans and dirty boots?” Grace holds June’s eyes as she speaks, never once relenting. There’s a sparkle in June’s bright blues, newfound and momentary, but the flash of it confirms something in Grace’s head: June gives as good as she gets. So, with that in mind, Grace kinks an eyebrow, daring her to refute the statement, to feign ignorance.
Instead, June smiles knowingly and gives Grace a careful once-over, like she’s seeing her for the first time. It’s the only response Grace gets to her question, and it’s all she needs. June continues to appraise her as she says, “I heard you’re sticking around.”
“You heard right.”
June hums. “Well, then.” She kneels down next to her clothes, digging around until she grabs hold of something light blue and pulls it out from the colorful pile. She shakes it into its full form, revealing a sundress, simple but beautiful with delicate red embroidery lining the hems. Without preamble, she walks over and presses it against Grace’s shoulders, surveying the fit. Grace looks down, the dress falling just below her knee. It smells like June—floral and clean with a remarkable lack of grime and sweat. June hums, seemingly satisfied, then looks at Grace. “You’re lucky the party isn’t until tomorrow,” she says, grimacing. “It’s gonna take me hours to make you presentable.”
Chapter 10
The front lawn of the main house is nearly unrecognizable by lunchtime the next day. Renata Caldwell, unsurprisingly, spares no expense when it comes to a party. She goes full throttle. The hoedown theme isn’t subtle—there are picnic tables covered in checkered cloth, stacks of hay placed around the grounds for seating, and two large, rustic wooden bars that sit on either side of the lawn. At the center is a large dance floor surrounded by a border of hay, and at the front of it, a massive stage decked out with streamers, balloons, and a giant banner that readsHappy Birthday, Clint!in colorful bubble letters.
Chores and ranch tasks seem to drag on endlessly that Saturday afternoon, with everyone gearing up to spend the entire evening partying. Crew picks up on the antsy energy immediately and decides to be ornery about it, making sure no one is slacking or cutting corners. Grace doesn’t get a visit from him until after lunch.
She hears him before she sees him—he’s hollering at Caleb, unsatisfied with his work fixing one of the stable doors that had come off the hinges. “I’ve learned not to expect a whole hell of a lot from you, Caleb,” he barks, “but this really takes the cake.”The squeak of the door echoes through the stables out to the arena, followed by a thunderingslam.Grace grimaces. Crew’s voice is dripping with impatience as he asks, “Does that look fixed to you?”
“No, sir,” Caleb replies quickly. “I’ll try again.”
“You do that,” Crew says. Grace hears his boots thump against the dirt floor as he walks away, grumbling, “Y’all keep this shit up and you’ll work through the damn party.”
“Won’t happen again,” Caleb shouts.
Crew comes into view then, and he looks as distressed as he sounds, his mouth pinched like he’s been sucking on a lemon. Grace stands with Waylon on the opposite side of the arena, watching him practically stomp toward the metal bars. When Crew finally makes eye contact with her, his scowl softens by a fraction. “Hey,” he grunts.
Grace can’t help but smile. The more time she spends in his presence, particularly when he’s with the other hands, the more she understands howdramatiche can be. Grinning, she says, “Hi.”
He notices her smile and, because it’s just the kind of mood he’s in, his brow furrows. He seems annoyed that anyone in his vicinity could evenappearto be happy. “What?” he barks.
“Nothing,” she says quickly, trying—failing—to force her mouth into a straight line. She looks back to Waylon so she doesn’t have to maintain eye contact with Crew. The silence between them stretches a little too long, and Crew’s nostrils are flaring, so in a bid to distract him, Grace asks, “How’s Cooper?”
His mood doesn’t exactly do a one-eighty, but he at least seems to redirect his ire to his brother, the mention of whom makes him roll his eyes. “I told my mother he has exactly onemore day of recovery and then I’m tossing his ass back into the bunkhouse.”
Grace chuckles. “That good, huh?”
“He got one of them to steal a whistle from the barn so he couldbeckonme,” Crew says flatly. “In my own house.”
“Well, I’m glad he’s taking advantage while he can,” Grace volleys back, knowing she’s teasing but unable to help herself. He just looks so…tense. Like someone zapped all the water out of his body but left behind all the rigid bones. He scoffs at her comment and kicks a cloud of dirt up with the toe of his boot.
Grace goes back to work with a cheeky smile on her face, turning her back to him. She thinks he’s taken off to go shout at someone else when his voice surprises her. He sounds slightly less pissed, even a little soft. “He looks good in a saddle.” She turns to see him appraising Waylon, admiration and a hint of pride now colliding with his irritation. His eyes drift to hers, and a tiny, almost imperceptible smile tugs at the corner of his ever-frowning lips.
“He does,” Grace agrees.
“So they made it official,” he says.
“Yep.” Grace scratches Waylon’s shoulder in the spot she knows he loves. “Guess y’all are stuck with me.”
Crew’s jaw flexes, almost like he’s activelytryingnot to let his smile take full form. “I’m glad.”
Her eyes flit to his and linger there. Still and steady. “Me too.”
Their quiet exchange is interrupted by what sounds like a metric ton of glass shattering, so loud it echoes all the way to the stables. They both look over to the distant front lawn and see a van with its tailgate up, and a man standing at its edge with hishead in his hands. Milk crates are scattered in front of him, shards of glass spilling out of them onto the manicured lawn.
Crew mutters something under his breath, and it’s kind of remarkable how quickly the softness of his features turns rock-hard. His lips curl slightly, and it seems a million thoughts are currently racing through his brain, each one angrier than the next.
