“And this can’t be right.” Reed scrutinized me, his expression full of judgment. “Greek salad with grilled chicken.”
Without a word, I gave him the finger.
So what if I was trying to be a little healthier?
As I approached the table, Gabe was chuckling.
“Doing that annual thing where you try to locate your abs?” he asked.
I picked up a cherry tomato and pelted it at him. It hit him square in the chest, though it didn’t faze him.
He only grinned and shoved a handful of fries into his mouth.
Gabe had always been lean and athletic, where I hovered more toward the chunky side. I’d given up on vanity a long time ago, but given that my dad died of a heart attack at far too young an age, it was important that I keep an eye on my health.
Watching my new neighbor run laps up the big hill every morning only brought my concerns to the forefront. That woman looked like she was training for the Olympics.
Not that I noticed.
Not at all.
Especially when she wore nothing but a sports bra and tiny shorts.
The farm was huge, with lots of beautiful scenery. Yet she kept running up and down the same hill. I didn’t have a clue why, but who was I to question a person’s fitness regimen?
“I even dug the rower out,” I admitted.
Logan offered me a fist. “Good on you.” He patted his own flat stomach. “It’s not as easy as it was when we were in our twenties.”
Wasn’t that the truth. Nothing, in fact, was remotely like those days, least of all my metabolism.
I’d been talked into trying rowing during freshman orientation. It was the first time I’d even left Vermont, and I was attending a big university in Boston. The coach at the rowing team’s booth took one look at me—six four with barn-door shoulders, even at eighteen—and convinced me to try it.
I rowed all four years of college and even traveled to a few international tournaments. And I was in the best shapeof my life. I missed it sometimes, the early mornings on the river, the mental grind of the sport, the comradery of my boatmates.
So I’d dug out the old rower, tuned it up, and started rowing every morning. The first day, I made it four minutes before I felt like my heart would explode, not that I’d tell these guys that detail.
“Where’s Jas?”
“Working,” I said. My brother was a firefighter in town, but he worked with me on the farm on his off days as well.
For years he’d lived with me, sleeping in his childhood bedroom, working around the clock, and drinking away whatever spare time he had.
Then he’d had a baby. And then he’d fallen in love with his son’s mom. Not long ago, he moved into town with them. With Evie and Vincent.
I wouldn’t tell him to his face, but I missed him. Some nights we’d sit on the porch or around the fire and just talk. About our parents, the farm, our sisters, anything, really. I’d make extra dinner and set it aside for him. He’d come home from a twenty-four-hour shift at the firehouse starving, he’d go straight to the kitchen to eat and then pass out on the couch.
He was relatively easy to care for. Just needed to be fed and watered like Wayne, but Jasper talked a hell of a lot more.
The house was a hell of a lot quieter since he’d been gone.
Not that Wayne minded. He was a solitary dude like me.
“You fuckers should get girlfriends. You’d be less pathetic,” Reed said, filling ourwater glasses.
“We can’t all be as lucky as you and convince a woman far out of our league to marry us,” Gabe quipped.
Reed beamed. “I know. I’m lucky. You sad sacks are not.” His wife Faith ran the brewery with him and Gabe’s brother—my cousin—Nate.
