The old ladies started unboxing them and squealed when they saw the labels. “Are these from the Winslow Orchard?” Sam asked.
“Yes,” Kat answered, pulling the red-headed woman forward. “This is Maggie Winslow. She runs the orchard.”
“It’s so great to meet you!” Sam cooed. “We’ve been wanting to bring the girls out there, but...” Sam smiled. “Maybe next year we can make it during picking season.” If Maggie noticed the hesitation in Sam’s voice, she didn’t show it.
But I heard it.
“That would be great,” Maggie said. “This is my sister Rhoda, my sister Cami, and...” She looked around, her expression shifting to frustration. “Where did he go already?”
The door slammed open.
Tank walked in, his hand clamped around the scruff of a kid’s neck.
The kid looked maybe thirteen, fourteen—scrawny but wiry, with dark hair and a face twisted in rage. He was struggling against Tank’s hold, swinging wild punches that didn’t land, kicking at Tank’s shins, swearing like a fucking sailor.
“Get your fucking hands off me!” the kid snarled. “I’ll kill you, you piece of shit!”
Tank’s jaw was tight, his eyes hard. He looked pissed in a way I’d never seen before. Tank was the guy with patience. The guy who could handle anything. The one Charlie, Chrissy, and Tabby clung to and watched cartoons with on Sundays. But right now, he looked like he was two seconds from losing his shit.
“Whose fucking kid is this?” Tank boomed.
The room fell silent.
“Mine!” Maggie snapped, stepping forward and yanking the kid out of Tank’s grip. She pulled him into her arms, glaring up at Tank with fire in her eyes. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Tank’s eyes locked on hers. He didn’t back down. Didn’t soften. He looked her over slowly, too slowly, his gaze trailing from her face down to her boots and back up again.
“You don’t look old enough to be his mother,” he said, his voice low and rough.
Maggie’s spine straightened. Her chin lifted. “I’m his sister.”
“Where the hell is his mother?” Tank demanded. “And why didn’t she ever teach him not to touch other people’s shit? I caught the kid on my bike outside. Scratched the hell out of the gas tank with the heel of his boots.”
The kid twisted in Maggie’s arms, his face red with fury. “Fuck you!” he spat at Tank. “You don’t know shit about my mother!”
“Nox,” Maggie said sharply, her hand tightening on his shoulder.
But Nox wasn’t done. “She’s dead, asshole! She’s been dead for six years, so maybe you should shut the fuck up about her!”
The room was dead silent now. Every eye was on them.
Tank’s expression shifted, just for a second. Something flickered in his eyes. Regret, maybe. Or recognition. But then it was gone, replaced by that hard, unreadable mask he always wore.
Maggie’s eyes were blazing. “His mother passed away when he was four, you big goon,” she said, her voice shaking with anger. “And I’ve been raising him ever since. So maybe next time you’ll think before you open your mouth.”
Four?That meant this kid was ten. He was a big kid for ten years old. He’d be as big as Tank when he grew up if he kept growing the way he was.
Tank stared at her. She stared back. Neither of them moved.
The air between them crackled with something I couldn’t name. Tension. Anger. Something else underneath it all.
Haizley stepped in, breaking the moment. “Maggie, I’m so sorry. Tank is usually great with kids.” She shot Tank a glare that could’ve melted steel. “Tank, go cool off.”
Tank’s jaw worked. He looked at Maggie one more time, long and hard, then turned and walked out without a word.
Nox was still shaking with rage, his fists clenched at his sides. “Asshole,” he muttered. “I fucking hate him.”
“Nox,” Maggie snapped, her hand on his shoulder. She bent down to look him in the eye. “Breathe.”
