I grunt. “I’m trying to drive.”
“You've been driving since you were eight. Don’t bullshit me.”
The sound of a newborn wailing in the background draws my attention. “How’s my favorite nephew?”
“Carter’s doing great,” Crew answers, his voice full of warmth and admiration. It’s crazy my little brother is a dad, but he and his wife, Bret, welcomed their first child in March.
“And my sister-in-law?”
“Rebel’s her typical self.”
“Aw, so she’s busting your balls.”
“Constantly.”
“It’s good for you.”
He laughs sarcastically.
“I was calling to let you know we booked a townhouse at Sunset Shores for the summer.”
I nod, even though he can’t see me.
“We get in next week. Thought we’d invite everyone over for dinner.”
“Yeah, let me know when. I can make an evening free.”
“Don’t forget a pretty blonde with killer legs.”
I hear Bret ask, “Who has killer legs?”
“You, baby,” Crew answers.
“Uh-huh,” Bret chides. “Don’t forget Wren with the killer legs, Jett.”
I roll my eyes.
“I want to meet my future sister-in-law.”
“Jesus,” I grumble, running my hand down my face. I ease the truck through a stoplight before flicking my indicator and turning right into the parking lot.
“I’ve got to go.”
“See ya,” Crew says as Bret shouts in the background, “Don’t forget!”
“Get your wife out of the house; she’s going stir crazy,” I tell my brother, and he laughs. “And hug my nephew.”
I end the call and turn off the truck. Walking across the way to Shoreline Sips, I scan the parking lot for a familiar cherry-red truck. The bell above the door jingles as I step inside.
Saturday mornings in Downtown Silo Bay are always a treat. It’s like every resident needs to get out of their house and explore the town…the same town they’ve lived in for their entire life, as if something new has popped up.
Shoreline Sips is packed to the gills. A few older gentlemen sit in leather chairs near the front window, reading the paper and discussing Silo Bay Hawks sports. A group of women sit near the back, books on their laps. More tables are lined with younger women gossiping about life, parents feed their littles sweet treats, and couples cozy together over hot mugs.
“Mr. Riggsby, how’s the cattle?” Joe Whittley asks, looking up from his newspaper.
I step aside, glancing out the window and spotting the cherry-red pickup coming down the road. I smile to myself as I nod in greeting to the older gentlemen.
“Herd’s looking good, Joe.”
