"Uncle Brock, what’s a roping demo?" Maisie asked.
"It's where he teaches kids how to throw a lasso," Wren said. "And pretends he's not having fun."
"Can I come?"
The tension left Brock’s shoulders as he looked at his niece. It was irritating, honestly, how kind he could be when he wasn’t being impossible.
"You can come, bug. I’ll teach you first, before anyone else."
Then he turned his attention back to Colt. "And you’re holding the dummy they throw at."
"That’s not a thing," Colt said.
"It is now."
Poor Colt. Apparently, Brock’s softer side had a very limited guest list.
Brock reached across the table, stole a strip of bacon off Colt’s plate, and ate it in one bite without breaking eye contact.
"Hey!" Colt threw up his hands. "See? This is what I’m talking about, anger issues. Sienna, are you getting this on film? This is the real content right here."
"I’m off the clock," I said. "But if he takes your eggs next, I’m hitting record."
Donna, the owner of the diner, appeared at the end of our table. Balancing a heavy coffee pot in one hand, her broad shoulders shifted under a bright sunflower blouse. She looked exactly like the kind of woman who was used to wrangling cowboys before seven in the morning.
"How’s everything, hon? You surviving out here with these animals?" She patted Wren’s shoulder. "Not you, sweetheart."
"Hey," Wyatt and Silas protested together.
Maisie's head popped up from her pancakes. "What animal am I?"
Donna blinked. "You? Oh, you’re a butterfly, honey. Obviously."
"Butterflies don't have teeth."
"Well..." Donna glanced at Wyatt for backup. "No, but they..."
Wyatt leaned back and took a sip of his coffee. "Don’t look at me. I’m just an animal."
"Daddy’s a hippo," Maisie said. "He makes the loudest farts in the bathtub."
Wren dropped her forehead onto my shoulder, cackling. The whole table broke apart, but Brock laughed the hardest.
The sound caught me off guard. It was rough and unguarded, nothing like the quiet, closed-off man I’d been watching all morning. I was still staring when he glanced over and our eyes met.
I immediately looked down and took a hurried bite of my last pancake. Warm butter and maple syrup flooded my tongue, almost painfully sweet.
"Donna," Brock said, nodding toward my plate, his voice slipping back into that low drawl. "Better bring her another round."
The corner of his mouth was doing that thing again.
"I'm eating for stress," I said. "My client's very difficult."
Wren raised her mug. "I'll drink to that."
Donna looked between us. "What’d he do?"
"He won’t wear his sponsor’s shirt for a video," I said.
