Page 37 of Colt

Inhale. Exhale. I don’t want to give Lainey the upper hand. I also don’t want my son to think I’m a bully. “I’m sorry if I came off that way,” I manage. “Bad joke.”

“Mimi, can I help you guys make dinner?” Dean peers at the pile of food on the counter. “Miss Lainey, you’re very good at making salads. Did you know I like salad?”

Tate laughs, turning on the sink to wash his hands. “Since when?”

“Since now.” Dean is beaming at Lainey again.

Lainey finishes peeling the cucumber. “We’d love to have your help. How about I slice this baby up, and then you can put it in the salad bowl? We need to wash some tomatoes too.”

“Okay!” Dean bounces on his toes. “You smell nice, Lainey.”

She laughs, a genuine, throaty sound. “So do you. What’s your secret? Soap?”

I’m suddenly aware of the way my blood moves through my body, pooling low in my belly.

“Yup,” Dean replies. “A good scrub goes a long way. Dad says everyone likes a man who smells good.”

Lainey laughs again. “He’s not wrong.”

Dear Lord, does my son have a crush on her already?

I mean, it does make sense. Lainey’s not just good with kids. She’s great—with my kid at least. She’s a fucking smokeshow in that dress and lipstick. And she does smell good. Really good. I can pick up on her perfume from here. It’s floral. Pretty.

Not too much, not too little. Perfect, in other words.

I’m gripped by curiosity. I wanna see what’s behind that perfect, put-together mask. Because it is a mask, one she let slip in my truck the day we met. I wanna smear that lipstick and see who she really is.

What else is this girl hiding?

Part of me is intrigued by Lainey’s anger. I know why I’m angry. But her anger? That’s a mystery to me.

You need to get a fucking life.

“Dad, you want some bourbon?” I open the cabinet above the fridge and pull out the good stuff: Pappy Van Winkle.

Bourbon is Dad’s one indulgence. This stuff sells for hundreds of dollars a bottle. Worth every penny, in my humble opinion.

“I’d love some, thanks.”

“Me too,” Tate adds.

“Me three,” Billie says with a grin.

“Lainey, would you like some?” Mom asks. “I’m not one for liquor, but you’re welcome to it.”

Please say you only drink stupid shit. Vodka with Snapple or cranberry or whatever.

Please, God, be uncool in this one thing.

“Do y’all always drink the world’s best bourbon on Sundays?” Lainey glances at the bottle in my hand. “I’ve heard of Pappy, but I’ve never had the pleasure of actually drinking it.”

Dad nods. “Try it now. You’ll be glad you did.”

Grabbing some glasses from a nearby cabinet, I set them on the counter and uncork the bottle. “You ain’t gonna waste it, right, Dallas? Because a single pour is pretty much liquid gold. Just as expensive.”

“I have more respect for expert craftsmanship than that,” Lainey shoots back as she helps Dean spread slices of cucumber over the pile of lettuce in the enormous salad bowl that’s made an appearance at Sunday supper for as long as I can remember. “I’d love some, thank you.”

My grip on the bottle tightens. I grab another glass and pour her the barest finger of liquor, praying all the while she makes a fool of herself by spitting it out, unable to stand the taste.