Page 38 of Colt

She’s at the sink now with Dean. Together they’re washing tomatoes. She dips them under the faucet, and he dries them with a clean towel Mom hands him.

Because Lainey is our guest and because my parents care about shit like that, she’s the first one I give a glass to.

Shutting off the faucet, she asks Dean to set the tomatoes on the cutting board by the stove. Then she takes the glass from me and looks me square in the eye.

The green in hers is white-hot and burns right through me.

Ah, there she is. The girl behind the perfect mask. The angry one.

The real one. Why am I so goddamn intrigued by that part of her?

I know why. Doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that Abby lied and cheated toward the end of our relationship, so of course I’m attracted to honesty.

To authenticity.

Still, I’m taken off guard by how fierce my hunger is.

Lainey taps the rim of her glass against mine. “Cheers, Colton.”

Her tone, though? Cheers, dickhead.

Speaking of dicks, mine perks right the fuck up as I watch her bring the glass to her lips and take a sip. Pulse hammering,

Her gaze holds mine as her throat works on a swallow. Not so much as a sputter, a flicker of discomfort. Instead, she offers me a mellow smile.

Relaxed. Happy.

Something grips my windpipe and squeezes.

“Delicious.” She licks her lips. “Thank you, Colton.”

I must black out, because the next thing I know, she’s making her way back to the counter. She’s explaining to Dean how her kind of branding is different from the kind we do here on the ranch while taking another sip of bourbon. She’s showing him how to cut the tomatoes, and together they add them to the salad bowl along with a good bit of salt and pepper.

Then Lainey is pulling up a pair of stools to the island, and together they’re poring over her notebook.

Dean is glowing. He loves the one-on-one attention. He also loves to lend a helping hand. Maybe I’m doing something right with him after all.

Or maybe he just has a raging crush on Lainey Brown after knowing her all of ten minutes.

I’m knocking my bourbon back—all two fingers of it—in a single gulp. Tate, the youngest out of all us Wallace kids, gives me a look.

“You all right there, killer?”

A muscle in my jaw twitches as the fiery burn of liquor works its way down my throat. “She’s gotta go.”

“Okay.” He draws out the word as he looks between us. “You know, at first I didn’t get why she bothered you so much. But now…”

“What?” I snap.

He chuckles, keeps his voice low when he says, “Now I think Beck was right.”

I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about, so I move across the kitchen and pour myself more Pappy. Gotta keep my hands—my thoughts—occupied somehow.

By the time we sit down to supper, I’m two drinks deep. But the bourbon does jack shit to ease the simmering sensation inside my skin.

The smell of Mom’s cider-braised pot roast, served with a heaping scoop of her cheesy grits, a side of carrots roasted with maple syrup, and a salad made with local greens would usually have my stomach grumbling.

This was one of my favorite dinners as a kid. As the cook in my house now, I always appreciate it when someone else makes me a meal.