Page 75 of Colt

“It’s because Mimi and Pawpaw love Elvis.” Dean is still staring at the box of LEGO bricks. “I do too. Dad let me name him.”

“That was awful nice of your dad.”

Dean lifts a shoulder. “He’s cool sometimes. C’mon, Lainey. Let’s go put this together. Do you drink beer?”

Standing, I laugh. “I do, but I hope you don’t.”

“My dad lets me have sips of his sometimes, but I think it’s gross. He’s drinking one right now.”

Colton angles his body to make room for me to come inside. “Father of the year right here.”

“Sips don’t count.” I’m painfully self-aware as I slip through the door into the warmth of the house. The savory smells of rosemary and garlic fill my head, making my stomach grumble. It’s rich and herbaceous all at once. “Wow. The short ribs smell delicious.”

“Course they do. I made them.”

I blink. “From scratch.”

“You think I’m one to take shortcuts?” He lifts a brow. “Of course I made ’em from scratch.”

So Colton doesn’t just cook. He cooks. No half-assed frozen dinners for him and Dean. He’s a true foodie, making his meals from scratch despite the very real time squeeze I imagine he faces every day.

The surprise isn’t that the man loves to eat—he devoured the food Paige made for Sunday supper the other week. He also offered to, ahem, eat me. But that’s neither here nor there.

The surprise is that he’s willing to put in the work to make the food he loves to eat. Dad, my brothers, even my uncles—to my knowledge, none of them have ever lifted a finger in the kitchen.

I find it deeply sexy that Colton is the opposite.

The man is full of surprises, I’ll give him that.

“Always so humble.”

“I’m many things, Dallas, but humble ain’t one of ’em.”

Colton’s gaze moves over my face. I can’t read his expression, which makes me doubly nervous. His invitation over text was friendly enough, but now I can’t tell how he feels about me being here.

“You have time to make short ribs on a weekday?” I sound stupidly breathless even to my own ears.

“Crock-Pot to the rescue. Can I get you a beer?”

The deep rumble of his voice draws my nipples to overly sensitive points.

“I’d love one, thanks.”

He turns and heads down the short hallway that leads to the family room, which opens onto the kitchen at the back of the house. It’s a huge space, with soaring ceilings and a limestone fireplace where flames crackle and pop. Music plays from a speaker on the counter beside the stove. The Lumineers, I think?

I’m pleasantly surprised by how neat and comfortable and homey the place is. I can only imagine the chaos that would ensue if my mom was ever unable to take care of our house. Dad would be helpless.

But Colton? He’s calm and confident as he opens the fridge and pulls out a longneck of Shiner Bock. The muscles in his forearm flex as he pops off the top, then slips the beer into a koozie.

A goddamn koozie. Because apparently the man thinks of everything.

I’m out at sea here. Are we enemies? Have we suddenly become friends overnight? But friends don’t turn me on the way Colton does.

He holds out the beer to me over the kitchen counter. Beside him rests a tray of roasted vegetables—carrots, potatoes, parsnips—that appears to have been recently plucked from the oven. The vegetables smell like rosemary and look like heaven.

I take the Shiner, an electric charge bolting through me when our fingertips brush. “Nothing beats a Shiner after a long day. Thank you.”

He blinks, like he’s surprised by the statement.