Page 44 of If You Like It, I Love It

Social time? That was an odd way to put it. Before I can explain that I’m sleeping out here for Oliver’s sake, and Oliver will remain my sole focus, I hear another truck on my driveway. And possibly, a third? “What’s happening?”

“Campout.” He’s already unpacking the tent.

“You set up a group campout in my pasture?”

“Looks that way.”

“Without asking me?”

“You have enough decisions to make right now.” He walks over and kisses my forehead before he begins setting up the tent. Then he waves over my shoulder and whispers in my ear, “I may have had a coconspirator.”

Mav and Sabrina approach us, hauling in their own camping equipment. Rhett follows close behind, and he’s loaded down, too.

I don’t even have to ask to know Sabrina was the coconspirator. I want to be mad, should be mad, but I’m not. This is fucking ridiculous, but it’s also just really fucking nice. Who shows up to sleep in tents because a friend’s alpaca is sick?

This is Grinberry Falls. Sometimes I forget that this is what people do here, they show up for each other.

“I guess I should’ve ordered pizza,” I say. “If only I’d known I was hosting a campout.”

Enzo doesn’t see me cutting my eyes at him. He’s too busy pitching the tent.

Rhett holds up an ice chest. “Pizza? I don’t think so. I brought steaks.”

“Well, then I guess I’ll fire up the grill.” I blink back tears. Why am I about to cry over grilling steaks?

“No ma’am, you absolutely will not,” Mav says. “You do whatever you need to do for Oliver. We’ve got dinner handled.”

Sabrina sets a foil-covered tray on the table she’s just unfolded. “I made baked potatoes. Have you popped the cork on that wine yet?”

“No. It’s still on my counter. I’ll get it.”

“Nope,” Sabrina says. “I’ll get it.”

They’re really not going to let me do a damn thing but take care of Oliver. And if he gets worse tonight, they’ll be here to help. I probably won’t be able to sleep any more than I did last night, but the peace of mind they’re providing by just being here is worth more than they know. These overstepping lunatics might be better friends than I deserve.

“Is Glynnis coming?” I ask.

They all laugh, and in unison, they say, “She doesn’t camp.”

“I should’ve known the answer to that without asking.” I laugh, too, and it feels good. “How was her event at Sugar Lips?”

“It was great,” Sabrina says, and then she tells me she has a juicy story about someone who was there, but it calls for wine. She disappears into the house to grab the gossip juice.

Two more doors slam in my driveway. Who else could possibly be here? If Dr. Abernathy is swinging by, he’d be alone. There’s not another couple in our friend group. Everyone has stopped what they’re doing to watch the gate. Everyone except Sabrina, who’s returning from the house with a smile on her face and the wine bottle plus three glasses in her hands.

None of the guys are big wine drinkers, if they drink it at all. She knows who else is here.

It’s not every night that a country music superstar sleeps in a tent behind my house, but it looks like Derringer Wells plans to do just that . . . with Merilee.

Seeing them together makes my heart happy.

It makes Mav’s jaw lock. He still thinks of Merilee as a little sister, but she’s not a kid anymore, whether he likes it or not. And she and Derringer both look like they’re walking on a cloud next to each other.

Mav stares at his wife. She and her devil-may-care grin are oblivious to his eye daggers as she pulls the cork from the bottle.

“I guess you’re responsible for this,” he says.

“Guilty,” she replies airily.