Page 47 of Downpour

I paused. “Wait. What? Smoking a brisket takes at least twelve hours. And you don’t do it in an oven.”

“I know,” she said, coughing. “That’s why I turned the oven all the way up so it would cook faster.”

“How high—“ I froze when I looked at the oven. “Five hundred degrees?! Jesus, you’re going to burn my house down. Turn the damn oven off. I didn’t even know it went that high.” I rolled across the kitchen and grabbed the oven mitt from her. “Open the front door and get the box fan out of the hall closet.”

I yanked open the oven door and winced as smoke billowed out. I reached in blindly and found the baking sheet. I pulled it out, rolled over to the sink, and tossed it in. The little lump of charcoal in the middle looked like a petrified hamster.

Brooke hurried back, set the box fan on the kitchen counter, and plugged it in.

I glanced at the clock. It was already a quarter till seven. The thing that sucked about living on the ranch was the inability to order a fucking pizza. We were outside of the delivery radius for the handful of restaurants in town.

“Do we have sandwich stuff?” I asked.

“Tomorrow’s grocery day. We used the last of the bread for lunch.”

I had some frozen microwave dinners, but I would have preferred eating the charcoal in the sink.

Tonight was family dinner at my parents’ house. I could text my mom and see if she’d set two plates aside, then send Brooke up there to get it.

But I’d feel like shit over it.

“Do you want to go into town?” Brooke asked. “It would be pretty late and I don’t know what places would still be open. We could go to Buc-ees, but you probably hate crowds and it’s always packed.”

I didn’t feel like going through the hassle of driving into town. Deep down, I knew I could show up for family dinner without giving mom a heads up. Even when I was living in Colorado, my mom always set a plate for me. Hell, she had probably been setting one for Brooke since she hadn’t gone running for the hills yet.

But Christian’s girls would be there.

Brooke’s hand on the back of my shoulder snapped me back to the present. “You okay? Maybe I should open the sliding door and get the rest of the smoke out.”

I coughed. “Yeah. I’ll cut the ceiling fan on.”

“What do you want to do for dinner? I can see if there’s some pasta or something in the pantry I can throw together.”

“No,” I said before she could attempt culinary arson again.

Honestly, I would have been fine with a protein shake and a power bar, but Brooke needed dinner too. It had been a while since I had someone else to think about.

“Go get in the truck.”

Brooke cocked her head. “I thought you said you didn’t want to go into town? I can cook. I just have to figure out what we?—”

I huffed. “Get in the truck, Brooke.”

A few minutes later, we were bumping and bobbing down the dirt lane.

“Go up to the main house,” I said, pointing to the left as we neared the split in the path.

A coy smile painted her lips. “Wanna tell me what we’re doing?”

“Getting dinner.”

She peered at me from behind the wheel. “At your parents’ house? Shouldn’t we tell them we’re coming?”

“Momma will have a place set.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

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