Page 47 of Snowed In with the Rancher

She grinned at him. She could easily stay in this spot forever.

“My parents raised my sisters and me like we were guilty of crimes we never even committed. We weren’t allowed to go to parties, barely allowed to have playdates, weren’t even give the chance to really think for ourselves. We couldn’t make messes or get dirty. They didn’t believe in trick or treating, didn’t have the money to put us all in recreational activities. They don’t drink. They’re not even religious or anything, they just think alcohol leads to bad decisions and trouble.”

“Which it can. But sober people can make poor choices, too.”

Nodding, she sipped her wine, but ended up finishing it. Asher noticed and swapped their glasses, letting her drink his. “You might be my new favorite person, Asher Harris,” she said with a smile before sipping from his wine glass.

All he did was grin.

“While other teens our age went to parties, we were forced to stay home. Only Mieka and Rayma were brave enough to sneak out. Pasha toed the line more than any of us and was the perfect child, leaving nearly impossible shoes to fill. But Oona and I idolized our big sister, so we toed the line most of the time, too. Rayma was the rebel, though. When she was seventeen she got into trouble and my parents—who had never had to deal with a ‘reckless child’ before—didn’t know what to do with her, so they shipped her off to Pasha to reform.” She shook her head. “That was the big wake-up call to all of us that our parents were far from perfect and we most definitely did not want to grow up to be like them.”

“What kind of shit did Rayma get into?”

She shrugged. “Heavy shit with an outlaw biker gang. It was scary.”

Raking his free hand through his hair, he shook his head. “Shit, that’s rough.”

“Our parents would just say stupid shit to us like, ‘What if you want to go into politics and pictures of you drinking and around drugs and at parties surface when you’re running?’” She rolled her eyes. “Big fucking whoop. Not one of us has any desire to go into politics, I’ll tell you that much.”

He snorted. “No? You don’t want to become Senator Triss?”

“I’m good, thanks. I’ll stick to my day job of effectively changing lives for the better, not just saying I’m going to do it, but then actually do dick all.”

He tickled her instep. “That’s my girl.”

Oooh, that comment had her getting warm all over. Or was it the wine? Or was it just being this close to Asher, studying his rugged profile, and having him work those long fingers into her feet like nobody ever had? Maybe all of the above?

“My mom is a very judgmental person. ‘Look at those girls and what they’re wearing. Their parents have no idea what kind of situation they’re sending their daughters in to. Drugs. Alcohol. Boys. Sex. No clue.’” She clucked her tongue like her mother always would, then made her voice go high and nasally as if her mother sounded like Fran Drescher from The Nanny (which she didn’t). “I can’t believe Ronald and Karen are letting their daughters go out wearing that. Do they even know where the party is? Who is going to be there?”

Triss rolled her eyes and finished Asher’s wine glass.

His eyes went wide, and with a knowing, sexy smile, he gently placed her feet on the couch and went to the kitchen. He checked on the potatoes, put the broccoli into the oven, as well and brought the wine decanter back with him, topping up both their glasses.

“Thank you,” she said when he handed her freshly poured glass.

“Do that impression of your mother again,” he said with a playful smirk.

She wrinkled her nose. “No. But I’ll do my dad.” She cleared her throat and dropped her voice several octaves. “No kid of mine will ever have a tattoo. Those are for bikers, criminals and gang members. You wouldn’t put a bumper sticker on a Ferrari, would you?”

That voice made her voice so scratchy she need more wine.

“But you have a tattoo.”

“All five of us have tattoos. We have the matching heart tattoos and then my sisters have other ones, as well. I only have the hearts, but I’m not opposed to others.”

“And your parents have no idea?”

“None.”

“That’s sad.”

Sighing, she nodded. “It is, but I don’t really know my parents any other way. And I do love them. But for my mental health, I keep my distance. We all do, unfortunately. None of us want to raise our kids the way we were raised. The Mullins across the street knew where their daughters were going. They drove them to the parties and picked them up. And Natasha and Amber were usually wearing skinny jeans, ballet flats, and cardigans over tank tops. Their parents provided them with the proper tools to make the right choices. Our parents just criticized everything and everyone to us trying to convince us—and often succeeding—that their way was the right way and everyone else was wrong and terrible and should be flayed alive.” She said this last bit with wide eyes. “Okay, maybe not flayed, but heavily reprimanded until their ears bled.”

Chuckling softly, he hauled her into his lap.

“Careful with the wine,” she teased, straddling his lap and holding onto her wineglass with one hand while resting her other arm on his broad, sturdy shoulder.

“You want kids one day?” he asked, cradling her waist in his hands and making her feel so safe, not that his lap was a cliff she would suddenly tumble from, but his embrace was solid and reassuring. She knew with Asher there holding her, she was literally and figuratively in good hands.

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