Page 80 of The Check Down

“You wore number nine in high school?”

“I did. I played QB back then.” He nods at the numbers. “Tuck played center when he was a Hornet.”

“You switched to tight end in college?”

“Yep.” A single nod. “Which meant I had to give up my beloved number nine.”

Head tilted, I regard him. “Did you pick 89?”

“I did.” He stares off into the distance. “Tight ends traditionally get numbers in the eighties, so I chose 89 as a tribute to Shaw. That’s the year he was born.”

My heart melts at his devotion to his family. “Griff, that’s the sweetest.”

He gives me a smirk. “That’s the last word he’d use to describe it.”

Lips pressed together, I give him a slow, unamused blink. “What?” He chuckles. “You’ve met him. Am I wrong?”

“He was rather…” I trail off, racking my brain for a fitting descriptor.

“Assholey?”

“Aloof,” I correct. “But it’s nice to know that’s his default, and it wasn’t because of me.”

“Baby, you’re perfect.” Angling over the center console, he plants a quick kiss on my lips. Then, with a sigh, he rubs a hand over his hair. “Adult Shaw is…complicated. But we were like this as kids.” He crosses two fingers and holds them up between us. “We’re only seventeen months apart. For years, most people who didn’t know us assumed we were twins.”

He shares more about his relationships with his brothers as he drives. How Tucker, being four years younger than Griff, often felt left out by his older brothers, which is how Camden made his way into the mix. The honorary fourth Lacey was around so much that Donna set an extra place for him at dinner every night.

As we get closer to the center of town, we pass an L-shaped strip mall that houses a dog groomer, a dentist office, and a couple other small businesses, along with a larger business, one that spans several units, withClub Lacey Fitnessemblazoned across the awning.

“That’s Tuck’s gym. He opened it in January after he scaled back on fights.”

The youngest Lacey stepped out of his older brother’s shadow by making a name for himself on the MMA circuit after college.

“I did most of my rehab there. Hell, Tucker’s annoying ass is what got me out of bed most days, even if it wasn’t until after ten. That kid made sure I stayed in decent shape.” Despite the tease, his tone is full of gratitude. He clears his throat and dips his chin as hemakes a right turn. “And now, prepare for Holly Holler’s crown jewel.”

The sight before me makes my mouth drop open. It’s the most quaint, welcoming small-town square, complete with a park and gazebo in the center. It’s like a scene from a Hallmark movie. Tall oak trees line all four sides of the park, and along each surrounding street is a row of cute shops full of southern charm and nostalgia. One such business occupies most of an entire block. From the looks of the display window, the Dusty Britches Mercantile appears to sell everything from clothing to housewares. On the corner next to it sits a little ice cream shop with an adorable pink and sherbert striped awning. There are too many adorable details to take them all in as we slowly roll by.

“We’ll come back down here tomorrow, and I’ll show you around.” Griffin makes a turn, passing a building with a tin-roof awning held up by thick, dark-stained wooden posts. The lettering on the sign matches the old-timey western vibes: The Hoot ’N’ Holler Saloon. “We’ll stop in there at some point, too. That’s Aunt Dottie’s place. She’d never forgive me if I didn’t bring you by.”

My grin is so wide it makes my cheeks ache. As we continue on, I store up every detail this man shares, saving each nugget like a treasure-hoarding dragon. Witnessing the place where his story began brings me such joy, it’s like my insides have been coated in rich, warm honey.

“The farm is about twenty minutes away. Mom invited everyone for dinner. Hope that’s okay.”

Despite my nerves, I’m excited to spend time with the Lacey crew. “Of course.”

On our way out of the downtown area, we pass several residential streets and the elementary school where his cousin Trixie teaches. The farther we go, the farther the distance between buildings and houses. Still, the land is flat as a pancake; not a hollow—or holler—in sight.

He turns down a paved two-lane road that bisects huge empty fields. The nutrient-rich soil is dormant in November, waiting for next spring’s planting. Though a few fields still hold rows of brown, stalky plants with withered, crunchy leaves. The plants appear to be dead at first glance, but closer inspection reveals clusters of brown pods nestled among the branches.

“Shaw’s almost through with the harvest,” Griffin muses, gesturing with a hand. “These are all ours.”

Ah. The fields on either side of the road are part of his family’s farm.

“What are they?”

“Soybeans.”

That makes sense. Like the logo on the cap he sometimes wears.

---