Page 40 of Waiting Game

It’s one of the reasons I don’t visit outside of holidays, and sometimes not even then.

Two connecting flights—ain’t no one got time for that.

And seeing as Colt’s refusing to get the damn helicopter fixed after Callan took it for a joyride—little prick—I’ve spent all day on planes, trains, and automobiles.

Moreover, the teeny town of Pigeon Creek isn’t exactly a hotbed of activity worthy of me visiting often. However, I probably would head home more if we had an airstrip and I could hire a private jet.

#firstworldproblems

The longing for that airstrip consumes me as I merge onto the private road off the highway.

Driving toward the Seven Cs is, in itself, a pain in the ass, with so many bends and twists in the road that, by the time you’re done, you’re ready for motion sickness meds.

When I finally make it to the gates, I find my way to the homestead where all the lights are blazing.

Because Callan is like Liam and gets off on security, I know the family will have taken note of my presence.

We might be at the back end of nowhere, but Callan’s got us locked up tighter than Fort Knox.

When I can finally get out of my rental, I straighten, crack my neck, then drag my luggage from the trunk in the bright spotlights from the house.

By the time my gear is on the graveled driveway, Colt and Callan are walking over to me. Callan isn’t a toucher, but Colt’s the big brother so he’s the first to punch me in the shoulder.

“What took you so fucking long?”

“I told you that if you want me to visit more, then we need to get a private airstrip, seeing as you won’t fix the damn helicopter.”

“It’s coming, it’s coming,” he mutters, but he casts Callan a glance.

Callan shrugs. “I don’t have a problem with an airstrip.”

“Since when? The last time I brought it up, you said you couldn’t secure it.”

“That was before,” is my younger brother’s simple retort.

“Before what? You broke our last ride and decided you want a new toy?” I demand, hooking my arm over his shoulder and drawing him in for a hug I know he doesn’t want.

Tough shit.

It’s been nine months since I last saw the little pest who crash-landed a million-dollar piece of equipment.

He might be seventeen, but he’s fucking smart. Aside from when it comes to joyriding helicopters.

“Before I finished my security system,” he corrects, his eyes big and shiny. “Every part of the ranch is wired, Cole. It’s a work of art.”

Snorting, I shake my head. “Your wife’ll be made of wires and hard drives, won’t she?”

“Never heard of the uncanny valley?”

“Nope. Is that around here too?” I counter as, with a crinkled nose, I stare at the house.

Six generations of Korhonens have lived and died here.

Mostly, I’ve never wanted to be the type of Korhonen who would too.

Give me the big city any day of the fucking week over my family’s land.

Callan and Colt aren’t like me though—they live and breathe the ranch. But they can, seeing as I don’t want anything to do with it.

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