Page 110 of Headed for Home

He rips open the paper. A dramaticoooooohstreams from him as he reveals the orange fabric. The shirt is tugged over his head before he notices what’s written on the front.

“Fits great.” He yanks on the hem to see the bold script. “I’ll do whatever the cowgirl says.”

“We match.” I unbutton my western shirt to reveal mine.

“The cowgirl,” he reads.

“Your one and only.”

“Damn straight.” Drake claps and gestures at me. He succeeds in gathering everyone’s attention. “Hey, guess what? She totally gets me!”

“We know,” Harper replies while exiting the kitchen. “Get that tattoo done and make it permanent.”

My boyfriend glances at the clock. “Still good to go at seven?”

“Absolutely. I’m looking forward to it.”

Harper pauses beside me and drops off a basket of mini tacos. “What’re you getting again?”

I’m momentarily distracted by one of my favorite foods. “Um, a tattoo.”

“Obviously,” she scoffs. “But what’s the design?”

“Oh!” I thump my forehead. “A sunflower with a horseshoe blended into the petals.”

“And what in the middle?” Drake prods.

The aroma of fried goodness is going straight to my brain. “A baseball.”

Harper exhales a groan. “You two are the cutest. I better be invited to the wedding.”

The taco in my fingers pauses halfway to my mouth. “Umm…?”

But she’s already walking away to serve the kids. A chorus of joy erupts when they discover what Drake ordered. I couldn’t agree more as I crunch down on a savory bite. This is another win for the troublemaker.

“Mini tacos!” Charlie whoops, pumping a fist into the air. “You’re the bestest, Rake.”

“Right back at you, Cheese.” He waves as if my son isn’t already fawning over him. “Same goes for you, Mac.”

My daughter is too busy munching on a taco, which I realize is poor phrasing far too late. Luckily, nobody can hear my thoughts. She gives Drake a thumbs-up and rubs her belly in glee.

“When did Roosters get these things?” Sydney holds one up like it’s a foreign object.

“I asked for them,” Charlie beams. “Put it in your mouth and swallow.”

A sharp edge of the shell gets stuck in my throat, or maybe it’s just my son’s provocative advice. Drake vaults over the bar and begins patting my back. The obstruction clears after another thwack.

“Good grief,” I croak.

“Careful how much you shove in there at once. Go slow, beauty.” His concern is betrayed by a dry chuckle.

“It’s been too long.” My hungry grasp already has another plucked from the basket. “I’ve missed you, mini tacos.”

Drake’s laughter booms louder. “That’s what I told yours this morning.”

“And she thanks you for the cream filling.”

His inhale morphs into a cough. “Damn, that’s rough.”

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