Page 23 of All Too Well
I couldn’t help it that my brother and Lachlan seemed to be on the committee to commit crimes. The two of them were the reason they called us military brats.
They were brats.
I was an angel. Still am too.
Those two couldn’t walk down the street without causing a damn problem. I felt it was my responsibility, as the youngest and more responsible of the trio, to ensure that I was not guilty by association.
Lachlan snorts. “Please, you loved it when our punishment was having to do whatever you wanted if Caspian and I wanted to hang out.”
“This is true.”
That was my favorite part. Our dads were diabolical. They didn’t believe in corporal punishment or anything that required them to suffer. The idea of grounding them and forcing them to be inside and complaining was absolutely not their idea of a good time.
Therefore, they were forced to do whatever I wanted.
Which meant they had to play horrible games, where Lachlan was my husband and Caspian was our son. They had to play house and board games where it was required I win. They hated it, and for me, it was wonderful.
Lachlan pushes off the truck and takes a sip of his coffee, working to hide the grin behind the rim. “Oh, that’s good. I’m wagering you met Hazel and found the coffeeshop?”
“I did.” I smile. “She’s amazing and that store is ...”
“Perfect for you.”
“I’m going to take that as a compliment.”
Lachlan nods once. “As you should.”
I’ve always loved books. They’re magical and amazing. No matter what I read, even books that aren’t necessarily my genre of choice, books have some part of the author’s soul in there. You just have to find it.
When I write an article, there’s something about putting my own words into a story. There’s an angle or a way that I work at picking the perfect descriptors to show what I’m trying to say. It’s why some of my articles take me weeks to perfect.
And I don’t even like what I’m working on most of the time, but it’s my name under that title, and I’ll never take that for granted.
Which is why I need Lachlan to be pliable and open to me writing this piece.
“Since you are in a giving mood, how about dinner one night this week?”
“Dinner?” he asks with a bit of hesitancy.
“Yeah, just ... whatever night you’re free. It’s been forever, I don’t know anyone in town, and I’ll be here for at least two weeks. Monday? Wednesday? Thursday?” I ask, hoping he’ll give away what day his practice or a game might be.
“I’m sure we can find a day.”
“Are you free any of those?”
His eyes narrow. “I’ve known you pretty much our whole lives, you forget. I’m well aware of your attempts to get information.”
I huff and lean against his truck. “I don’t need to attempt a damn thing. I can get information a hundred different ways.”
“I have no doubt you’ve honed your snooping skills.”
Please, I’ve perfected them. He just throws me off balance a little, which is why I seem to be not as great at this moment.
“I’m going to pretend you mean that to be a compliment.”
“Pretend away.”
“So, dinner?” I bring the convo back around to what I want anyway.
