Page 5 of That One Night
“What are you doing out here anyway?” he asked.
Sabrina had never cared for farm life. Not like he had. From the moment he was old enough to help muck out stalls, he’d loved the rhythm of it. The animals, the sweat, the sun that soaked into your bones and made you feel like you belonged.
As a kid, it had been the one place he didn’t feel like a screw-up.
And now that he was back, it was the only place people didn’t expect him to be anything other than quiet and useful.
Well, except for Sabrina.
“I came to rescue you from your self-imposed exile,” she said, flicking a glance at his dirt-streaked jeans. “There’s a party Saturday night at Mariah’s house. You remember parties, don’tyou? People. Music. Fun. Not smelling like you lost a wrestling match with a horse.”
He smirked. “Didn’t Mariah go to New York to be an actress?”
“That was Victoria. Keep up.” She crossed her arms. “Are you coming or not?”
He opened his mouth, already searching for an excuse. The last thing he needed was to end up in a house full of twentysomethings drinking canned cocktails and live-streaming their bad decisions.
“It’ll be fun,” she coaxed. “Fireworks. Karaoke. Probably someone crying about their ex in the bathroom. It’s basically a tradition.” She grabbed his hand. “Come on.”
“I can’t.” He shook his head, trying – and failing – to look remorseful. “I’ll be working on my place.”
The cottage his uncle had sold him needed everything repairing. Gutters, roofing, plumbing. Same with the neglected patch of farmland it sat on. Working his uncle’s land was a paycheck. But building something of his own?
That was redemption. His future. And it was more important than parties.
“Mariah specifically asked me to invite you,” Sabrina said, narrowing her eyes. “She’s single. You’re single. She makes a mean margarita. That’s practically a Hallmark movie.”
“Sabrina.” His voice was a warning.
“What? I’m just saying, she’ll be wearing a sundress and cowboy boots. Your kryptonite.”
“Fixing irrigation lines and sleeping through the night are my kryptonite,” he told her. “Have fun. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“Ugh.” She rolled her eyes. “You’re so boring now. What did they do to you in California?”
He paused, just for a beat, then shoved the wrench back into the toolbox.
“Nothing happened,” he said gruffly. “Maybe I just grew up.”
Sabrina snorted. “Wow. So this is what thirty looks like. Dad jokes and an early bedtime.”
“I’m not thirty.”
“Close enough.” She smirked. “You’ve gone full Hartson. Might as well get cargo shorts and start grilling with unnecessary confidence.”
A reluctant laugh rumbled in his throat.
“Enjoy your irrigation pipe, old man,” she called as she turned to leave. “I’ll go drink tequila and make terrible decisions for both of us.”
He watched her boots kick up dust as she walked away, the swing of her hips saying annoyed, not angry. She’d cool off. She always did.
He’d message her later. Or maybe he’d finally open one of her Snaps.
Sabrina was his favorite cousin, after all. He loved her. But right now, he wasn’t trying to be fun or social or the life of any party.
He was just trying to be good.
By the time the sun dipped low over the hills and the last of his tools were packed away, Hendrix’s shirt clung to his back and his throat felt like sandpaper.
