Page 75 of The County Line
She writes something in her notebook, nodding in approval before she glances back up at me.
“Will Molly be able to attend the grand opening with you?”
“Nah,” I say with a small shrug. “They need her on duty. End of spring means they’re gearing up for the busy season, and the precinct is short-staffed as it is.”
Liv nods like she expected that answer. “And how does that make you feel?”
“Okay,” I say honestly. “I mean, I’d love for her to be there, but I get it. We both have responsibilities, and I respect what she does. She’s passionate about her work and we’ll go to see it together soon when I’m off of parole and can travel freely next week.”
She stands up abruptly, stretching out her hand. I meet her stance and shake it firmly.
“You’re doing amazing. The fact that you’re making plans, starting to see a future for yourself, shows me how far you’ve come. When you first came in my office, I don’t think you could see a future for yourself beyond building your house at the Marshall property. Wouldn’t you agree?”
I drop her hand and nod because that’s true. I’m not just making plans to finish my house, which is practically done now, I’m making plans for the brewery, and I’m making plans for proposing to Molly. For making her my wife forever. For a family. For all the things I didn’t allow myself to dream about.
“I think you’re right.”
She grins. “Not half bad for a student not yet licensed, eh?”
“You heard that, huh?”
She laughs. “Your voice is very loud, and very persistent over the phone. Regardless, I’ve enjoyed our time together and I’ve provided my final assessment to the court on your progress. They’ll file that along with your parole officer’s statements next week and then you’ll be officially free.”
Free.
What a strange way to describe myself—a felon who’s lost five years of his life behind bars and is still rediscovering who he is. But that’s exactly how I feel leaving Liv’s office: strangely lighter, like some weight I’ve carried for years is finally slipping off my shoulders.
Driving back to Whitewood Creek with the windows down and the summer sun warming my arm on the doorframe, I crank up the country music and let myself enjoy the simplicity of the moment. My mind drifts to Molly, the woman who’s been occupying every spare thought I’ve had these past weeks.
She’d texted me early this morning, asking if we could do our final parole meeting at my house instead of the station.“Family dinner with the Marshalls,”she’d said.“To help lessen the temptation of... us.”Her words, not mine. She wanted to clear her conscience, to keep things professional at least for this last session.
I’d chuckled reading her message, wondering why she was trying so hard now. After today, she won’t be my parole officer anymore. And it’s not like we haven’t already broken just about every rule in the book during the past two weeks that she’s spent in my RV with me inside of her.
But I know Molly. She’s a rule-follower at heart, even if she’s been bending a few for me. So, I’d agreed, because I’d do anything to make her feel right about us because there ain’t a damn thing wrong about it.
And also, I love Marshall family dinners. They’re always a little bit chaotic but full of memories.
By the time I’ve showered and head up to the main house, the sun’s dipped low, casting everything on the farm in a soft golden hue. Regan and Cash are already in the kitchen, finishing up themeal. The smell of roasted meat fills the air, mixing with the sound of soft laughter and the clatter of dishes.
“Anything I can help with?” I ask, stepping into the kitchen where Regan is elbow-deep in salad prep, tossing what looks like is an overly ambitious mix of greens, seeds, and some mystery vegetables. Her dark auburn hair is twisted up into a knot on the top of her head and she’s wearing a floral dress that matches the shade of her blue eyes.
“I think we’re good,” she says.
“Just sit there and look cute,” Cash offers up with a wink as he brings the roast over from the oven onto the kitchen island for cutting.
I laugh easily without even thinking and move to swipe a pile of the stacked plates to help set the table, but Regan and Cash are both frozen in place, staring at me and then each other.
“What?” I ask, “Did I take the wrong plates?”
Regan drops the large wooden forks into the bowl then rushes around the butcher block to grab me. Her small arms wrap around my waist as she squeezes me so tightly it’s as if she’s trying to join us back together in the womb.
“What?” I ask again, this time looking at Cash who’s grinning wildly.
Regan responds, “We haven’t seen you smile, or laugh, since you got home.”
Cash folds his arms over his chest with a nod. “So… who’s the new pussy?”
“Gross,” Regan groans, releasing me from her hold before she steps back with a shiver and faces the salad. “I’m taking this into the dining room. I don’t want to hear about this.”
