Page 96 of What About Us
His answering chuckle is easy, sleepy. “Not in the slightest.”
Chapter 34
Hudson
I can hear Paige’slaugh mixed with Pop’s when I open the door at the ranch. I’ve been at the bar all day dealing with a missed delivery and rearranging the schedule to accommodate one of the servers who has come down with pink eye. I also shattered a box of shot glasses and broke the tap off a perfectly good keg of Guinness.
To top off the shit sandwich that was my morning, Tristen also called to cancel her trip to see Paige. I scrub a hand over my face as I recall the conversation. Not only is she canceling, but she’s been in Manhattan since before we left for Timber Forge. She’s been trying to make me feel guilty for weeks for moving back home, sulking about never seeing our daughter, when she could have seen her before we even left. To say my day has been less than ideal would be a massive fucking understatement.
I’m hungry and irritable and can feel a headache starting behind my eyes. I just want to get my daughter and go home, so I can feed her and then hopefully get Finn naked. I swear I can still taste her on my tongue.
We’ve both been busy—her at the B&B working night hours so Allie could go visit family, and me helping Hutch hang sheetrockat Hank’s place. I can think of nothing that will settle me better than getting balls deep in Finnley’s perfect, tight, wet heat. We’ve barely had time for a conversation the last week. It’s probably my imagination, but it feels like she’s avoiding me.
Paige and Mom are at the counter when I come into the kitchen. Pop is standing just behind them, pointing out various things to Paige in an old encyclopedia.
“Hey, son,” Pop says when he sees me, and Mom stands up to wrap her arms around me.
“Hey, Pop,” I say and plant a kiss on my mom’s cheek. “Hey, Mom,” I say, then reach out and ruffle Paige’s hair.
“You hungry?” Mom asks. “I have a roast on.”
I shake my head. I just want to go. I can make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich or have a bowl of cereal. I’m not picky.
“Got a minute?” Pop asks, his gaze landing on mine.
I nod, wearily. “Sure.”
Pop motions for me to follow him, and then disappears down the hallway toward his den.
I have both fond and not so fond memories of my dad’s den. It was often where we’d find him pouring over invoices after a long day working cattle and moving hay. It’s also where he’d bring us when we’d get into trouble and needed a talking to. I was the brother who had the pleasure of most of those talks. Hank could—and still can—do no wrong, and Hutch was justsmart enough not to get caught doing whatever stupid shit he got up to. Probably because he learned from watching me get into trouble.
“Have a seat,” Pop says, motioning to the chair in front of his desk. It feels strangely formal. He takes the one behind it and I sit down feeling fifteen again, like I’ve just been caught shooting street signs with my BB gun or stealing a fifth of whiskey from the mini bar in the kitchen. Both scenarios hypothetical, of course.
I sit and cross an ankle over the opposite knee.
“Hank tells me you’re taking on a lot at Roxy’s,” Pop starts.
I nod. “Tanya’s due any day. They’ve gone up to her parents’ place in Helena. She’s delivering there. Wants to be close to family.”
“Smart girl,” Pop says, leaning back in his chair. He shuffles a few papers around his desk.
“What did you want to talk about?” I ask, impatiently. Judging by the way he’s drawing this out, I’m not going to like it.
“Wren doesn’t have much longer, either,” he says, letting the statement hang.
I nod. “October will be here before we know it.”
“It will.” He shifts, steepling his fingers under his chin. “I need to know you’re going to step up when the time comes.”
His tone has my hackles rising. Pop has never outright said he was disappointed I left home for New York. He’s never come out and told me I was making the wrong decision by turning down the baseball scholarship to Montana State. However, there have been times over the years that he’s thrown out little barbs. Me living it up in the city instead of slogging it out, putting in hard work here. As if hard work is only synonymous with ranching and Montana.
I scrub a hand down my face. “I’ll do what I can to help, Pop. But I’ve got Paige, and the bar takes up—”
He cuts me off. “Trevor is not your family. This ranch is.”
Resentment rises in my throat, and I bite back the humorless laugh I so want to spit out as I stare at him. “I’m not a rancher, Pop.” I sigh.
“No, you’re not.” I don’t miss the implication in his tone. “But you are part of this family, and if you’re going to be back here, you should be helping,” he states matter-of-factly.
