Page 33 of Riding the Storm
I shake my head. “Nah, she’s only twenty—well, almost twenty—but the doorman down at The Soused Cow knows us, and he’ll let her in. Plus, she has a fake ID she uses at school.”
“Sounds … illegal,” he says, and I burst out laughing.
“It is, but we’ve been sneaking into the Cow since we were all in high school.”
He grins. “Fun place?”
“Good drinks. Good music. Good people,” I say.
He looks at me expectantly, and I let out a breath.
“You wanna come with us?”
“You want me to come?”
My heart stutters, just for a second, before I manage a half smile. “Don’t flatter yourself, cowboy.”
“You’re the one out here staring.”
I blink, caught, and hate the warmth that floods my cheeks. “You’re delusional.”
“Maybe.” He grins wider, eyes glinting beneath the shadow of his cap. “But you’re still staring.”
I roll my eyes, forcing myself to look away, though the image of him—sunlight sliding over ink and sweat—burns behind my eyelids.
God help me, this man is going to be trouble.
“Whatever,” I mumble.
He chuckles. “I’m just teasing. Cabe invited me to come along,” he says. “I just wanted to make sure it was okay with you. I don’t want to impose on your plans.”
I bring my eyes back to him. “I’m good with it,” I say a little too quickly. “I mean, Cabe and Caison are always outnumbered. I’m sure they’ll appreciate having another guy in the mix.”
“That’s what Cabe said.”
Grandpa returns with two small bushels of greens. “Here you go, sweetheart.”
“Thanks,” I say, taking them from his gloved hands.
He turns to Bryce. “You ready to learn how to prune cucumber and squash plants, son?”
“Yes, sir,” Bryce says.
Grandpa begins walking toward the back row of the garden, and Brycegives me a wink and follows. Before I turn to go back inside, I overhear Grandpa spilling knowledge.
“Well, first, you have to inspect the lower leaves, and if they have a powdery mildew on them, you need to cut ’em back.”
I watch them until they’re both hunched down over a row of leafy green plants.
As I return to the house, I can’t help but think that the plan for a night of easy fun may have just taken a left turn.
Dinner at Wildhaven Storm feels like walking into a Sunday dinner at my grandparents’ house after church when I was a kid.
The long dining table is set for twelve. Platters of meat swimming in gravy, a cheesy potato casserole, buttered corn, green beans, and fluffy biscuits waiting in the center. The mouthwatering aroma hit me before I even stepped through the doorway, and my stomach growls in appreciation.
I don’t think I’ve smelled “home” in a long time.
They don’t have to welcome me at their table the way they do. I’m sure there wasn’t afeed him dailyclause in the training contract they signed with my management. Yet they’ve freely opened their home and kitchen to me.
