Page 66 of South of The Skyway

“You’re fine,” I soothed. “It was a long time ago. Jeanne was twenty-two when she and Lincoln lost him during labor. It was horrible for all of us. But the worst part was the way it destroyed the two of them. They split up that year.” Wrapping my other arm around her, I grazed his name with my finger where the Celtic knot met the edge of the braid. An old pang of grief tightened my chest. Jeanne had come to me to design his memorial stone, and there wasn’t a chance in hell I was saying no. It had taken two tries to get the stone right, but I was still grateful we’d done it.

“Emmerson,” she whispered, leaning her face against mine and giving my hand a little squeeze.

“He would've been a teenager by now.”

Her swallow was audible as I turned the page to the next drawing. This one was a promise.

“A farmhouse?” Her tone lifted a touch as she narrowed her eyes. It was the American Dream brought to life—a two-story white farmhouse with blue shutters and a wraparound porch to watch the storms. I’d always known I’d land somewhere with thunderstorms worth soaking in.

“That one’s my favorite,” I admitted.

“You love apple pie too, don’t you?”

“What kind of a question is that?” I teased, nipping at her neck. She smiled, tucking her chin into her shoulder as I growled, “Who doesn’t?”

TWENTY-NINE

BREXLEY

Rhyett Rhodes was a family man. I mean, I’d known it, but standing in his immaculate trailer, the walls custom-painted white, hand-crafted trim edging, and designer lights hanging above the island, I saw the evidence everywhere. He’d taken a classy fifth wheel and upgraded it until it felt like a home. The damn thing would make the cast ofFixer Upperproud, right down to shiplap accents. His love for his siblings and parents was scattered across the fridge in sloppily displayed photos of those blinding white smiles. From the hand-drawn design for Emmerson’s headstone to his plans for an all-American farmhouse that an architect would weep over, Rhyett screamed husband material. Not hookup hottie.

“How in the hell hasn’t a leggy little model scooped you up and put a ring on it?” Refusing to crane my neck any further, I twisted around until we were chest to chest. Rhyett leaned back to accommodate the adjustment, setting his wine on the counter so he could wrap an arm around my back, the other coming to cup my face. God, what was it about him that sent me spilling over all my edges?

Those steel blue eyes flicked between mine as he lowered precariously into the I’m-about-to-lose-control radius. Some backwards instinct froze my ability to inhale, like it was hisscentthat was dangerous, not the imminent proximity of a beautiful man with a knack for unraveling my resolve in a wink and a smile. Rhyett ran his tongue over his lips, and my heart sped, my mouth going dry as my clit gave a needy throb of protest.Focus, Brex, you want to get to know him.

“Why don’t you tell me, Ace? I’m a package deal.”

My eyes dropped for a beat as he skimmed my cheekbone with those warm lips.Not the package he’s talking about.Forcing enough air into my lungs to speak was a mistake. Silence was safer. Because, dammit, his scentwasdangerous. A subtle earthy spice and something distinctly male. Mouthwatering, all the same. My words came out in the same tenor as Marilyn Monroe’s version ofHappy Birthday Mr. President.

“Your—the—you mean your family?”Idiot. Breathy, horny idiot.I cleared my throat, willing the blood flow to direct to my brain cells if any were left. “You think you haven’t gotten married because of your family?”Oh, thank God, I can still form a sentence.

Ass pressed into the faux-stone counter, his warm palm against my back, two hundred pounds of shirtless fisherman at my front, and the heat of his exhale across my face, I was well and truly stranded. He chuckled, as his fortified gaze traced my face, my lips, before he decided to grant me some small clemency and put distance between us. Rhyett snatched his wine off the counter, wrapping his long fingers around the neck of the bottle and dragging it along, retreating to the leather couch.

“We can be a lot. And my family means more to me than anything in the world. Trying to come into a complicated family dynamic can be intimidating, and none of us have been willing to compromise our relationships to prioritize new ones.”

“None of you are married?” There. My tone was almost normal. More Brex, less bimbo. I followed him into the tiny living room, sitting crisscrossed on the cushion beside him.

“Jeanne, technically. But they separated so long ago, so we never see either of them anymore.”

“That must be hard.”

“It is.” His admission hit me in the chest, cooling down the inferno in my belly for a moment. “It’s what they needed at the time. They couldn’t figure out grief together. Who knows. But as for me, I want the real thing, or nothing serious. Not sure there’s a good in-between.”

“The real thing?”

He sipped his wine, contemplating before saying, “Like…my parents. They have that one-in-a-million, soulmate kind of connection. Not like they don’t argue—believe me, they did their share—however, they found the one person worth arguing with and fighting for, you know? I figure if I can’t create that kind of intimacy, I’m better off just having fun and living life.”

My parents’ unwelcome faces marched into my mind. They were nothing but a hot mess, and their mess became mine as I grew up. The few memories engraved in my mind with them both were filled with screaming matches and broken cabinets, mugs chucked into the drywall, and, eventually, my father’s stone face as he stared over our property, presumably wondering when enough was enough. In retrospect, the day she’d leveled him with a cast iron probably should have been it. Two less-compatible humans had likely never attempted to cohabitate in the same space. I hadn’t realized I was scowling until he ran a warm thumb between my brows like he could smooth away the frustration. “That would be nice,” I admitted.

“This Feeling” by The Alabama Shakes came on over the speakers as I raised the flamboyant pink cup to my lips.

“Eclectic playlist, I like it.”

“Thanks. I love music—it’s one of those soul-deep connectors between people.” He set the bottle down on a mid-century modern side table, intention darkening his eyes as he watched me. “Magic, really,” he said softly, extending a hand. When I set aside my glass and accepted, Rhyett stood, guiding me with him until our bodies were flush against one another.

His bare chest warmed my palms as he wrapped me up, leading me into a simple swaying rotation as he inhaled against my hair. Heat poured through my low belly, head spinning as Rhyett asked, “Why are you here, Brex?” His grip tightened on my waist, like he was reassuring me that he wanted me where I was. “Not that I’m not absolutely thrilled, but I don’t suppose you were just craving a margarita-sized glass of red in a trailer.”

Silence settled beyond the music, and I just leaned into his hard warmth as we rocked back and forth, cheek to cheek. Rhyett allowed it. Gave me the time to attempt to arrange my thoughts into coherent words. Articulating emotions wasn’t necessarily my strong suit. An unfortunate hazard of a dumpster fire family, most likely with my father to blame. When Dad didn’t know how to deal, he just checked out. Put his energy into work. ExceptRhyett…a man like Rhyett deserved an honest to god attempt.

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