Hudson fumbles with the gloves, grinning. “I’m not gonna cry.”
“You say that now,” Witt mutters, already heading for the house with a handful of trim boards balanced on his shoulder.
I lean down and nudge Hudson’s shoulder. “You get that stack done right, okay? You’re helping build this place just as much as we are.”
Hudson nods seriously. “I’m on it.”
He trots off toward the pile, dragging the first board toward the porch with all the focus in the world. Ridge watches him for a second, then smirks. “You sure he’s not trying to take over as foreman?”
“Wouldn’t be the worst thing,” I say, grabbing a drill. “Kid’s got hustle. Maybe you could learn a thing or two.”
He flips me the bird.
By the time the sun’s directly overhead, sweat’s clinging to the back of my neck and the inside of my shirt like glue. Every day feels like summer now, the sort of heat that doesn’t burn, just sticks. It makes you want to jump in the creek and stay there until fall. We’ve knocked out more than I expected—the upstairs bathroom’s fully drywalled, base cabinets in the kitchen are leveled and secured, trim’s up in the hallway, and every damn drawer pull is finally installed straight, no matter how many times Duke had to adjust them.
Ridge and Hudson took off just before noon and came back with sandwiches from Mom’s kitchen—turkey piled high, potato chips, and cold lemonade that’s almost worth selling your soul for in this heat. We’re spread out around the porch now, legs stretched, boards of the porch warm beneath us.
Ridge wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, nodding toward the house. “This is gonna be a hell of a place, Boone. Never thought I’d see it like this.”
I glance at the house, then back at him. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He takes another bite, talking around it. “What color you gonna paint it when it’s done?”
“White,” I say without hesitation. “Lark always wanted a white farmhouse.”
There’s a pause before he nods, approving. “It’ll look good out here. Clean. Classic.”
“You’ve got one of the best spots on the ranch,” Witt adds, tipping his drink toward the stretch of land beyond the porch.
“I know,” I say, pulling a bite from my sandwich. “It’s far away from Ridge and you fuckers.”
Ridge flips me off without even looking up. “You’re hilarious.”
He’s staying over in one of the guest houses, way on the other side of the property. Probably a good thing, considering he’s likely bringing home a different woman every night. He’s a regular at The Lucky Devil—Summit Springs’ unofficial but official playboy. Women throw themselves at him like he’s the last beer at the bonfire, and Ridge? He revels in it. Twenty-six, no interest in settling down, commitment not even in his peripheral vision.
Still, it’ll be interesting when the day comes. Whoever signs up for Ridge’s shit is gonna have to be one hell of a woman.
Duke leans back on his elbows, grinning under the brim of his hat. “So, Ridge, how many girls was it this week?”
Witt doesn’t miss a beat, already shaking his head like he’s disappointed. “Last time I kept track, it was four. Barely kept their names straight.”
Ridge glares at them over his sandwich. “Both of you can fuck right off.”
Duke snorts. “I take that as confirmation.”
There’s a pause, Ridge chewing slow, and then he swallows and shrugs. “Five,” he mutters.
Witt lets out a bark of laughter, Duke choking on his drink. I shake my head, biting back a grin, but Hudson looks up from his sandwich, brows drawn tight like he’s working through a complex equation.
“Why do you always have someone over?” he asks.
Ridge glances at me, then Duke, then Witt, likesomeone throw me a rope, but no one’s helping him. He can dig his own way out of this one.
He clears his throat. “We just…hang out.”
Hudson squints at him. “Doing what?”
“Talking,” Ridge says, nodding like he believes it. “And watching movies.”
