Lennox’s smile grew into something fierce and wild. “Yeah, but aren’t they invited to the potluck too?”
“A potluck??” Charlie asked, turning to Cleo. “Can we come, Miss Cleo?”
“Charlie, we can’t go inviting ourselves to someone’s house for dinner,” I said, cutting in.
Lennox shrugged. “It’s an end-of-camp potluck, you should have gotten an email.”
Cleo sighed heavily.
“Hmm, must have gotten lost in the mail,” Lennox said, throwing a thumb over her shoulder. “I bet Charlie would love some of Mom’s homemade banana pudding, huh?” My daughter nodded furiously. “Yeah, I thought so. She’s a little sugar fiend.”
“Don’t I know it,” I chuckled. “She’s been begging for more of Cleo’s cookies.”
Lennox nodded, lips twitching as she said, “I’m sure she’s the only one, huh?”
“Lennox!” Cleo said, smacking her sister’s arm.
“No, Daddy likes them, too!” Charlie said, completely unaware of the shit storm she was creating.
“Oh my god,” Cleo muttered, looking utterly mortified, as I uttered a quiet, “Jesus Christ,” beneath my breath.
“Kids,” I said, clearing my throat. “They say the damndest things.”
“I’ve heard they’re super truthful, too,” Lennox said, hiding her smile. “Their little ears hear everything while their mouths tell it all.”
“Alright, well, I guess that settles it, guess you missed the invite,” Cleo said, putting an end to the conversation. When she looked at me, I couldn’t help but take a step forward. There were so many emotions in those blue depths. “Dinner’s at seven.”
“You can hang out after camp is over, though!” Lennox said, holding out her hand for Charlie to take. “Maybe we could see those riding skills.”
grady
. . .
19 Years Old
My clothes squelchedas I shifted on the shitty wooden barstool in this shitty run-down bar listening to a shitty cover of Hank Williams. I’d ducked inside when the rain turned into a torrential downpour, the neon sign shining like a beacon of hope in a dark tunnel.
I was hoping to drown my sorrows and earn a five-star hangover to distract my mind from the all-consuming agony that settled into my bones. So far, all I’d accomplished was a pounding head from the wailing happening on stage. Apparently, my luck was destined to be shit.
Seriously, I wasn’t usually a dick to performers, but I’d make an exception for the man on the stage. It was an open mic night, but he was treating it more like a karaoke bar. His friends sat in the front row, laughing and clapping as he wailed the final note and took a bow.
Fucking idiot.
“God, he was terrible, right?”
I turned to my right, noticing a woman standing beside me who definitely hadn’t been there before. She was facing the stage with her elbows braced behind her on the bar. Her blondehair was piled into a messy bun on top of her head, with thick pieces pulled free to frame her face. She turned toward me, the cheap neon lights above us casting a colorful glow across her features.
“Yeah, he was pretty bad,” I agreed, reaching for whiskey and shooting it down. The bartender came back around, and I signaled him for another. Thank god he didn’t question the fake ID when I’d slammed it down an hour ago.
“I thought men from the South were supposed to be gentlemen. Shouldn’t you have asked if I wanted a drink, too?” she asked. Her tone was flirtatious, but I could tell her heart wasn’t in it. And I wasn’t in the mood to keep it going for the sake of polite conversation.
Not when I’d just lost the best thing that’d ever happened to me.
“Pretty presumptuous to assume the character of someone you just met,” I muttered. “And stereotypes are just that. Not real.”
“Ah, but there’s usually a nugget of truth in there somewhere.” The woman turned my way, giving me a blinding smile. She looked so out of place here. “For instance, I’m from Tennessee and know a thing or two about southern hospitality. Men tend to be chivalrous. They buy your drinks, hold the door for you, get you flowers on a first date?—”
I huffed a laugh. “I hate to break it to you, but most men don’t do it out of the goodness of their hearts.”
