“Um, I’m not sure—” Vi nibbles at her lip. “She’s really busy with work and with her nephew, Nate, who she recently got custody of?—”
“We’ll make time when we come out to Harrisburg to kick some Hawks ass?—”
“Connor,” Kailey says gently, her eyes cutting to Ollie, who’s standing next to Harper, watching her roll out a circle of dough.
“Oh, right.” He winces. “Sorry, Lainey.”
Her mouth twitches. “It’s fine. I promise he’s heard worse.”
That has Sawyer’s eyebrows flicking up. “From you?”
Now her mouth flattens out, her cheeks going more than a little pink.
“My mom says fuck in the car a lot,” Ollie says into the quiet, totally calling her out.
I bite my lip to keep in my laughter—notice I’m not the only one.
Lainey sighs, ruffles his hair. “He’s not wrong.”
“She also says sh?—”
“Ollie and Harp are making sugar cookies!” Smitty booms. “So we’re having dessert before dinner. Then we’ll have dinner dinner. And then we’re playing video games because Ollie loves MarioKart.”
My eyes go to Harper’s—no, they cling to Harper’s, getting lost in the beautiful golden-green depths for far too long to be polite.
But these men…they get it.
No one gives me shit as I stare at the woman I love, and when she nods, silently telling me she’s on board with Smitty’s plan, I force out, “Sounds good.”
No one gives me shit; that is, until later that evening.
When she kicks my ass in MarioKart.
Then I get plenty of it.
But that’s okay.
Because Harper leans close and kisses me in front of everyone.
And I’d lose a thousand times over if it earned me another taste of her.
“What are you doing?” I ask, padding into the kitchen and flicking on the lights.
She jumps, her hand jerking. “Damn,” she whispers as flour drops onto the floor. Then she scowls up at me. “You ruined it.”
Wetting a paper towel, she starts to bend, but I snag it from her, clean up the mess myself. “What exactly did I ruin?”
She flushes. “My surprise.”
I look behind her, see the containers of flour and sugar and oatmeal, the carton of eggs, the sticks of butter.
And the bag of raisins.
The bag of raisins.
“Um, Harp?”
She’s turned her back on me, is measuring out a scoop of oatmeal. “Yes,” she says archly.
