“I guess.” She slows her steps even more, keeping her gaze on the goat, who is actually behaving at the moment, just trotting alongside her. “But someone has to keep her from setting things on fire.”
I smile. “Well, someone has to keep you from getting eaten alive by your goats.”
She laughs as Ham’s truck barrels up the driveway behind us, cutting off our conversation. She points to it with her hammer. “There’s your friend.”
“Yeah.” I let out a breath, but all I can think is, I hate Ham’s timing. “Look at that.”
Ham’s truck rolls to a stop at the end of the driveway. Before he even gets out, Lottie turns to look out over the pasture, ignoring me like we were never having a conversation.
six
Lottie
Reliefwashesthroughmefor the tiniest second—until I see who’s in the passenger seat.
My mother.
Of course.
Ham climbs out first, dark circles under his eyes, his feet dragging. Exhaustion radiates from him, which has become his default mode lately. Mom slides out after him, smoothing down her blazer. She lifts her chin like she’s stepping onto a stage instead of our driveway. Some days I wonder what it would be like to have a normal mom, who doesn’t expect everyone to adore her. “Lottie,” she calls over to me.
Before I can respond, Mom’s gaze snags on Tyson. Her eyes narrow, then flick to Ham like she’s uncovered a conspiracy. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, is this about what I said about hockey guys?” she demands.
“No,” Ham groans. “I invited Ty to hang out.”
Ty clears his throat, and I hold my breath. The awkwardness is so thick I turn my head, pretending to be interested in Crunch chewing a leaf.
Mom stomps her foot—actually stomps it—before turning her politician stare on Ty. “Well, I suppose I should apologize for what I said. My comment about hockey was ill-advised.”
“It’s fine, Senator Halloway.” Ty gives a soft smile. “I barely heard anything about it.” I pinch back a smile that’s begging to slip out at him. There is no way he hasn’t heard, but he’s playing the game—kissing up to my mom like everyone else.
“It isnotfine. Someone needs to be fired for leaving that mic hot,” she mutters, stepping forward and sweeping past us. “Where was that mic when I just apologized? That would have boosted my likability numbers, but no, that never makes it to social media …”
I cover my forehead with my hand. “Mom, please stop talking.”
She shoots me a glare, but then spins on her heel, striding toward the porch, muttering about how hockey is “too violent for her wholesome image …”
Ham’s gaze drops to the hammer in my hand, and his jaw tightens. “No, Lottie. Stop whatever you are doing with that, and hand it over. Right now.”
I flick my wrist in a playful gesture, swinging the hammer toward him with zero intention of handing it over. “I have to fix the gate before Dad eliminates my goats—”
“You almost broke your finger last time.” Without waiting for me to give it to him, he plucks it from my grip and turnsto Ty. “Come on. Let’s fix the gate before we need to call an ambulance.”
Without another word, they head down the hill together. Mom disappears inside, still muttering something about how “that hockey boy is sure cute but not good for branding.”
I stand with my hand on my hip, warmth spreading up my neck.
It shouldn’t bother me.
Ty is just a friend.
A friend who plays hockey—something my mom hates. But my gut tightens. I can’t help wishing she could pretend to be nice to him.
He’s a good… friend.
Breathing heavy, I head down the hill toward the guys. I didn’t mean to pass my chore off to them. I’m capable of fixing a little wire. Ty glances up when he hears my footsteps, and his expression softens, and suddenly my knees become putty. “You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah, I’m used to my mom.” I wave vaguely. What else is there to say? She’s a full-time job, and Ham is right here, hearing everything too.
