Page 9 of Buckle Up, Buttercup

He spreads his big purple wings wide. “Tell ‘em to stop callin’ me about it.”

“You’re the sheriff!” I say as a belly laugh bursts from me. “Tell ‘em I’m not breaking a single law. I’m literally doing my volunteer job and it’s not my fault they’re outnumbered so they didn’t get their way when we voted on the changes. It’s a democracy, as you know.”

“Don’t know and don’t care,” he snips, lifting lightly off the ground. Hovering like he is, it’s easy to see a smattering of pinprick holes in his left wing. Poor guy.

I do believe a change of subject is in order, so I smirk at him. “A little birdie told me you were thinkin’ about getting one of those mail order mates. That true?”

He rolls his eyes and lifts up higher. “Somebody or somebodies needs to leave my nonexistent love life alone. Goodbye, Bluebell.”

“Bye now,” I say softly as he shoots up into the clouds and disappears from view.

Back inside the post office, Luther helps me load the party wagon, and it takes three trips to get everything into my truck. As we place the final few boxes, a smaller one tumbles to the dirt road. Luther bends to pick it up, handing it to me with a wry smile.

“You got a boyfriend I don’t know about, Bluebell? This looks adorable.”

I take the box, look at the return label, then smile. “Just a friend,” I assure Luther. Although that doesn’t feel quite right. Never has.

He snorts again. “If you say so, Tucker.”

“I do.” I tuck the box into my pocket and thank him for his help.

Once he goes, I hop in the front seat and withdraw the box. It’s from a fancy little jeweler at the headquarters monster haven, Hearth HQ. Opening it, I grin at finding a delicate golden link necklace inside. Each link is a western emblem like a cowboy boot or lasso or sheriff’s badge. But they’re so small that from afar they just look like miniature ovals. Picking it carefully up out of the box, I admire how stunning it is. A folded slip of paper pops up, and I smile at that too.

Opening the note, my smile grows bigger.

Happy Birthday, Blue. I know you’d never buy this for yourself, so it was my sworn duty to fulfill that need for you, per our arrangement.

-Hay

My smile is so big, it practically hurts. Hadrian gives the best gifts. He must have bought this while on the road with the team. Perks of being the team’s newest player and a general all-star to boot. I love how he always sends my gifts so I get fun stuff in the mail. He could have just given this to me last night, but he’s been mailing gifts to me for like, ten years at this point. My birthday’s not for a few weeks, but he’s always early with the presents.

Per our arrangement.

I chuckle thinking about the marriage promise we made to one another when I was at the ripe age of nine.

Sighing, I put the truck into gear just as the blue-banded watch around my wrist pings, my father’s name hovering above it. Lord knows what he needs, but it’s bound to be something ridiculous. Bill Tucker can’t find the salt on a shelf in front of his face. His talents lie elsewhere—namely finding and negotiating the purchase of our real estate empire—but even though I’m the baby, I’m blessed with that first daughter energy, for better or worse.

Directing the watch to answer him, I pull into the street and head for home.

“Bluebell Delia, where y’at, girl?” My father’s rough, tinny voice echoes through the leather surface.

“Downtown.”

“Listen. I’m puttin’ in an offer on a little cottage out by 234. I need you to come take a look, tell me if anything’s wrong with it before I finalize my number. You got a minute? I could use your magic, girl.”

A minute means an hour, and I really don’t. But instead, I grit my teeth and agree to meet him there. I blame him and my mother for passing along the monstrepreneurial instinct.

And gods know, when the Tuckers smell money and opportunity, we jump.

Hadrian

“Why the hells did you even try to live in that place?” Jasper asks as he hikes a box of skyballs up in his arms, glaring at me. “I coulda told you your new ranch was a shitheap, and it needed work before you moved in, asshole.”

“I was overly optimistic,” I grumble, shoving him against the wall so he drops the box. Two of the skyballs bounce down the stairs. “You dropped something, Jazzy! Better go grab it.”

“Ugh,” he complains. “I hate you sometimes.”

“You do not,” I call up the stairs as I descend, bypassing the wayward skyballs and emerging into the alleyway between the Buxom Bodice Outfitter and the next shop over.