Page 38 of Blue Jeans in Low Beams

I’m pretty sure that’s a book. That factoid sticks out in my mind like something my father mentioned once upon a time. Probably because he hates them just as much as I do. But one does not run a Fortune 500 company—a family empire, really—without spending time in meetings.

Thankfully, as the kid who decided he wanted to brew beer for a living, I don’t sit in as many as he or Gus does.

Don’t get me wrong—I still sit in too many for my liking. But thanks to opening up a taproom, I can now convince just about everyone that our meeting should be done over cold Southern Brothers rather than a boardroom.

Except Munch.

And honestly? I wouldn’t have it any other way. Because this time is sacred.

When you’re one of seven kids, you have built-in friends. Friends that in no way respect your privacy, are always underfoot, and are never at a loss for a way to taunt you. But friends, nevertheless. And I hit the jackpot with my brothers. And Willa. Can’t forget her.

“I don’t think we’re asking too much here, Will,” Anton says, trying to drive his point home. “Nash is a Hayes now. He plays for the Hayes team.”

“Again, you can take it up with him. I’m not involving myself,” she counters.

“Don’t act like you don’t care.”

Willa’s head snaps up, her baby-blue eyes trained on the brother just under me in the lineup. I focus on the fried chicken drumstick in my hand, letting the glorious mix of spices burst on my tongue in a tango that is inexplicably perfect. I don’t need to look at my sister to know the look she’s giving Anton or that it’s the literal definition of if looks could kill. She might be a former Miss Georgia—just like our mama—but she’s also a spitfire.

“We’re going to pretend that for a second you didn’t just insinuate that I don’t care about tug-o-war. Because that’s ridiculous.”

“Then you know we need Nash if we’re going to beat the Nobles this year!”

Willa huffs out a breath, her nostrils flaring like the dragons in that book she wouldn’t shut up about last summer.

“I want nothing more than for you to kick the boy cousins’ asses, reclaiming the Hayes family title that you lost last year when Jace ‘slipped,’” she says, her tone clear, almost mocking as she says the word slipped, making finger quotes to reference Jace’s lame excuses. “Because we are all tired of Z mentioning it at every town event.”

All six of us Hayes men let out a collective noise, lamenting that she even brought it up. The Hayes family and the Nobles have been competing against each other at tug-o-war during the Fourth of July town picnic for decades. It’s not fancy—only thing the winner gets is bragging rights, which in a small town is important—but it doesn’t need to be. It’s tradition. And the Hayes have the winning record.

However, last year, Jace screwed up. He maintains that he slipped, but I don’t know how much any of us are buying that. But whatever the cause, it gave Atlas, Ezra, Landon, and Zachary—Z for short—Noble, aided by Nash and Noel Keller to even out the numbers, the in they needed. The boy cousins, as the Noble men are affectionately referred to around town, since the four brothers are the son of Rod Noble, whose brother, Ken, only has two daughters, Kenzie and Moira, have been bragging about it—boisterously—ever since.

“But I told Nash I wouldn’t interfere. Which side he chooses is his choice.”

“He’s a Hayes now; he plays for us,” Gus says, as if he’s reciting law.

“Is he though? They aren’t married,” Hux counters, his mouth full of cornbread. “Even then, that’d make her a Keller, not him a Hayes.”

“He’s a Hayes. Has been since he busted in here and gave us all that speech about choosing her,” Jace comments.

Willa’s smile grows bigger, unable to hold it back with the mention of that moment. I have to admit, it was a good speech. Who knew Nash Keller had that in him. I’m inclined to agree that Nash solidified himself as part of this family then—if not before that moment given how it all went down between them—but opt to keep my mouth shut.

“Just tell him that if he wants to get laid ever again, he plays for us,” Anton says.

“Well now,” Auggie’s deep southern drawl interrupts. He walks into the conference room, smirking and shaking his head, not bothering to stop and ask what we’re talking about before starting to make a plate. “That’s a threat if I ever heard one.”

“Wait,” Ewan pipes up, pointing his drumstick at Anton like a gavel. “We can't just steal him. That’ll make things uneven.”

“They’ve got Jake, or even Dustin that they can pull from. Problem solved.”

I take another bite of chicken, shaking my head. This is why Munch is so special. We’re clearly solving all the world’s problems over fried chicken and cornbread.

“Had I realized chicken was on the menu today, I would have run down here before y’all grabbed all the drumsticks,” Auggie laments. I hold up one, offering it to him, but he waves me off. “For some reason I could have sworn Miss Harriett said we were having mac ’n cheese.”

The mention of mac ’n cheese jolts me, ripping my attention away from the discussion that is still ensuing. Instantly, my mind rushes back to a couple of weeks ago when I made it for Brenna. The look on her face when she realized what I was cooking. The excitement in her voice as she told me about her first day at Hickory Hills Drugs. The little noises she made while eating it, which were almost as good as the noises she made when I walked in on her the week before.

Most of all, the way her breath caught when I asked her on a date.

My pulse jumps, the subtle noise now on repeat in my head. At least until my brain skitters to the end of murder mystery night and her sigh as I kissed her. The hitch and the sigh mingle together, creating a remix that goes straight to my dick, making the rest of me long for a repeat.