Page 27 of Made for Mayhem

I buried my face in Junie’s wild, poofy hair, breathing her in. She smelled like maple syrup and cold mountain air. “Hi, sweet girl.”

I pulled back just enough to cup Junie’s face in my hands, tears streaking her cheeks, a gap-toothed smile splitting through them.

“I told him you’d get here fast,” she said with a grin.

I pressed my forehead to hers, hearing just enough of Violet in her voice to splinter something in my chest. “Yeah, well,” I whispered. “I was so excited to see you, I had to get here as fast as I could.”

A low throat-clear sounded from behind us—deep, deliberate.

I looked up.

Boots first. Scuffed leather planted wide in the gravel, toes dusted pale from the drive. Denim stretched over thighs that looked unfairly solid. My gaze dragged upward, slow and unwilling, taking in broad shoulders filling out a well-worn T-shirt, strong forearms browned by the sun.

His face was still hidden, tucked into shadow beneath the brim of a black baseball cap. The sun sat at my back, outlining him in light but giving me nothing where it mattered. Dark hair curled at the nape of his neck.

Even without seeing his eyes, he looked like he could chop wood, fix fences, and ruin lives before breakfast.

Junie twisted beside me, grinning wide.

“Ty, this is Dizzy!” she announced. “Dizzy, Ty.”

He shifted his weight, one hand hooking into his pocket. “Yeah, kid. I figured that out.”

The sound of his voice, low and rough, hit like a cold plunge, sharp and breath-stealing.

Recognition didn’t creep in.

It slammed.

I knew that voice.

I let Junie go and stood, brushing dust off my leggings with both hands before sticking one out toward him. “Daisy,” I said. “Violet’s sister.”

He looked down at my hand, the brim of his hat still shadowing his face. My pulse stumbled, hoping I hadn’t misread that night three years ago. Surely he remembered me, right?

I sure hadn’t forgotten him. I’d never looked at a cheeseburger the same.

Time ticked by slowly as I waited for him to move, but he stepped forward and put his hand in mine. Warm. Rough. Familiar in a way that made my stomach flip.

“Ty,” he said. A pause. “Or Huddy, I guess.”

As he lifted his head, the light finally caught him—caught the crooked curve of his mouth first. I looked up, excited to see the man I’d been hunting down for years. But the sight of his dark mustache made my brain stutter, skidding sideways into the past.

Three years ago, he’d only shaved it on a dare. Only because I told him I had a weakness for them—big, stupid Tom Selleck mustaches that had no business working on anyone.

And Huddy, incapable of losing even a silly game of Truth or Dare, had done it.

Of all the times I’d imagined finding him again someday, nothing, and I mean nothing, had prepared me for the fact that he still had it.

A flicker of amusement lit his eyes, quick and sharp.

That wasn’t a stranger introducing himself.

That was a man who remembered exactly where we’d met, what we’d said, and how it had felt.

A laugh slipped out before I could stop it—half nerves, half you have got to be kidding me.

“Ty Hudson.”