Page 51 of Wolf It Down, Knot Me Up

Ethan bangs back in and drops into the last seat, grabbing a beer too. “Right. So, are we finally toasting your good news of not going back to prison?”

“Of Lucy choosing us,” Wolf adds with a smirk.

“Fresh starts,” I say, lifting the drink, glancing at each of them, still struggling to believe this is happening.

“To fresh starts,” they all answer loudly, glasses and bottles clinking over the feast.

“And to Grandma coming home soon,” I add. Then we tear into the food, and I notice that my plate keeps filling itself, Roman dropping ribs onto it, Grayson sliding the potatoes back my way every time I make a dent, as though feeding me is just normal to them.

“I really like watching you eat, Lucy,” Wolf says, chin on his fist, staring at me demolishing a rib with zero grace.

“Oh, she eats,” Ethan adds. “I’ve also seen her wear it.”

“Ethan!”

“Sixteenth birthday.” He’s already turning to the guys, delighted, while I groan. “She’d been baking for years and decided she was going to make us all a cake with her own recipe. But a healthy version with applesauce instead of sugar.”

I just shake my head and laugh at myself.

“So, once baked, we cut into this thing, and the middle just erupts across the whole counter, liquid cake all over the place.” He’s cracking up laughing, the others joining him.

“I added too much sauce, I think,” I defend myself out loud.

“To be fair,” Ethan continues. “The edges of the cake were incredible, though.” He points his beer at me, suddenly earnest. “I ate half of the cooked outer ring. Genuinely one of the better cakes of my life, structurally unsound as it was.”

“I’ve improved since,” I tell them, chin high. They’re all eating, laughing, clearly not believing me.

Ethan pushes himself up. “Let me make sure the husbands haven’t set the drapes on fire.” He strides out the door.

“Well, if we’re telling tales, there was once this raccoon,” Wolf begins as Grayson reaches out to shove him, but Wolf’s tossing a piece of bread at him. Hits him square in the forehead, then bounces onto the table. “Stay back. Lucy needs to hear this story.” Then he’s got his gaze on me as Roman chuckles. “So this raccoon was out in front of our place, and it was five in the morning. Grayson headed outside to grab his boots. Seconds later, he was running around the side of the cabin, swinging an axe, screaming about a bear, and went up the woodpile to escape it. Knocked the whole stack down.”

“You’re overexaggerating as always,” Grayson groans. “It was dark, and it was the size of a dog. Plus, if any of you had seen its demon eyes, you’d have swung too. And I assumed it was a damn bear.”

“Nope,” Roman says, wiping his mouth. “It happened exactly as Wolf said. We laughed for an hour afterward.”

“Say one more word, and I’ll tell her about you and the generator,” Grayson warns jokingly, and now I’m desperate to hear that story.

Wolf’s eyes narrow, Roman nearly spits his drink, and I haven’t even heard the punch line yet, but I’m already laughing with them.

The conversation tumbles around the table, one story becoming another, insults flying. All while we devour the food. I find myself smiling so hard my cheeks ache, because I’d forgotten people could belong to each other like this.

The thought that I want this too steals my breath. More than that… I think it might actually be mine.

Hope is terrifying. One reckless part of me wants to grab hold of it with both hands, while another whispers not to get too comfortable. The last time I believed I’d found forever, it was ripped away from me, and I can’t go through that heartbreak again.

Then Ethan returns to the room, balancing a deep-dish pie, plates, and a tub of ice cream, and just like that, the chatter turns into appreciative groans. Everyone’s eyeing the dessert.

He sets it down in the middle of us as Grayson collects the empty dishes, stacking them to one side of the table.

“Oh, and here I thought I was full,” Roman states. “I need that pie.”

Everyone’s got their plates ready, and Ethan’s chuckling as he cuts pieces, the aroma of baked apples with cinnamon and sugary pastry almost impossible to ignore. We’re passing the tub of vanilla ice cream around, scooping it onto our pie.

“Okay,” I say. “That’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. No offense to any of you.”

“Offense taken,” Grayson says with a grin, cutting into his slice.

The pie is incredible, and I release the smallest, happy moan.