Page 108 of Pumpkin Spice Promises

Meme set the bowl on the table. “Carson looked just like her when she was little.”

I glanced at the photograph again. “Still does.”

“Some.” Her voice softened. “Thankfully, she got James’s stubbornness.”

From outside came the sound of something being dropped, followed by Carson swearing.

Meme smiled. “And his mouth.”

The back door opened. Carson stepped inside carrying a stack of mail beneath one arm. Her cheeks were flushed from the heat, and strands of blonde hair had escaped her ponytail and stuck near her temples. She stopped when she saw us.

“Why are you inside?”

Jax stared at her and then the food like it was obvious why we were inside. He pointed at the table. “Food.”

“I can see that.” Carson cocked a hip.

“You promised lunch.”

“I didn’t realize you’d abandon the fence the second you smelled chicken.” Carson looked toward Meme. “You made fried chicken?”

“And potatoes.” Meme grinned, her wrinkles more prominent with the tilt in her lips.

Jax pointed at me. “I’m staying.”

“You’re not.”

Meme swatted his arm with a dish towel as she passed. “He can if he wants.”

“Don’t encourage him.”

Carson dropped the mail onto the counter and went directly to the sink. I watched her scrub her hands. There was dirt beneath her nails. A faint streak across her jaw.

She looked exhausted.

Not the kind of tiredness that came from a bad night of sleep. The kind that had settled into a person so gradually they probably stopped noticing it.

When she finished washing her hands, she filled Meme’s glass with sweet tea before her own and took the chair beside the window, leaving the one at the head of the table empty.

James’s chair.

Nobody mentioned it, even though it was painfully obvious. I took the seat across from Carson. Jax sat beside me. Meme lowered herself into the chair nearest Carson and immediately started passing food as if she thought we’d been starved for several weeks.

Jax’s eyes widened when the mashed potatoes reached him. “These are homemade.”

Meme looked offended. “What other kind is there?”

“The kind my brother makes from a box.”

I kicked Jax beneath the table.

Carson looked at me. “You make boxed mashed potatoes?”

“I don’t make mashed potatoes.”

“Then why is he accusing you?”

“Because he’s an asshole.”