I’d been wrong about Griffin’s surprise for Wren. He hadn’t hired deep cleaners—he’d hired a professional designer to make their new house beautiful for when they got back.
A knot of hot embarrassment balls in my chest, followed by an unnecessary bloom of pride. Ava did it. She’d wanted to become a designer, and she did it. Makes me wonder if cutting ties really had been best for her since she wouldn’t have been here if we’d stayed together. I hate the thought, but, unbidden, it’s there.
The job is perfect for her. She was always sketching, always trying to make simple things stunning.
I wish I hadn’t been so hasty and added drama to her job, though. With a shake to my head, I toss the rest of my bland cereal in the sink and make plans to drift into mindless nothingness through music or maybe TV. I don’t need to be embarrassed or ashamed. I’d hope my teammates would look out for my property the same way. Hard to tell from the outside if it’s an innocent designer or a thief.
I keep telling myself that, but it doesn’t do much to ease the tension under my ribs.
My phone dings on the counter. Heat floods my face as I read Griffin’s text to the group with Parker, Dax, and me.
Griffin:Hey, so I’m coming to you from my HONEYMOON, but did anyone send the cops to my house and get my Birdie’s post-honeymoon surprise arrested? Not cool guys. Not cool.
They’re never going to let me live this down.
* * *
“Hey, pal.” My dad winks at me and holds up an iced coffee before setting it on my kitchen counter. Josh met me when I was three, but he’s my dad in every way that matters. On the outside we’re different. He’s former military, a rancher, and the life of the party. But we’ve always gotten along; he’s never tried to make me someone I’m not.
“You’re ten minutes early.” I sip the coffee and reach for my shoes by the door. “Almost like you love running.”
“I’ve got to throw you off at least once a week.” He grips my shoulder and squeezes tightly, chuckling. “And I do enjoy running, but only with you. Any other time and I’ll be cussing so much your mom will divorce me.”
I grin. My mom is the epitome of kid-cussing. A lot of darnnits, goodness sakes, and the favorite—criminy—were the elect words. My dad is the opposite. He was a marine, but his mouth is the stereotype of a sailor.
My parents are oil and water, but they’ve been fascinating to watch create one of the best relationships I’ve ever seen. Dad has always been simple and straightforward. I’m not sure if he always was or became so for my benefit; a man who taught me to never accept obstacles as the end-all. He’s the one who told me to make what others thought of as quirks or weaknesses into strengths.
“Want to push it today?” he asks as we stretch. “We can take the hillside route.”
I like routine, but nod anyway.
The pressure of exercise in my lungs, the determination to reach a goal, the stimulation of burning my muscles, became a way to soothe anxiety and stress. Living on a ranch added to it. Chores like lifting hay bales, fixing heavy beams on fences, and digging too many trenches to count became a happy place.
The baseball season is my passion, but the off-season is always a respite I forget I need until it’s here.
We don’t say much while we run. We’re silently competitive, always pushing each other to reach a new goal, a new milestone. By the time the route loops us back to my house, we’re both gasping, drenched in sweat, and red in the face.
“Kid,” my dad leans over his knees, his dark hair plastered to his forehead. “I lied.”
“About . . . about what?” I lace my fingers behind my head.
“You don’t keep me young. You kill me. What was that, Ryder?” He chuckles but leans back against the side of my house, eyes closed.
I scoff and lead the way into my house. Dad collapses onto one of my barstools. He gives me a nod when I hand him a chilled water bottle.
“Something on your mind, pal?”
A furrow gathers between my brows. “How do you do that?”
“What?”
“Get a sense of something from a run.”
“You’re my kid.” He uses the back of his hand to smack me in the gut as I come around to sit beside him. “It’s a gut feeling. You get them too.”
Sometimes I have knee-jerk reactions, I guess. Like when Skye was bullied by her ex over her brain injury, I jumped to her defense without overthinking. When Griffin had a confrontation with Wren’s former stepbrother, I had fists clenched, ready to throw a punch if he needed it.
I’m overprotective, but I don’t know if I could recognize if my dad were upset by the way he ran up a hill.
