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Broderick continued, unhindered. “Generally speaking, when society frowns on an older man with a younger woman, it comes down to a handful of factors. We all jump to life experience, but the root of that issue is summarized with two concepts: power imbalance and developmental differences. With eight extra years under your belt, it is a reasonable expectation that you have more financial stability and social influence, which may or may not create that imbalance. I don’t think any of us are worried about a maturity gap as she’s already well established and successful on her own, was kind enough to uproot and come help Rhyett out after knowing him for a few months, and you’re, well,you.” He chuckled as he ducked my halfhearted attempt to smack him. “You’ve never been one to give a shit about societal stigma, and judging by her free-spirited nature, I doubt that would be an issue for the younger party either. The future is a little concerning, as the life expectancy for men is already so much shorter than that of women. Adding that to her being eight years younger—you’re planning for a decent portion of her life to be spent as a widow. Does she move on? Stay loyal? Can you financially prepare aggressively enough to sustain her lifestyle for the years or decades she has to continue after you die?”
Jesus, it was worse than even I thought. Had Rhyett heard this entire schpiel?
“Boo!” Elora heckled from the back row. Broderick turned in his seat, propping his left leg on his right so he could turn to face us both.
“I wasn’t done.”
“By all means, continue,” she demanded, clearly fishing for more favorable perspectives.
“He just proved my point,” I murmured, wishing she’d just fucking get here already so they could all stop talking about this.
“On the opposite side of thought, we’re not looking at twenty or thirty years here, we’re looking at eight. That’s a second or third-grader, not something world-shattering. Hell, from the outside—not that either of you would give a shit—you look like the same age demographic, and share a generation, so core memories of childhood will at least overlap. If we consider personal freedom, you’re both of age, so long as both parties were consenting, you have the right to make choices in pursuit of your personal happiness.”
Maverick yawned pointedly. “Come on, man, I need a double shot of espresso to get to this damn point.”
Unbothered, Broderick continued, rubbing a palm over his jaw. “With that in mind, we’re really talking about emotional compatibility and shared values and interests. This train of thought would argue that your intellectual, spiritual, and emotional resonance should hold more weight than something as superficial as age. She seems rather unapologetically herself, and you’ve never particularly cared about the expectations of others, so you’d be a perfect candidate to intentionally challenge social norms, which encourages society to reevaluate its biases—”
“Hell, man,” I muttered, leaning forward to set my head on the wheel. Nobody on the planet could run in philosophical circles as well as Broderick. The man had given himself stomach ulcers over his freaking dissertation because he couldn’t decide if he wanted to argue for or against doctor-assisted suicide. He’d eventually negotiated his professor into a cold sweat, and they agreed he could present both sides of the argument without bias.
“Can thisnever-ending loop of intellectual confusionconclude at some point? What’s the consensus, Captain Morality?” Elora asked, her tone playful. Broderick chuckled.
“In conclusion, under these specific circumstances, I see absolutely no qualms with Mr. Rhodes pursuing a relationship with Ms. McShane.” The three idiots in the back seat all burst into a ruckus of celebratory stupidity while I leveled Broderick with a glower. He chuckled, those warm, dark eyes sparkling with some sort of mischief or intent. “As yourbest friend, the consensus is you’re a fucking dumbass if you let a girl get under your skin like she does, and you don’t make a move. Age difference be damned. Life is way too short to not chase what sets our soul on fire. I certainly hope you’d tell me the same thing if I was being as bullheaded as you are.”
I was vaguely aware there was a disproportionate weight to his words, but my focus had drifted elsewhere. To the redhead walking up in my rearview, wearing a pink dress that fanned out at her subtle hips like an old fifties housewife. A classy black leather jacket wrapped around her shoulders. She had nude little heels on, a navy tie around her waist, and a matching band in her hair. When she knocked on Broderick’s window, I noticed delicate coordinating earrings hanging between dark red curls. And then she beamed in greeting, the sun ray of it striking me square in the chest.
Noel McShane was fucking adorable. And, Broderick-approved or not, I could never let myself ruin her.
ELEVEN
NOEL
My best friend got married. My best friend got married, and I did not turn into a blubbering puddle of a woman on the Mistyvale mountaintop meadow Rhyett drug our asses up to. Aside from making a snarky remark about the impracticality of heels on the back of a four-wheeler as Jameson held out a hand to steady my climb onto the damn thing, he’d been uncharacteristically quiet the entire time, save for his toast to Rhyett. When the family all offered stories, one-for-one with my memories of Brexley—did I mention it’s actually exhausting to compete with anentire familyfor memories?—Jameson leaned back in his chair at the restaurant, arms crossed and eyes suddenly fascinated with the denim straining over the muscles in his legs. He was unfairly gorgeous in his gunmetal button-up, black tie, and black peacoat. Broderick and Elora had debated a childhood memory with a passionate Axel over dessert, right until the happy couple hugged their goodbyes to head to the hotel in town.
“I’ll get her home,” Jameson insisted, waving them off. Theherin question was me, his offer making my throat thicken. “You lovebirds go enjoy yourselves.”
Milo, arms wrapped around his oldest son, eyes glistening with pride, said, “God, I’m just so grateful I got to be here for this. I didn’t know if I’d live long enough to see you happily walk down the aisle unless your mother arranged it.”
Under any other circumstance, with any other family, his sudden vulnerability would have felt like I was intruding on a private moment; but The Rhodes had absorbed me like family. Their patriarch’s intimate confession making me rock on my feet as I fought back a disproportionate level of emotion for the amount of time I’d known him, my chest constricting. I leaned into Brex’s free shoulder as she blinked back tears, worrying her lower lip.
“Jesus, Dad,” Rhyett—who looked like a magazine advertisement in his button-up and suit jacket over dark jeans—said with a laugh. “You act like you're dying.”
“Never know these days.”
“You’re the picture of health,” Rhyett argued.
“And freak accidents happen all the time.” His wife came up and wrapped her arms around Milo’s chest, resting her face on his shoulder. “My point is, I’m glad I got to see you marry the love of your life. You found your Juniper, son.”
My face ached as Milo patted his eldest boy on the cheek, and Rhyett’s jaw feathered as he nodded. But it was the glimmer in Jameson’s eyes that sent tears pouring down.
“Dammit, you guys. I almost made it.” I protested pressing my fingers into my eyeballs like I’d physically fight the tears back. A round of laughs punctuated the end of the perfect day. But as I glanced at my watch, anxiety sent my heart racing, because I had to be at work in seven hours and still had to dissolve the pound of cosmetics on my face, and was fairly certain this hairstyle would stay on like a helmet once I pulled the pins out, requiring at least an hour-long soak and condition.
When Broderick, Elora, Axel, and the twins headed out for drinks, Maverick half-heartedly drug himself into his parents’ car, grumbling about the great injustice of being the baby in the family. Jameson and I were suddenly standing alone in the parking lot, staring at the taillights of their black SUV.
“So—” I’d just opened my mouth to suggest we get headed out when his warm hands were on my shoulders, sliding his peacoat over my jacket and simultaneously robbing the oxygen from my lungs.
“Got chilly,” he said gruffly, jerking his head towards his truck with nothing more in the way of an explanation.
“Um, thank you,” I said, my voice attempting to drop an anchor in my throat. He didn’t answer, but I was fairly certain his cheek rounded with a smile he certainly wasn’t sharing with me. Why the hell did that warm my chest? Jameson wordlessly led me to his truck, opened the passenger door, and stepped back for me to climb in. As I set a kitten heel on the stepside, a broad hand extended to me, his other settling at the low of my back. If my heart had been racing before, it was a freaking full-steam-ahead locomotive when he touched me. I glanced back to find his eyes firmly locked on the ground below me as I accepted the offering, steadying myself as I climbed up into his gorgeous, lifted pickup.
