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“You said you’re ten, right? When I was ten, I was practically living on my own. Not really. My parents just gave me a lot of responsibility and freedom at a young age. Are you allowed to cross the street by yourself?”
She looks up to the ceiling, as if she’s puzzled by the question. “I think so. I mean, I don’t really have to cross streets. My parents just drop me off at places, and I get out of the car.”
“Man, how times have changed. If things work out between us, we’ll be working on you having some responsibility, starting with learning how to use an oven. Where’s your dad anyway?”
“He’s probably out in the shed, getting his equipment for the day.”
As Molly and I put away the supplies, Jesse comes into the kitchen. He’s wearing black jogger pants, and his hair is sticking up like an upside-down head of romaine lettuce, which I think is the style.
“Hey,” he grumbles as he saunters in with his head down and his shirt half over his head. When he sees me standing here, he does a double take. “Who are you?”
I smile. “Don’t be coy, kiddo. We’re old friends. Here, I brought you something.” I reach into the bag of groceries and hand the moody teenager a six-pack of nonalcoholic beer. “Thought you might be thirsty.”
He rolls his head back and groans. “Oh, fuck. It’s you.”
“Jesse!” Molly admonishes him.
“I can say whatever the hell I want when Dad’s not around,” he hisses back to his sister and then looks at the six-pack that I’m still holding up with a bright grin on my face. “Why are you smiling like that?”
“Just offering you some fucking beer.”
His brows scrunch as he looks at me like I have seventeen heads.
“I thought you two weren’t allowed to swear. If cursing is cool, then I want to be the one to curse the most,” I explain. “Are you going to take the fucking beer out of my fucking hands, or would you like me to throw it into your fucking lap and wait for you to say thank you?”
Jesse hesitantly takes the beer from me. “Thanks.”
I pat him on the cheek. “You’re very welcome.”
The back door opens and closes, and Rob comes walking in.
When I said this ranch had no hunky cowboys, I was wrong.
Faded denim jeans and a crisp white T-shirt that molds his chest, outlining the definition of his rippled torso. I must lift my eyes up from the fine definition of the man before I drool all over the kitchen floor.
Okay, Rob’s no cowboy, but he certainly has the workingman thing down, including extra scruff, as if his hands have been so busy building that they don’t have time to put a blade to his chiseled face. A face, bronzed from working in the sun, bearing those chestnut eyes. Eyes that clearly don’t know they sit on the perfectly fine specimen of a man that is Rob Bronson. If they knew, they wouldn’t be looking at me with a hard scowl and appearing so utterly annoyed.
“Why is my son holding beer?”
“It’s safe. A little joke between us. Right, Jesse?” I smile.
“Sixteen-year-olds shouldn’t be drinking alcohol of any kind.” Rob steps toward me with a direct stare.
I turn my back to him and open the refrigerator. “Please. Like you didn’t try to sip a brew or two when you were a teen.” My hand runs over the fruit crisper drawer as I explore its contents. Rob keeps a tidy refrigerator with a ton of fresh produce. “Jesse just needs adults like us to keep him in check.”
Rob takes the beer from Jesse and walks up to me at the refrigerator. “This isn’t a joke. It’s only seven in the morning, and I already don’t see this going well.”
I take out an apple from the drawer and bite into it. “Exactly. It’s already seven. Go to work and let me do my thing.”
“What exactly is your thing?”
I swallow. “Being spectacular at life.”
Rob crosses his arms and glares down at me. “Ground rules.”
“What kind?”
“No swearing.”
