Chapter 2
Bambi
Tripp
Excitement has been buzzing through me ever since I saw Quinn, making it nearly impossible to sit still as I hunt for a parking spot in front of the diner. The street’s packed, so I end up parking a block away.
She’s out of the truck before I can reach her door, and I roll my eyes. “Did you forget the rule when you’re riding with me?”
Her brows knit together.
“In my truck, you let me get the door.” I shift her onto the sidewalk, my hand on the small of her back so I’m between her and the road.
She gives me an amused look. “I didn’t realize that rule still applied.”
“Excuse you, that rule always applies.” I nudge her gently toward the diner, a teasing grin tugging at my mouth. “I’m a gentleman.”
I hurry ahead to open the door for her. She gives me a shy smile, tucking a curl behind her ear as she slips into the dim, crowded restaurant.
I still smell like sweat and dirt from a day’s work, but Quinn’s dressed in pink slacks that hug her curves, heels that have my blood heating with every step, and a white blouse that I’m trying really hard not to notice is sheer enough to tease the soft pink of her bra.
“Tripp, sweetheart, I’ll be with you in just a sec,” the owner says in a raspy voice from behind the cash register.
“No worries, Rita.”
A slap on my back has me turning to find Harold—Pops’ partner at cards—staring me down. “Tripp, didn’t expect to see you out tonight. How’s Vern doin’?”
“Surgery went well, but it will take some time for him to recover. Quinn came back to make sure he gets back on his feet ASAP.”
Harold’s gaze swings to the woman standing next to me, eyes widening and his lips splitting into a grin. “Quinn, I didn’t realize it was you standing there. It’s good to see you, sweetheart.”
She smiles up at the old man. “It’s nice to see you too, Harold. It’s been a while, but you’re looking well.”
“Well, my knees are actin’ up, but I can’t complain much. I’m not cooped up in a hospital bed, at least.”
She nods, combing her fingers through her hair. “Hopefully, Pops will get out soon. I just got to town, but I’ll feel better when I can check in on him myself.”
“And Tripp already has you out on a date?” He leans in and whispers loudly in my ear. “You work fast, boy.”
I chuckle and shake my head. People around here still remember me as the man I was in my twenties. They’d be shocked to know how long it’s been since I’ve been out on an actual date—let alone how long it’s been since I’ve had sex.
I’m in a self-imposed dry spell. I had my reasons, and once I find what I’m looking for, I’ll be all too happy to break it. But I promised my dad before he died I’d turn over a new leaf, and these days I’m trying to use my head more often—the one on my shoulders, that is.
“She hadn’t had supper yet, and I’m not much of a cook. I couldn’t leave her to fend for herself with whatever was in Pops’ fridge.”
“Course not. You’re a gentleman.”
Quinn’s huff of disbelieving laughter makes me narrow my eyes. I nudge her with my elbow. “Oh, hush, Quinnie. I’m much more of a gentleman these days.”
“If you say so,” she mutters.
“Sorry about the wait,” Rita says, rushing over, looking a bit harried. “Just the two of you?”
I nod and give Harold a quick wave as he exits. My hand brushes across Quinn’s lower back as Rita leads us to a small table. I pull out her chair and smirk.
“I stand corrected. You’re quite the gentleman these days.”
“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”
“Don’t waste your breath, Tripp,” she scoffs.
I stare into her skeptical baby-blue eyes and turn on my most charming smile. “I’m not the same boy you used to know. I might surprise you.”
“I doubt it.”
“I’m hurt,” I tease. “They don’t make ‘em like me in the city.”
She bursts out laughing and so do I.
“Ain’t that the truth,” she says.
Things have always been light and easy with Quinn.
She might be my best friend’s sister, and yeah, we might flirt, but I’d never cross that line.
By the time I was old enough to stop caring about the two-year age gap, Wes had already made it clear she was off-limits.
Having a little sister of my own, I understood.
So instead, Quinn and I built a friendship every bit as important to me as the one I had with Wes.
After we order, we catch up. She tells me about the clinic where she works as a vet in the city, about sharing an apartment with her best friend Marlowe and Marlowe’s wife, and about house-hunting for a place that ticks all the boxes on her list. I listen, soaking up every detail like I’ve been starving for it.
When it’s my turn, I realize I don’t have much to offer in return.
I still work on her family’s ranch. Her brother is my boss—and my best friend.
I’ve lived in the same house since I retired from the rodeo circuit when my dad got sick with ALS.
Not much about me has changed. I’m the same guy I’ve always been.
Mostly.
It makes me a bit uncomfortable to realize how little I’ve actually changed.
I might not be fucking women left and right anymore, but I’m still the goofy guy everyone loves to have at a party.
I work hard, play hard, and I still haven’t fulfilled my father’s dying wish—to find someone to settle down with and start a family.
Thirty-four might not seem old to the world, but in this dinky town, people have been paired off with their high school sweethearts for nearly two decades.
They got married. Bought houses. Had kids.
I feel over a decade behind, and folks like Mrs. Mackey are happy to remind me I’m “not getting any younger”.
Granted, a good portion of the people who got married so young are divorced, miserable, or both. So, maybe I’m doing okay.
Quinn’s long fingers drum on the table, her nails short and painted a subtle pink. I force myself not to imagine exactly what those fingers would look like wrapped around me, the shiny polish glinting. I don’t need to make it any harder for myself by putting images like that in my head.
She’s your best friend’s little sister, I remind myself. Thinking about her like that is definitely breaching bro code. Doesn’t matter how pretty I think she is (I do) or how long it’s been since I’ve had sex (five years, but who’s counting). I can’t think about her like that.
It’s a slippery slope.
One I’ve walked before—when I was much younger and much stupider.
If I think about her now, it’s just a matter of time before I’m jerking off to thoughts of her. And I know from experience, it’s nearly impossible to look your best friend in the eye after imagining his little sister naked.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asks, eyes wide and expectant.
I shake my head. I hadn’t realized I’d been staring at her this whole time. Even now, it’s impossible to look away. “Like what?”
Her lips tip up playfully. “Like you’re scared shitless.”
I huff out a laugh, leaning toward her. “Your beauty is terrifying, Quinnie.”
She blows air past her closed lips, thinking I’m joking.
But truly—sitting across from her, remembering all the nights we spent talking under the stars, seeing how she’s grown even more beautiful and remarkable over the past decade—it takes my breath away. And that absolutely terrifies me.
I manage to keep my thoughts on the straight and narrow for the rest of our time at the diner, and when it’s time to go, I pay for our meals, ignoring her protests.
As we walk the block back to the truck, I shift to the outside edge of the sidewalk without thinking. She doesn’t say anything, but I catch the flicker of a smile before she looks away.
It’s fully dark as I drive back to Dawson Ranch on the bumpy country road, the only light visible coming from my headlights.
I keep stealing glances at her shadowed profile out of the corner of my eye. I can’t help it. She looks beautiful, but exhausted.
I’m trying to think of something interesting to say to her when there’s a flash of movement to my left. I curse and slam on the brakes, but my reflexes aren’t fast enough for the deer that darts into the road.
Quinn screams as the deep thud of the deer bouncing off the hood of the truck reverberates in the cab.
“Shit,” I mumble. “Are you okay?”
She nods, a hand to her chest, then quickly unbuckles and jumps out.
“What are you doing, Quinn?” I ask, following suit.
She doesn’t answer, but as she sprints toward the young buck I’ve hit, I know exactly what Quinn Dawson is doing. She’s always had a bleeding heart for animals.
“Quinn,” I hiss out a whisper. “I don’t think that’s a great idea. He might not be dead.”
She looks at me like I’m an idiot and continues to squat beside the deer. “He’s still breathing.”
“Great,” I mutter. “Let’s get out of here.”
Her eyes shift to me, and the look of exasperation makes a smile pull at the corners of my mouth.
“I don’t suppose you have a stethoscope in your truck, do you?”
I roll my eyes. “Can’t say that I do.”
“Fine, then get down here and make yourself useful, would you?”
“Haven’t you seen Tommy Boy? Remember what the deer did to the car when it woke up?”
“I’m not asking you to put the deer in your truck.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. For a second, I was sure that’s where this was headed.
I watch her hands move over Bambi, checking his extremities and palpating his abdomen.
“His breathing’s steadier than it was at first. That’s a good sign,” she says, continuing her examination and pressing on different areas to check for internal bleeding.
I don’t like having her so close to an injured animal of this size—especially a wild one. They’re unpredictable, and Wes will kill me if she gets hurt on my watch. Fortunately, the buck’s antlers haven’t grown in for the year yet, so I won’t need to worry about her taking an antler to the eye.
My attention is drawn to her, so focused and determined, that I almost miss the shift in the air right before the buck jolts, trying to get upright. Luckily, I’m right next to Quinn. I grab her arm and drag her out of the way, pulling her to my chest before the confused animal is fully on its feet.
I’m not sure if it’s the suddenness of the animal’s movement or the warmth of Quinn’s body pressed against my chest, but my heart takes off at a frantic gallop. I walk us backward slowly as Bambi stares at us, dazed, before finally bolting in the direction it came.
Quinn’s body relaxes. “Oh, thank God, he’s okay.”
“Yeah, he almost trampled you. Wes would have killed me if I’d let you get hurt.”
“Oh, relax. I’m fine. He was just scared and in shock.”
I roll my gaze heavenward. Only Quinn would be so damn worried about a wild animal that threw itself in front of my truck.
“I see you didn’t learn anything from the time you tried to tame all the feral barn cats.”
Her lips tip into a sheepish smile. “They just needed some love, Tripp. You saw how well it worked on Tigger.”
I let out a low chuckle. And just like that, I’m seven years old again, standing in Pops’ barn, watching her try to coax a hissing, half-wild kitten out from behind a hay bale with a chicken nugget and a princess bandage on her knee.
Twenty-seven Years Ago
I tear into the barn and come to a halt when I see Quinn peering behind a hay bale.
“Here, kitty kitty.”
Her voice is high and sweet, like she’s crooning a lullaby to the feral kitten. The ranch is overrun with them this time every year. There are at least three mamas with litters around the barn and stable.
My boots scuff across the packed dirt, and Quinn glances my way, her face melting into relief.
“Will you help me get him out, Tripp? I think he’s stuck.”
I have half a mind to tell her not to get too attached because that kitten likely won’t be here when she comes back next year—but that would probably make her cry, and I need her to stay quiet.
I’m supposed to be hiding from Wes. He’s counting to a hundred, and he’d better not cheat.
“I’m kinda busy, Quinnie. Don’t tell Wes I’m in here, alright?” I say as I start to squeeze behind some large farming equipment.
Her face drops, and her big, round eyes go glassy with tears.
I’ve seen the same look on my little sister Allie’s face before, and I know what will come next if I don’t do what she wants—red, splotchy cheeks, crying, yelling, stomping.
I exhale a loud burst of air and roll my eyes so hard they might get stuck in the back of my head.
“Fine, but make it quick. Wes is gonna be lookin’ for me any second.”
“He’s too far back there. I can't reach him.”
I climb down on my hands and knees to peer behind the bale and sure enough, there’s a tiny orange kitten lodged between the hay bale and the wall. He’s puffed up with his teeth showing as he spits a pathetic hiss in my direction.
“You know if you left him there, he’d probably get out on his own just fine.”
She shakes her head furiously. “No, it looked like something was wrong with his leg, but he ran back there before I could catch him.”
I give her a blank stare. “Something’s wrong with his leg, and you still couldn’t catch him?”
She looks down at her shoes sheepishly. “Well, I had him, but he was real mad, and I dropped him when he scratched me.”
Great.
She seems to know I’m on the verge of telling her I don’t want to get my face eaten off by a feral barn cat, ‘cause she hits me with a sad look.
“Please? I have a towel to hold him, so he won’t scratch me this time,” she begs, holding up the pink beach towel.
Against my better judgment, I reach behind the bale of hay. I ignore the feeling of tiny teeth and claws digging into my skin and keep hold of the little fluff ball that’s hissing and spitting and making a big ruckus.
“Shhh. It’s okay, buddy,” I say through gritted teeth as I clutch the thing close even though my first instinct is to toss it back behind the hay bale where it can’t draw blood. Instead, I pass him to Quinn’s waiting hands.
Her face lights up as she looks at the spitting ball of fur with all the love of a five-year-old girl who is certain she can tame this hellcat with love and some chicken nuggets. “Hi, you sweet thing,” she coos, sounding like Grams.
The little kitten hisses again, hair sticking out all over. Ferocious.
“See, Tripp?” Quinn says.
It takes me a second to realize what she’s talking about, but then I spot its hind leg hanging at a weird angle.
Ouch! No wonder he’s so feisty.
“That doesn’t look right,” I agree.
“I’m gonna go show him to Grams. She’ll know what to do.”
And then Quinn is running with the kitten held out in front of her in the towel so he can’t reach her skin with those sharp claws.
“Found ya!” Wes says as he sprints into the barn.
I groan. “I was helpin’ Quinn. Count again.”
“No way. Don’t be a sore loser. It’s your turn to count.”
Girls. They always ruin everything.