Chapter 29
Never Take Up a Life of Crime
Quinn
The screen door screams on its hinges as I walk into the house, and Pops eyes me from his recliner.
“What the hell happened to you?”
I glance down, spotting a Tripp-sized handprint high enough to be telling if Pops sees it, so I cross my arms over my chest, hoping he didn’t notice.
“Um, slipped and fell in the mud,” I mumble. “I’m gonna go shower. Do you need anything before I head up?”
“Yeah, you not to track muck all over my floors.”
I snort. “I’ll clean it up.”
Pops eyes me again, more suspicious. “What’s Tripp doing?”
“He’s finishing up the enclosure. I was starting to shiver, so he sent me inside.”
He grunts, scrutinizing me with his gaze.
I shift uncomfortably. He’s looking at me like he can see right through me and all my pretenses.
Damn my transparency.
This is why I was always such a good girl growing up. Secrets always show on my face. It always took Mom five seconds with me to parse out I was hiding something.
Avoiding Pops wasn’t an option, so I’d just have to learn to lie better.
I clear my throat. “I’ll be back down after I shower to make you lunch, alright?”
“Don’t rush. I’m not all that eager to be eating more of that woo-woo granola stuff.”
I roll my eyes. “Vegetables are good for you, Pops.”
“Yeah, yeah. Go clean up.”
I’m halfway to the stairs when he calls out from the recliner. “You sure you two were just puttin’ up the fence?”
My head whips toward him. “What else would we be doing?”
Pops shrugs, mustache twitching. “No idea, darlin’.”
Heat rushes up my neck. I spin on my heel and head upstairs before he can see the guilt written all over my face.
In the shower, I scrub mud from my hands, my stomach, my breasts—willing the guilt to go down the drain with it.
I nearly fall on my ass when I come down the stairs after my shower and hear Tripp talking to Pops.
My eyes narrow at him as he sits at the kitchen table, completely at ease like he belongs here with clothes still covered in mud. He cocks a brow at me, probably wondering why I’m glaring.
I shake my head and slip into the kitchen so I can make us some lunch.
“What’s on the menu, Quinnie?” he asks, like this is a normal Monday. Dimples popping, voice all smooth innocence.
“Fajitas,” I say, purposefully not mentioning they’re veggie fajitas.
“Sounds good,” Tripp replies. “Doesn’t it, Pops?”
“I’m sure she’ll find a way to make fajitas unappetizing too.”
“Oh, hush,” I chide, pulling the veggies from the fridge.
Tripp scrubs his hands at the sink, then steps up beside me, wrapping a hand around my waist to shift me over. His touch lingers, and a thrill shoots up my spine.
“I’ll help you chop,” he mutters.
The screen door creaks open, and Wes and Sawyer kick off their boots at the door.
I immediately hand my knife to Tripp and bolt to the other side of the kitchen, pretending to search for seasonings.
Tripp rolls his eyes at how obvious I am. I’m already sweating, and Wes hasn’t even said a word.
How does Tripp look so relaxed when he just had his hands all over me minutes ago? He’s so much better at this than I am.
I quietly line up the seasonings like they might shield me from the heat radiating off the man at the cutting board. The oil starts to sizzle while Tripp chops the vegetables like none of this is weird.
“The pen looks good,” Wes grunts as he plops into a chair.
“I’m sure Winston will love having some mud to wallow in,” Sawyer adds.
I smile at the thought. “I can’t wait to see what he thinks of it.”
“Bet that mud was a bitch to work in this morning,” Sawyer says.
“Looked like you two had a hell of a time,” Wes remarks, grabbing a drink from the fridge.
Tripp keeps chopping, but my spine goes rigid.
“Yeah, it was pretty messy, but we didn’t mind gettin’ a little dirty for Winston, right, Quinnie?”
I hear the smile in his voice and would like nothing more than to march over there and knee him in the balls.
He must sense it, because when I glance over, he tosses me a wink, and that damn dimpled smile—and I’m immediately a puddle.
“Right,” I mumble, gripping the spice jar a little harder than necessary.
Tripp steps over with the cutting board full of vegetables. The slices are a bit uneven, but I didn’t exactly expect a perfect julienne from him.
“Relax, Quinnie,” he mutters under his breath. “They’re gonna figure out something’s up if you keep acting like a nutcase.”
“I’m no good at this,” I say, dread pooling in my stomach.
“You’re perfect, honey. Just don’t act so guilty.”
I glance up at him, wide-eyed.
“But I am guilty.”
Tripp chuckles as I scrape the vegetables into the skillet.
“Never take up a life of crime. You’d be terrible at it.”
I can’t help the grin that breaks free. “I know.”
I cook the vegetables while everyone else sets the table and gets Pops settled to eat. I try to get my body to calm down while I stir in the seasonings.
Tripp’s right. I need to relax. There’s nothing to worry about right now. But if I don’t keep my guilty conscience in check, everyone is going to figure out something is going on between us. I force my body to relax, one muscle at a time.
When everything’s ready, I bring the skillet to the table and take a seat between Pops and Tripp. I put together a fajita and set it on Pops’ plate. He eyes it suspiciously.
“I think those tortillas are old or something.”
I give him a questioning look.
“They’re brown,” he grumbles.
I sigh. “They’re whole-grain tortillas. They’re healthier for you.”
Pops pokes at the food and mutters something unintelligible before taking a bite.
“Tastes like cardboard. Where’s the meat?“
Tripp chuckles beside me, and Wes rolls his eyes.
“Quit your bitchin’, old man,” Sawyer says. “You just had heart surgery. We’re making sure you don’t croak.”
Pops’ bushy eyebrows pull down, and he takes another tentative bite.
“It isn’t poison,” I mutter to him.
“The food’s great, Quinnie,” Tripp says, mouth full.
“Thanks,” I mumble.
He slides a hand to my thigh under the table and gives it a gentle squeeze. I tense under his touch.
How can he be so damn cavalier about touching me like this? Everyone is right here at the table.
I try not to squirm under his hand as I poke at my food—hyper-aware of the way his thumb is making slow, soothing circles over my inner thigh.
I finally manage a bite, though I barely taste it with Tripp’s hand still comfortably settled on my thigh. I try not to look at him, force myself not to react. I will a flush not to rise in my cheeks and pretend I can’t feel his thumb inching higher.
And then I feel it.
Eyes on me.
I glance up and meet Pops’ gaze across the table. He chews slowly, bushy gray eyebrows pulled together, like he’s puzzling something out in his head.
My stomach flips and I grip Tripp’s hand, forcing him to stop his slow trek up my thigh.
Pops looks between me and Tripp, then back at his plate.
“Hmph.”
I have no idea what that sound means. No clue why he was looking at us like that, but it puts me on edge.
“Relax,” Tripp murmurs under his breath as Sawyer and Wes start bickering about something.
Right. Think Zen thoughts. I’m cool as a cucumber.
I shove another bite of fajita in my mouth and pretend my heart isn’t about to beat out of my chest as we finish the meal.