Handcuffs and Handheld Vegetables #2
My heart twists at the look of utter delight on my son’s face when he replies, “Cowboys too? ’Cause that’s what I wanna be when I grow up. A cowboy, just like my dad.”
Lainey’s eyes flick to me. “We can play around with cowboys too.”
She’s good with kids. She’s also funny.
And that makes me want to trust her, which I know is a dumb fucking idea.
I should run. Right out the front door. I’ll skip Sunday supper until Lainey leaves. Six weeks isn’t that long, right?
I can do anything for six weeks.
Instead I’m stuck in place, legs like concrete as I try not to smile at the way she lights up Dean.
“Sure,” Dean replies. “I’ll draw with you.”
Someone laughs, and I glance into the dining room to see Billie, Beck, and Tate walking into the house.
“This sounds fun.” Billie is all smiles as she strides into the kitchen.
My sister really is lit up. Different. No trace of the weariness we’ve all seen in her over the past few months.
Turning back to Lainey, I put my hands on my hips. “You got some mouth on you.” And that smart mouth is turning me on, which is a problem.
“Colt.” Dad eyes me from his perch on the recliner in the family room that adjoins the kitchen.
“Dad, you’re not being very nice to Miss Lainey,” Dean says.
Lainey nods. “Thanks for sticking up for me, Dean. We don’t like bullies, do we?”
Inhale. Exhale. I don’t want to give Lainey the upper hand. I also don’t want my son to think I’m a bully. “I’m sorry if I came off that way,” I manage. “Bad joke.”
“Mimi, can I help you guys make dinner?” Dean peers at the pile of food on the counter. “Miss Lainey, you’re very good at making salads. Did you know I like salad?”
Tate laughs, turning on the sink to wash his hands. “Since when?”
“Since now.” Dean is beaming at Lainey again.
Lainey finishes peeling the cucumber. “We’d love to have your help. How about I slice this baby up, and then you can put it in the salad bowl? We need to wash some tomatoes too.”
“Okay!” Dean bounces on his toes. “You smell nice, Lainey.”
She laughs, a genuine, throaty sound. “So do you. What’s your secret? Soap?”
I’m suddenly aware of the way my blood moves through my body, pooling low in my belly.
“Yup,” Dean replies. “A good scrub goes a long way. Dad says everyone likes a man who smells good.”
Lainey laughs again. “He’s not wrong.”
Dear Lord, does my son have a crush on her already?
I mean, it does make sense. Lainey’s not just good with kids. She’s great—with my kid at least. She’s a fucking smokeshow in that dress and lipstick. And she does smell good. Really good. I can pick up on her perfume from here. It’s floral. Pretty.
Not too much, not too little. Perfect, in other words.
I’m gripped by curiosity. I wanna see what’s behind that perfect, put-together mask. Because it is a mask, one she let slip in my truck the day we met. I wanna smear that lipstick and see who she really is.
What else is this girl hiding?
Part of me is intrigued by Lainey’s anger. I know why I’m angry. But her anger? That’s a mystery to me.
You need to get a fucking life.
“Dad, you want some bourbon?” I open the cabinet above the fridge and pull out the good stuff: Pappy Van Winkle.
Bourbon is Dad’s one indulgence. This stuff sells for hundreds of dollars a bottle. Worth every penny, in my humble opinion.
“I’d love some, thanks.”
“Me too,” Tate adds.
“Me three,” Billie says with a grin.
“Lainey, would you like some?” Mom asks. “I’m not one for liquor, but you’re welcome to it.”
Please say you only drink stupid shit. Vodka with Snapple or cranberry or whatever.
Please, God, be uncool in this one thing.
“Do y’all always drink the world’s best bourbon on Sundays?” Lainey glances at the bottle in my hand. “I’ve heard of Pappy, but I’ve never had the pleasure of actually drinking it.”
Dad nods. “Try it now. You’ll be glad you did.”
Grabbing some glasses from a nearby cabinet, I set them on the counter and uncork the bottle. “You ain’t gonna waste it, right, Dallas? Because a single pour is pretty much liquid gold. Just as expensive.”
“I have more respect for expert craftsmanship than that,” Lainey shoots back as she helps Dean spread slices of cucumber over the pile of lettuce in the enormous salad bowl that’s made an appearance at Sunday supper for as long as I can remember. “I’d love some, thank you.”
My grip on the bottle tightens. I grab another glass and pour her the barest finger of liquor, praying all the while she makes a fool of herself by spitting it out, unable to stand the taste.
She’s at the sink now with Dean. Together they’re washing tomatoes. She dips them under the faucet, and he dries them with a clean towel Mom hands him.
Because Lainey is our guest and because my parents care about shit like that, she’s the first one I give a glass to.
Shutting off the faucet, she asks Dean to set the tomatoes on the cutting board by the stove. Then she takes the glass from me and looks me square in the eye.
The green in hers is white-hot and burns right through me.
Ah, there she is. The girl behind the perfect mask. The angry one.
The real one. Why am I so goddamn intrigued by that part of her?
I know why. Doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that Abby lied and cheated toward the end of our relationship, so of course I’m attracted to honesty.
To authenticity.
Still, I’m taken off guard by how fierce my hunger is.
Lainey taps the rim of her glass against mine. “Cheers, Colton.”
Her tone, though? Cheers, dickhead.
Speaking of dicks, mine perks right the fuck up as I watch her bring the glass to her lips and take a sip. Pulse hammering,
Her gaze holds mine as her throat works on a swallow. Not so much as a sputter, a flicker of discomfort. Instead, she offers me a mellow smile.
Relaxed. Happy.
Something grips my windpipe and squeezes.
“Delicious.” She licks her lips. “Thank you, Colton.”
I must black out, because the next thing I know, she’s making her way back to the counter.
She’s explaining to Dean how her kind of branding is different from the kind we do here on the ranch while taking another sip of bourbon.
She’s showing him how to cut the tomatoes, and together they add them to the salad bowl along with a good bit of salt and pepper.
Then Lainey is pulling up a pair of stools to the island, and together they’re poring over her notebook.
Dean is glowing. He loves the one-on-one attention. He also loves to lend a helping hand. Maybe I’m doing something right with him after all.
Or maybe he just has a raging crush on Lainey Brown after knowing her all of ten minutes.
I’m knocking my bourbon back—all two fingers of it—in a single gulp. Tate, the youngest out of all us Wallace kids, gives me a look.
“You all right there, killer?”
A muscle in my jaw twitches as the fiery burn of liquor works its way down my throat. “She’s gotta go.”
“Okay.” He draws out the word as he looks between us. “You know, at first I didn’t get why she bothered you so much. But now…”
“What?” I snap.
He chuckles, keeps his voice low when he says, “Now I think Beck was right.”
I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about, so I move across the kitchen and pour myself more Pappy. Gotta keep my hands—my thoughts—occupied somehow.
By the time we sit down to supper, I’m two drinks deep. But the bourbon does jack shit to ease the simmering sensation inside my skin.
The smell of Mom’s cider-braised pot roast, served with a heaping scoop of her cheesy grits, a side of carrots roasted with maple syrup, and a salad made with local greens would usually have my stomach grumbling.
This was one of my favorite dinners as a kid. As the cook in my house now, I always appreciate it when someone else makes me a meal.
But tonight, I’m not hungry. I am, however, thirsty.
For something other than liquor, if I’m being honest. But I’m not being honest right now, so I tell myself I just want another drink.
If only I didn’t have to drive Dean home and go through the whole rigamarole of our bedtime routine, then I’d indulge in more Pappy.
I gotta be responsible, though.
So I gulp water and hope like hell supper doesn’t last forever.