Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Jasper
Shit, he was here.
My invitation to Hank this afternoon had been impulsive, but once it was out in the world, I really wanted him to say yes.
Something about him called to me. He reminded me of my oldest brother, though definitely not in a brotherly way.
There was likely a less weird way to phrase that, but it wasn’t popping into my mind.
Anyway, it didn’t matter now because he was on my front porch, waiting for me to let him in.
“Hey, you made it,” I said, pushing open the wooden screen door.
I’d thought about replacing it, but it was vintage and fit perfectly with the house.
The limestone exterior was pure Hill Country German farmhouse, with a full-length porch in front and a screened porch off the second-floor bedrooms. Out back, a wide walkway connected the house to a few outbuildings—wide enough for rocking chairs, which I planned to put out once they made it to the top of my to-do list.
I’d originally wanted to paint the wooden porch columns to match the name of my B&B—The Lavender Porch—but in the end, I decided to let the plants and furniture have color instead.
Before I could spiral into a full decorating daydream, I forced my attention back to the sexy cowboy standing right in front of me.
“Yeah,” Hank said, holding up a six-pack. “Didn’t want to come empty-handed. Cider House. It’s brewed here in town. Good stuff.”
He stepped into the foyer, close enough for me to catch a whiff of clean soap and something citrusy. I forgot to move.
“Oh yay! I don’t have much more than water and Kool-Aid packets.” Jasper. Shut up.
Hank smiled a little, which helped the awkwardness. I wasn’t ashamed of being a little, but outing myself via beverage choices wasn’t the plan either.
“Come on in,” I said quickly. “The back part of the property is where I’ve moved in—it’s a lot less messy than this front half.”
“It’s not that bad,” Hank said, glancing around. “But I don’t remember Sissy’s place being quite so chaotic.”
“Yeah, well, mostly it’s because I’m taking the home out of it.
” I waved vaguely at the foyer. “This is gonna be the reception area. The living room will have some seating. Still figuring out the dining room. The kitchen’s already commercial-grade—turns out Sissy might’ve been closer to opening this place than we thought. ”
“Yeah, maybe.”
My eyes slid down to his bare legs—he wore board shorts covered in catfish and beat-up boat shoes.
“No jeans tonight?” I asked.
He hadn’t shaved either. The scruff looked too good, and the temptation to reach out and feel it was way too real. I shoved my hands in my pockets.
“Nah. Too damn hot. I’m off cowboy duty tonight.”
Then he smiled again, and I swear the earth tilted beneath me. I had a weakness for gravelly voices, pretty eyes, and really good smiles. Hank Vogel had all three. His teeth were white, his skin golden-tan, and a hidden dimple popped in his cheek when he grinned.
Love at second sight. Or lust. It was one of the two.
“I’m not entirely sure what the original purpose was,” I said, trying to stay cool, “but there’s an outbuilding in the back that was set up as an apartment, and that’s where I’ve moved in.”
“I’m following you,” he said.
I bit back about five dirty comebacks and led him past the main rooms, through the kitchen, and out the back door. A small courtyard separated the house from my new space. A white picket-fence gate marked Private swayed slightly in the breeze.
“My brothers said I should’ve focused on the main house first,” I said, “but I’d never get anything done that way.”
“Why’s that?” Hank sounded genuinely curious.
“Because I know me. My immediate space needs to be functional, or I can’t make anything else work. One zone at a time, finish it, and move on.”
We stepped onto the porch. A bistro table and chairs sat off to the side. Across from them was a hanging swing with faded rainbow pillows and a few large planters full of rosemary, verbena, and lantana.
“It looks good out here,” Hank said. “I think this might’ve been part of the original homestead, back when it was still a working ranch.”
The admiration in his voice made my chest puff up a little.
“Yeah. They modernized the inside but kept a lot of the original features—like the outside staircase to the upstairs. No idea why, maybe as a fire escape?”
“Or so you didn’t wake the kids coming in late,” Hank offered.
“Or to sneak around an angry husband,” I said with a grin.
When Hank chuckled, it felt like I’d won something important. Guys liked guys who made them laugh, so I needed more of that energy. He might not be into dating me, but I was a fun friend, and I’d left all those behind in Washington.
We stepped inside, and Hank gave a low whistle. He did a slow turn and took in the open-plan living, dining, and kitchen area.
“Three days? How the hell did you do this in three days if you just moved in?” The living room furniture was older, but the quilts I’d found in the cupboards helped disguise its age.
The dark-oak pedestal table was scrubbed, polished, and shiny.
The kitchen was bright and sunny with a few herb pots I’d brought with me on the trip.
I’d snagged some zinnias from the front yard, and they sat in the middle of the table in their cheerful glory.
“Lots of elbow grease, a dream, and a third cousin twice removed who had a love of collecting great stuff but never used it.” Hank was still slow spinning around when he stopped and homed in on my cozy corner. “And how do you know I’ve been here three days?”
“You think I don’t know what’s going on right next door?” Hank scoffed.
Oh shit.
Oh shit.
Oh shit.
Tucked away was a kid-sized table from the barn, a couple of floor pillows I found in the main house, and a six-hole Mexican sugar mold that held my crayons and colored pencils. One of the matching chairs had a few stuffies perched on it, like they’d been posed deliberately.
All of that could be explained or ignored.
But the sippy cup? That was a solid nope.
Without a toddler in sight, there was truly only one explanation that made any sense.
I’d been so busy prepping for dinner that I’d set it down and then promptly forgotten about it.
The sippy cup was a flower-and-bumblebee admission about my free time.
Beverage choices really have done me in.
“Yeah,” I said, my voice a little too tight and cracking more than I wanted. “I’m a little. Do you know what that is?”
Hank’s lips twitched. “I’ve got Grindr and Pornhub with a VPN like everyone else.”
“Pardon?” I blinked. And then did it several more times. “Pornhub, sure. Grindr is a specific subset, my guy.”
“Yeah, that’s true.”
I held my breath longer than expected because Hank glanced down at me with a raised eyebrow. I was almost scared to ask, but I did it anyway. “Are you gay?”
“Bi.”
“Well damn, Daddy.”
“So, what are we having?” Hank asked when we returned to the kitchen.
After the Sippy Cup Incident, I half expected him to bolt. What he did instead was much more shocking—he retrieved the cup and brought it to me.
“You’ll be looking for this later,” he said. No muss, no fuss.
The last time I’d been accidentally outed as a little, the response had…
slightly different. Gage had gone snooping through my room for god knows what and found my paci and training pants.
Instead of asking, he took a picture and posted it in the brothers’ group chat—along with an announcement that I’d gotten someone pregnant.
Unfortunately, spontaneous combustion wasn’t real, so I survived the embarrassment of explaining what it really meant. But because that wasn’t humiliating enough, Vaughn called an emergency in-person meeting to discuss boundaries. It included a full infomercial about what being a little entailed.
There was a PowerPoint.
But back in the here and now, Hank seemed unfazed. If he wanted to move on, then so did I. No combustion required.
“Fingers crossed you like it,” I said. “We’re having my version of spanakopita, cucumber and tomato salad in vinaigrette, and pan-fried chicken marinated in Greek yogurt. For dessert, honeyed berries with mint from Sissy’s planters over lemon pound cake.”
Considering I hadn’t planned anything before this afternoon, I was proud of myself for pulling it off.
“You made all that today?” Hank sounded impressed, like he meant it.
“I already had the groceries on hand—it was just my dinner. I made extra.”
“When I asked about dinner earlier, I lied a little.”
“Oh yeah? Tell me.”
“My plan was to heat up a frozen pizza. I hate cooking.”
“Ooh no! Fibbing isn’t cool, Daddy.”
Hank chuckled at the nickname but didn’t correct me. That swooning couch would have to be a permanent fixture in my house.
“Is cooking what you did before you moved down here?”
“That was one of my jobs,” I said with a self-deprecating laugh. “Getting a job is the easy part—it’s the staying that’s the problem.”
“Oh yeah? What other jobs have you had?”
Hank leaned against the counter as we chatted. I finished assembling dinner while he asked, “Where are the dishes for the table?”
I pointed, and he got to work.
“Okay,” he said. “Now lay it on me.”
“Let’s see…” I ticked off on my fingers.
“I’ve been a dog walker, balloon artist, gallery assistant to the assistant to the receptionist, taffy maker, and process server—but my brother made me quit that one after someone got nasty when I served them divorce papers—birthday clown, bill collector—fired for offering people suggestions on how to get out of it—and most recently, a barista. ”
Hank stopped mid-table setting to stare at me.
“What?”
“I can’t even imagine. I’ve had exactly one job my entire life.”
“Yeah, well, not all of us know what we want to do before exiting the womb.”