Chapter 7
Nash
Home-cooked meals together at the dinner table weren’t something we did in my house growing up.
I’ve never held it against my parents. They were busy with the roughstock, and my sisters, Magnolia and Savannah, wanted nothing to do with ranch life.
They spent more time at friends’ houses than they did at home, and my parents never said a word.
Neither did I. All their pop music and hordes of makeup drove me crazy.
They became the exact type of women I have always stayed away from, preoccupied with their looks and more obsessed with being Pilates-thin than enjoying a good steak straight from the farm.
Yet, despite my sisters being shallow, they were brilliant.
Still, I keep as close to them as they allow.
They both left for New York City when they went to college.
Obsessed with city life and not smelling like horseshit, they never looked back.
I went to visit them once and swore I was never going back to that godforsaken city again.
They found their place, and the ranch has always been mine.
I’ll never understand how they settled into that life when they grew up in near-silence. There’s nothing but noise, cars, and lights. You don’t see any stars out there. There’s never any quiet. My sisters may have complained about the smell out here, but that city stank like sewage.
Since they were two and three years older than me, I was alone once they left.
I got used to eating at the table by myself.
Mom always had the food prepared, but it seemed she and Pop always ate at different times.
Not to mention, I was involved in sports year-round. It was my ticket out of here, too.
Then, in senior year, I took Beckett under my wing.
I could tell from the moment he stepped foot on the football field that he had talent.
He just needed refining, like anyone. So as captain, I did what anyone would do and privately coached him.
It developed into a genuine friendship, which often led to sleepovers at the Hughes home and Sunday night dinners.
I hadn’t realized how much I missed them until I left for college.
I’d sit in the dining hall on Sunday nights, usually with friends, but I’d pretend it was the Hughes family there with me.
When I met Katherine, she thought it was the most endearing thing, so she made a point of having dinner with me as much as our schedules allowed.
It became the glue of our friendship before it developed into something more.
Still, the moment I crossed the Cole County line to come home, this house was the first place I stopped. Then Beckett graduated, and he too left for college. Though he didn’t go far, I felt like an intruder continuing to show up for Sunday night dinners when he wasn’t there anymore.
Now and then, I would if Mr. Hughes ran into me in town or Mama Hughes called me out of the blue, knowing it was a rodeo weekend. She knew my parents had always planned for me to take over the distribution business once my father retired. Until that day, I was free to do whatever I wanted.
There were countless times Mama Hughes and Katherine asked me how I felt about it. I never had an answer. I felt nothing at all. It was the plan. The expectation. What was there to feel? All I knew was it would bring me back here eventually, but until then, Montana became home.
And now I’m sitting here in the Hughes dining room, with Betty laughing loudly beside me, questioning whether anywhere but here could be home.
My gaze once again tracks down to the expanse of her thigh, exposed in that sundress with its delicate lace trim, which reminds me of lingerie.
Each time she jerks forward, cupping her hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter, it hikes just a fraction higher.
She’d been so shocked when I said the flowers were for her, as if I’d made up the lie on the spot.
It was the truth. I knew she’d be here, so I brought her flowers.
I wasn’t sure they were her favorites, but I remembered the times when I’d be here and she would be out in the garden, picking flowers of every color.
They’d always end up on her dresser in her bedroom afterward, artistically blended as if she were creating her own rainbow.
When I first thought of the memory, I felt like such a dirty old man. I’d told myself I never looked at Betty as anything more than Beckett’s little sister until she professed her “deep-seated love,” but for a moment I questioned myself.
Had I looked at her as a teenager or seen her as anything more than a kid?
It wasn’t until I realized I remembered everything about this place that my heart slowed and I could breathe again. I wasn’t some gross pervert; I was simply reliving some of my happiest moments, which took place in this house.
I remembered it all after spending years within these walls.
The rotation of hand rags Mama Hughes showcases, matching every season and holiday, each more cheesy than the last. The way Mr. Hughes always organized the remotes for the TV and his stereo system on the living room coffee table.
Even the way Beckett alphabetized every award that hung on his wall.
The third step at the front of the house has always sat at a slight angle.
These countless details will live with me forever.
A grin tugs at the corner of my mouth, wondering if there’s still a gouge in the wall in the mudroom that doubles as their laundry room.
Beckett and I raced here after practice in our football gear when Mama Hughes told us she was cooking fried chicken for dinner.
It was raining, but we bolted off the field, hopped in my truck in our gear, and booked it here.
We were filthy, and she made us come through the mudroom, but Beckett almost fell over removing his shoulder pads and dented the wall.
For months, he left a fleece hanging there, hoping his dad wouldn’t notice, only for the guy to tell him he knew it was there the entire time.
I have just as many memories here as I do at my home.
“Do you remember that, Nash?” Beckett laughs.
The sound of my name pulls me out of my trip down Nostalgia Lane. “Sorry, food coma kicking in.” I pat my stomach for good measure, as Mama Hughes tsks at me.
“Nonsense. You’ll have another plate. I’m sure those washboard abs can handle it.
” Her wink makes Beckett groan, but I only chuckle, attempting not to blush when Betty quickly rakes her gaze from my face to my stomach, then away.
If Mama Hughes weren’t like a mother to me, I’d take offense, but never with her.
“Georgia,” Mr. Hughes chides his wife as a flush creeps up over my cheeks.
I’ve grown used to people making comments about my body.
I’m the typical cowboy. All defined, rugged muscles built both out in the fields and at the gym.
The sprinkle of gray in my beard—when I let it grow—and at my temples draws women to me like flies at a picnic.
However, I’ve never been overly concerned with my appearance.
It serves no purpose in my line of work.
“It’s alright,” I laugh. “They might hold up tonight, but I hear forties are no joke.” The table bursts into laughter, Betty’s eyes glistening with unshed tears as she continues to cackle and snort.
A sound that should not be attractive, but shoots straight down to my cock.
“What were you asking me, Beck?” I redirect the conversation.
“The time we had the team sleepover here, and we knew Case was a sleepwalker?” Beckett’s face is bright red from his laughter as he tries to get the words out for what must be the second time.
“You leave that poor boy alone,” Mama Hughes chuckles. “We found him out in the fields trying to ride the chickens.”
Betty laughs louder, her palm pressed to her flat stomach as she curls forward. “Is that what happened? Dad said I had to stay in my room, so all I heard was the commotion of y’all trying to get him back inside the house.”
Mr. Hughes grunts. “That’s because that boy was out there in his underwear.”
Betty only laughs louder, her hand cupped over her mouth as her face turns a shade of red that could only be found in a crayon box.
“Yeah, the guy had dreams of bull riding. He would try to ride random animals all the time,” Beckett confirms.
Betty’s nose scrunches as she straightens in her seat. “So weird.”
The laughter finally dies down, and all five of us lean back in our chairs after Mama Hughes insists we eat massive bowls of peach cobbler and homemade vanilla bean ice cream.
“Beckett, why don’t you boys go grab some drinks and sit out on the patio. It’s a beautiful night,” Mama Hughes croons, gathering several empty dishes in front of her and stacking them.
Draping an arm around her waist as she leans into him, he kisses her temple.
The gesture is so tender, so familiar, as if it’s second nature.
They’ve always been like this. I used to think maybe Katherine and I would be too, but we were more likely to punch one another in the shoulder than share a heartfelt moment.
“My wife is a genius,” Mr. Hughes sighs.
Beckett disappears into the kitchen, wandering back out with three beers moments later. “Let’s go, Nash.”
“Actually, Mama Hughes, why don’t you take my spot. I’ll get these dishes cleaned and the food put away with Betty,” I volunteer with a wide grin.
There’s no missing Betty’s sharp intake of air at my suggestion, those toned sun-kissed thighs pressing together as she forces a smile.
Her hands knot in her lap before she places her palms on the table, shoving out of her seat awkwardly.
The scent of her light perfume drifts my way, and I try my hardest not to inhale deeply like a fucking creep, but I can’t help it.
She smells like the river or the ocean after it’s just rained. It’s my favorite scent.
Before I can stand to help, she’s gathered a stack of dishes and glasses in her hands and is already shuffling off to the kitchen.
For a woman who’s supposedly in love with me, she acts like she can’t wait to get away from me fast enough. I told her that nothing had to change, that I wouldn’t treat her any differently, and I haven’t, though I want to.
I’ve found myself wondering more often how her lips would taste and what her skin might feel like if I could touch her anywhere I wanted.
Would that tan hue turn pink under my palm?
Is she the type to purposely disobey her man, or would she follow every command with a “yes, sir” as those big doe eyes focused on my face?
The fantasies I’ve had about that woman would make most blush. Fuck, my cock twitches just thinking about it, forcing me to adjust myself beneath the table. Shoving out of my seat, I grab the bowl of mashed potatoes and our plates, stacking them.
“It’s okay,” she breathes, returning from the kitchen for the next load, her hand stretching out as if she were going to touch my arm, only to pull it back. “I can do it myself.”
Grabbing my glass, my gaze meets hers. “Just do as I say.”
Heat blazes in her stare, the most beautiful dark pink flooding her cheeks. Yet her mouth purses as she slowly gathers what’s left on the table and disappears into the kitchen without another word.
Tonight might fucking kill me.
No, Nash. She will.