Chapter 2
Chapter
Two
WHO SLIPPED A BURR UNDER YOUR SADDLE?
Shelby
It’s time Big Knob got its own otolaryngologist because, despite having my hearing checked at my yearly physical last week, I could swear I just heard Dallas Gamble call me his fiancée.
What in the actual hell? He’s not even supposed to be here! I’ve done a damn good job of dodging him all day, and Frankie promised he wasn’t coming by for supper. I’m pretty sure my defenses can withstand the rest of the Gambles, but Dallas? Not right now.
“You been gettin’ into Meemaw’s weed, Dally? You know that stuff knocks you on your ass,” I quip, despite feeling the furthest thing from lighthearted.
The last twenty-four hours have been one hell of a shitshow, and I don’t have the bandwidth to deal with my best friend’s fire-breathing dragon imitation—or this “my woman” nonsense he’s going on about.
If I had my way, I’d be home in bed crying my eyes out or distracting myself with my favorite kind of book—an old-fashioned bodice ripper.
But since that’s the first place Shane will come looking for me, it’s not an option.
Shane Conover can kiss my fat ass and fall face-first off a cliff for all I care.
Dallas hits me with a scowl liable to drive permanent troughs into his forehead.
The man is stupid handsome, with thick sun-kissed hair he doesn’t bother to hide under a hat most days and a tiny cleft in his scruffy chin that makes a girl want to press her finger there just because.
So, I’m sure a few more lines on his forehead to match the ones fanning out from his golden-brown eyes would only make him hotter.
Not that I have a habit of checking Dallas out myself, but other women in town make a part-time job out of it. Always have.
“Shelby, I swear to God…” He trails off, clenching his jaw tight, as if the power of his voice might knock me over should he continue.
I honestly don’t know what he’s so worked up about. He’s not the one whose boyfriend humiliated her in public and then slammed his fist into a wall when he didn’t get his way.
Dallas silently jams the index finger of his free hand into the paper he’s just slapped onto the hood of my Blazer. I choose to humor him since I’m starving, and I really don’t need Dallas stroking out before supper. He knows I get hangry, especially when I’m stressed out like I am today.
“Okay, fine,” I allow. “What are we looking at here?” I realize now it’s a paper napkin—the kind they use down at Knockin’ Boots, the lone bar and dance hall here in Big Knob. But this napkin is falling apart and covered in ink.
Instead of responding, Dallas taps the toe of his boot impatiently on the dirt and gravel beneath our feet, so I move closer to get a better look.
And then the breath leaves my lungs.
Because resting innocently under his hand is a napkin I recognize. In fact, I can’t believe I didn’t know what it was the second he waved it in front of my face just now.
But…but how does he have it?
My mouth drops open, and I have to shake my head before stuttering, “Wh-where did you get this?”
If possible, my question sharpens his scowl even further.
This is not the Dallas I know. The Dallas who’s been my best friend for going on twenty-five years now doesn’t scowl. Well, unless it’s at one of his brothers—or any of my shitty-ass boyfriends.
No. The Dallas I know is as carefree as they come and never met a situation he couldn’t laugh off or a problem he couldn’t solve with a cold beer and an out-of-tune rendition of a Willie Nelson song.
“Never you mind.” His aggravated tone is lined with more gravel than the drive beneath us.
I blink rapidly, my eyes struggling to focus on the words spelled out in blue ink on the nearly shredded tissue beneath his finger. And there it is…
“I, Shelby Melissa Sweet, do solemnly swear that if I am not in a serious and fulfilling relationship by the decrepit old age of forty, I will marry Dallas Beaufort Gamble.”
The words are written in the familiar messy scrawl of my best friend, but the neatly curved signature at the bottom is undeniably mine.
When I reach for the napkin, Dallas allows me to pick it up, only releasing his hold when the paper is secure in my hands. I flip it over with gentle fingers, the single word and signature on the back causing a quiet huff of laughter to bubble from my throat.
“Ditto.
Dallas Beaufort Gamble”
“Don’t matter where I got it. The point is that I have it, and you signed it,” he inexplicably continues.
My eyes flash to Dallas’s, expecting the return of his usual eye twinkle now that he’s played his joke in what was surely an attempt to distract me from my Shane troubles. He must have found this napkin in some random drawer and was saving it for a rainy day to bust my chops.
But, to my surprise and not a small degree of dismay, there’s nary a twinkle in sight—just the same simmering irritation. And something else I can’t for the life of me identify.
The only possible response in the face of this absurdity is a sweeping eye roll. “Very funny.” I pat one of his pecs and hand back the napkin as I skirt around him, intent on reaching the house and the armor of familiar faces waiting inside. I really hope Meemaw made fried chicken.
But Dallas is too quick, one of his muscular arms snaking out to snag me around the waist and pull me close enough that I have to strain my neck to look up at him.
He smells like wood shavings and sweat. “This ain’t no joke, Sweetness.
” His voice is quiet now, but no less intense, as his golden-eyed gaze skips across my features.
What in the hell is he playing at here? If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s looking at me like he’s…hungry. And not for fried fuckin’ chicken.
A familiar flush begins creeping up my chest, but I tamp that bitch down.
Nope.
Sure, there was a time when I harbored a crush on my bestie like every other girl in our high school—and probably some of their moms if we’re being honest. But I’ve always prided myself on my intelligence and practicality, and it didn’t take long to recognize that Dallas Gamble and his flirty winks spelled nothing but heartbreak. Just like my momma said.
Not to mention he’s the furthest thing from my type.
I used to joke that we were friends because I was the only woman in Big Knob who didn’t want to sleep with him. That, and we’re both members of the unofficial Dead Moms Club.
But our friendship works because we get each other. We fit. He helps me cut loose and fly my freak flag when I need it, but he also instinctively knows when peace and quiet and a strong shoulder are the only things that will keep me upright.
In turn, I prevent him from ending up in jail or a fistfight, and I give him the space to just be himself and not have to be the life of the party or the “fun twin” all the time. Maybe most importantly, I don’t take his flirting as anything more than it is. Casual instinct.
Which is why Dallas Gamble calling me Sweetness never sparks the least reaction in my ovaries like it might a more na?ve—or self-delusional—woman.
“Chow time!” Frankie’s voice shatters the weird-as-hell tension like a sledgehammer to an egg, and Dallas’s arm drops from my waist.
I stumble back on a boot and clear my throat before shouting toward the house, “Be right there!” Then I haul ass to the porch, giving Dallas a wide berth so he can’t rope me back into his circle of intensity.
Today is not the day for flirting—nor is it the day for pulling out some marriage contract from eighteen years ago that we both signed while drunk and nursing a couple of half-broken hearts.
And just when I wrap my fingers around the screen door handle, thinking I’ve escaped the bizarreness of the evening, my best friend’s voice calls from behind, “We’re not done talking about this, just so you know!”
Fan-freakin’-tastic.
“Pass the potatoes, would you, darlin’?” Pops asks thirty minutes later as I set my iced tea down next to my empty plate.
I send him a warm smile and hand him the bowl. I’m pretty sure this is his third helping, not that I blame him. Meemaw cooks up some of the best food in the county (and isn’t shy about making it known).
It’s always a treat dining at the Gamble family table. Not only is the food consistently excellent, but the company’s far from boring.
At the head of the table, we’ve got the family patriarch, Emmett Gamble, who everyone from here to East Jesus calls Pops.
To his left is his mother-in-law, Francis Ridge, known as Meemaw far and wide.
Next to her sits Frankie, the youngest and most well-adjusted member of the Gamble family.
And then Frankie’s wife, Morgan Proctor, a librarian who’s the spittin’ image of Barbie.
When they got hitched, Morgan somehow talked Frankie into hyphenating their last names in the most head-scratching way to make them the Proctor-Gamble family.
Neither of them appears to notice when people raise their eyebrows at that one.
I’m seated on Pops’s other side, with Dallas’s adorable son having claimed the chair next to mine, leaving Dallas on Ryder’s other side. The seating arrangement has worked in my favor so far, evidenced by the fact that the words “marriage,” “fiancé,” and “my woman” have yet to be uttered.
We’re short a slew of regulars at the worn oak table tonight, though.
Ridge, the oldest Gamble offspring, and his wife, Tiff, are MIA.
That last one I don’t mind much, but Ridge is good, solid folk, if a bit grouchy.
We’re also missing Dallas’s big sister, Skye, who’s probably off rescuing a goat she’ll inevitably beg me to come check out tomorrow.
I don’t mind, though. Animals are way more predictable than people, and Skye is one of my best friends.
“Save room for Morgan’s pie, Pops!” Frankie scolds her father as he heaps another giant spoonful of potatoes on his plate.
Dallas coughs into his fist, and I stifle a grin because, as usual, I know exactly what he’s thinking.