Chapter 2 #2
And I’m not the only one, it seems, since Ryder interjects with, “Morgan’s not very good at baking,” in the most matter-of-fact tone you’ve ever heard.
All eyes dart to Morgan, where she sits slack-jawed and sputtering, her tanned skin turning red with embarrassment.
“Ryder!” Dallas scolds. “That’s…” He trails off and then shuts his mouth entirely—because, well, it’s not like the kid isn’t speaking the truth.
I find myself choking on a suppressed laugh because I’m confident there’s not one person seated at this table who doesn’t recall the great “Garlic Cake Incident of 2024.” Pops is still probably paying off that plumber bill.
Frankie, ever faithful, jumps to her wife’s defense. “I disagree wholeheartedly, Ryder.” She lays her hand over Morgan’s and gives it a squeeze. “Morgan is very talented.”
“Not at baking, she ain’t,” Meemaw murmurs under her breath. Or at least I assume that was her intention. Due to her crappy hearing, however, it comes out just under the volume of a megaphone. See? We really do need an otolaryngologist in Big Knob!
Frankie and Morgan both gasp while Pops chokes on his potatoes, trying to stifle his laughter. Ryder beams at Meemaw before sending Dallas a challenging hitch of his eyebrow and saying, “Tell me I’m wrong.”
Dallas’s eyes dart from his son to Pops, to Frankie and Morgan, and then to me. His mouth does its best imitation of a goldfish as he grasps for the right thing to say to smooth things over with his sister-in-law without throwing his son—or himself—under the bus.
What he ends up with is unquestionably the last thing anyone expects, most of all me, when he blurts out, “Shelby’s movin’ in with me!”
I’m seriously starting to wonder if he got kicked in the head by a horse this morning.
Silence falls over the table, broken only by Ryder talking casually around his mouthful of dinner roll. “You can sleep in Dad’s room, Shelby. I need my own space. And, besides, my room smells like farts.”
It’s now my turn to be the goldfish. But before I can gather my wits to respond to either Dallas’s insane declaration or his son’s sleeping arrangement plans, the doorbell rings, followed by a series of insistent rapping.
Nelly takes off for the hall, barking his furry head off. My back goes ramrod straight at the same time Dallas lunges to his feet so hard his chair falls over behind him. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, and I’m suddenly having trouble catching my breath.
What is wrong with me? Even if it is Shane on the other side of that door, it’s not like he’s any real danger to me. I could take that asshole in a fight. Maybe. Hell, I just don’t want to see the man, that’s all.
Dallas, on the other hand, moves with purpose toward the hall like he’d take Shane’s appearance as his most cherished birthday and Christmas presents wrapped in one. Sweet mother of Mariah Carey! I need to stop this insanity.
I spring from my chair as everyone else does the same—I should have known my business had reached every ear in town by now—all of us chasing after Dallas, intent on keeping him from committing homicide on the front porch.
“You’ll run if you know what’s good for you, Conover! I’ll even give you a head start!” Dallas snarls as he swings the door open, nearly tearing it from its hinges in the process.
But it’s not my ex-boyfriend standing on the other side. It’s a terrified-looking delivery driver who may or may not have just pissed his pants.
“I…uh,” he stutters, “need a…s-s-signature for this package. Th-there are hazardous materials inside.” He extends the signature device, and Dallas grabs it, shifting his eyes to glare at Meemaw before scribbling his name.
Meemaw darts her gaze to the ceiling, scanning every inch as if it holds not only the secrets of the universe but next week’s winning Lotto numbers as well.
“Dammit, Meemaw,” Pops grumbles. “How many times do I have to tell you to stop ordering shit online when you’re smokin’ the ganja?!”
She dips her chin to give him the dirty eyeball before prancing to the door and snatching the package from Dallas’s hands. “At least I know how to have fun!” she calls over her shoulder as she escorts the shaken delivery guy back to his truck. Oh, good! His pants are dry.
My lungs having recovered to their normal level of life-sustaining function, I hustle back to the table, hoping to quickly help clear up and avoid any more drama for the evening.
There’s a book titled His Lordship’s Unbuttoned Desire waiting for me on my bedside table and a deadbolt keeping any unwanted guests out of my house. It’s time to go home.
Based on past experience, Dallas will be back to his happy-go-lucky, mischievous self tomorrow, and life will move on as it always does.
I’ll lick my wounds from another dating disaster for a couple weeks, and Dallas will forget about his misguided mission to “avenge” me for my own shitty taste in men.
We’ll meet for BLTs at Butter My Biscuit Diner and laugh about Morgan’s baking fails.
We’ll hike down to Beaver Hollow Falls to watch the blue herons that gather there this time of year, and he’ll fish while I read a book on a blanket in the grass.
Everything will be the same as it’s always been.
“Oh, shit,” Morgan mutters from behind me.
“What?” Frankie asks as I turn to see Morgan staring wide-eyed down at her phone.
Her gaze lifts to meet mine, and I don’t like her panicked expression one bit. “Norinne Kuntz just texted that Shane left Knockin’ Boots drunk and saying he’s on his way to your place, Shelby. She doesn’t have your number and wanted me to warn you.”
My heart drops to the bottom of my gut as my butt hits the seat of one of the old oak dining chairs. Well, shit.
“He’s likely to be damn disappointed then since Shelby’ll be at my place,” Dallas practically growls from where he’s taking up the entire entryway to the room, chest puffed out like a goddamn gorilla at the zoo.
“Now, son,” Pops interjects, hands extended in a placating gesture.
But he’s cut off by Meemaw as she ducks under one of Dallas’s beefy arms, brandishing two handfuls of brightly colored fireworks and proclaiming, “I’ve got just the thing for your housewarming!”