Chapter 10 #3
“Ten o’clock,” June says, and Grace’s attention blessedly drifts away from Julian, who is starting to sweat through his suit.
At the far left corner of the dance floor, she sees two women standing close together, both staring up at a man and listening intently to whatever he’s saying.
“Carolyn and Marilyn Montgomery,” June explains. “Houston royalty. Rodeo princesses.”
Grace nods, transfixed by how stunning both women are, in that rare, ageless kind of way, and it takes her a half second to realize they look…
exactly alike. They’re twins—dressed the same, down to their shoes.
They mirror each other’s mannerisms; they both throw their heads back when they laugh, and they both follow it by shaking their heads in feigned exasperation.
It looks as easy and natural as breathing when they both reach for the man’s bicep—one to the left, the other to the right.
“I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting them, but, by all accounts, they’re lovely. Never met a stranger, could charm the mortar off a brick wall kind of women.”
An older man with a silver mustache appears a moment later, and he inserts himself between the twins with a knowing smile.
They must be familiar with him; they both guffaw at the same time when they realize who’s wedged themselves into their circle.
Even from a great distance, Grace can see a sparkle in his eyes and the self-assured way he carries himself, as if confidence has never once been a point of struggle.
“I think that’s the Caldwells’ lawyer,” June says when she notices him.
“I can’t remember his name…Flanagan something.
Never met him, either, but Forty says he’s a real demon in a courtroom.
Never lost a case for the family, which, if you think about it, is not all that impressive.
If someone was paying me a half-mil retainer, I’d be winning, too.
” The man, Flanagan, holds his hand out for one of the twins to join him for a dance, and when one agrees, they spin around in fluid, practiced motions, looping arms and sliding bootheels.
While Grace and June have been observing the crowd, the band has been setting up, and soon enough the live music takes over the speakers, replacing the generic country playlist with something more alive, more electric.
Bryce Carrigan is a newer name in music but one who has quickly cemented himself as a favorite, and everyone at the party seems to flood the dance floor the second he steps up to the microphone and says, “Howdy, y’all. ”
Like Whac-A-Moles, Mikey and Raymond pop into Grace and June’s field of vision, both holding cans of Bud Light, smiling with flushed cheeks.
They insist on a dance, holding out their hands, and for two songs, the four of them laugh until their stomachs hurt, two-stepping and spinning around on the faux-wood dance floor.
Toward the end of the second song, Grace sees Renata staring out at the dance floor, and when they eventually make eye contact, Renata does a double take with bulging eyes when she realizes who she’s looking at.
Oh my God, she mouths. She slaps Clint’s and Cooper’s shoulders without taking her eyes off Grace, wordlessly pulling them both from the middle of a conversation. They turn, both rubbing their arms and looking affronted, but then they follow Renata’s gaze.
When Cooper sees Grace, his eyes and his smile light up his entire face.
Clint, on the other hand, raises his arms toward the sky and gives her two thumbs up.
Then he places his thumb and index finger between his teeth and whistles, loud.
Grace gives him a weak thumbs-up in return, blushing and trying to hide her face in Mikey’s shoulder.
Bryce’s lilting voice carries on through the speakers set up on either side of the stage. Grace continues to mingle, to drink, and to dance with all the hands. She tries—she really does—to not scan the party for a tall, probably frowning, dark-haired figure.
But he just—he tends to take up a lot of air in any space he occupies.
Even when he’s grumpy, or stubbornly reserved, he’s like a magnet for all the oxygen around him.
The second he enters a room, her eyes tend to gravitate toward the vacuum of his presence, even when she doesn’t want them to.
Which is how she realizes—with a little tinge of disappointment flaring up in her belly—Crew isn’t here.
It isn’t until about half an hour later that a truck appears on the horizon.
Crew’s truck. It rolls down the long drive slowly, and the windows all begin sliding down.
A woman with hair dark brown and thick emerges from the passenger side.
She’s hoisting herself up to see over the top of the truck, and then she waves slowly, with a cupped hand, like a rodeo princess in the grand entry.
Grace notices Renata start to wave excitedly with both hands.
The closer the truck gets, the easier it becomes to figure out who the strange dark-haired woman is.
The resemblance to her mother is uncanny—effortlessly beautiful and elegant.
But her smile is all her father, lighting up her eyes and dimpling her cheeks.
What really gives it away, though, what makes it completely undeniable which family she belongs to, is the hard set of her brow and mouth when the truck suddenly starts bouncing, jostling her from side to side and interrupting her regal entrance.
She slaps the top of the cab, cursing like a drunken sailor at Crew for tapping on the brakes.
There’s not a single doubt in Grace’s mind.
That’s Caia Caldwell. Crew’s little sister.
The truck slows to a stop in front of the house.
Cooper is there in seconds, remarkably swift considering his still-recovering ankle, and he practically yanks his sister out of the cab and wraps her in a hug.
Clint and Renata make their way over, and eventually, Grace turns away, feeling like she’s invading a private moment once she notices Clint trying to inconspicuously wipe his cheeks with the back of his hand.
The smell of barbecue wafts through the air, and Grace meanders over to the buffet, ravenous after skipping dinner to get ready for the party.
She piles a couple of ribs and a chicken leg onto a plate, then covers every remaining inch of it with coleslaw, baked beans, and macaroni and cheese.
Some of the guys are doing the same—Pierce’s pile of food is so high it looks like it’s about to topple over.
Grace follows them back to their designated table and plops down, laying the denim napkin over her lap and praying she doesn’t get anything on June’s dress.
Because she is about to shovel every last bite of this food into her mouth at warp speed.
The next time she looks up, feeling fit to burst, she finds the Caldwells have moved inward, all standing around their table, in the center of everything.
Clint has his arm around Caia’s neck, and she is patting his cheek affectionately, talking to someone Grace doesn’t recognize.
Cooper is gesturing animatedly at his mother, who seems quietly amused but only half listening, half laser focused on the cake across the way, which is currently being artfully stuck with small, golden candles.
Grace isn’t sure what she expected of the only Caldwell daughter—resentment due to the distance or Caia’s choice of career, maybe.
But there’s nothing but warmth and familial recognition.
It’s evident, between her and her parents of course, but even more between her and her brothers.
Cooper yanks on a piece of her hair while she has her back turned, then points at Crew when she turns around.
Caia reaches over and whacks the unsuspecting Crew’s shoulder, and he whirls around, indignant, and proceeds to drop his shoulder and lift her over it, sending her feet flying into the air and her fists slamming into his back.
Renata and Clint, now standing next to each other with their fingers intertwined, seem completely unfazed.
Crew sets her down eventually, picking his bottle of Dos Equis back up, and tossing back a big swig as Cooper tests his luck once more with a wet willy in Caia’s ear. Caia practically tackles him, the two nearly tumbling into the grass. Crew watches them, content, and Grace watches him.
He hasn’t seen her yet. Hasn’t seen this…
new look. For a brief moment, she contemplates running back to the bunkhouse to change into something more her, because—does it look like she’s trying to fit in with the rest of these wealthy Texas ranchers?
Is the makeup even still on her face? It’s hot and humid as hell this evening.
Dozens of anxiety-inducing questions start to cascade through her head, and before she even realizes what’s happening, she’s standing up and leaving the table, removing herself from his line of sight.
She orders a beer and then stands at the bar and drinks almost half of it in one go.
The sound of a clinking bottle echoes from her right, and she looks over to see Crew near a trash can made to look like a barrel, and now walking up to the bar.
Grace stands frozen, just off to the side with her forearms pressed stiffly into the red-checkered cloth that covers the pop-up bar.
She does not look at Crew as he steps forward and asks the bartender for another beer.
His voice is low and rumbling, and she can pick up whiffs of his scent from where she stands.
His weird, spicy cologne is most prominent in his usual mix now, surprisingly intoxicating.
Don’t inch closer, she scolds herself. And don’t you dare inhale as deeply as you want to.