Chapter 22
BECKETT
It’s been three days since I told Clover she should stay at the ranch. I finish throwing fresh hay into the horse stalls and lean back against the wall, wiping the sweat off my brow.
Mom’s still been showing up in the mornings, and they’ve all been making a new routine together.
Clover has really jumped into caring for Lennon, and I know Lennon enjoys their time together.
She’s a sensitive kid, and I’ve been worried about the changes that’ve been happening, but she’s been handling things like a champ and going with the flow.
Having a schedule back will help her a lot.
She might not think she likes being told what to do, but she thrives with routine.
Is that what Clover has become? Part of our routine?
I’ve been able to stay out of her room and managed to keep myself from burying my face into her gorgeous pussy, so that’s worth mentioning.
It’s the small successes that add up. Damn, it’s hard though.
She still walks around wearing my hoodies in the mornings and my flannels at night, even though she has all of her clothes now.
I swear it’s like catnip. I’ve held the line for years now, but every time I see her fitting herself into every aspect of my life so naturally, I know I’m eventually going to break.
On the way back up to the house, I notice some purple flowers growing along the fenceline.
I stop the ATV and hop out, picking them for Lennon.
She loves flowers of any kind, even when they’ve wilted twenty minutes after you picked them.
Without thinking, I pick enough for Clover, too.
I set them down on the seat beside me and make my way home.
When I walk through the door, the smell of garlic and onions hits me, and I inhale deeply.
Is my mom here? I take off my boots and put them in their spot so I don’t track mud all over the place.
I see Lennon at the counter with paper and crayons, scribbling away and talking to Clover animatedly.
My hands feel clammy as I realize I’m about to give Clover flowers.
Is this dumb? Should I give them all to Lennon instead, so Clover doesn’t feel awkward?
“Hey girls,” I say, announcing myself. Clover laughs at something Lennon says, and it’s not a polite laugh.
She’s never been a polite laugher. Whatever my daughter said genuinely has her smiling.
When she sees me, she wipes her hands on a kitchen towel that she shoves back down in the pocket of the apron she’s wearing.
Mom got it for me a few years ago for when I’m grilling, but it doesn’t hurt to see the words BARBECU-TIE across her chest. I can’t help but chuckle. “Barbecutie, huh?”
Clover smiles proudly. “You’re dang right,” she says proudly. Lennon notices the flowers in my hands and slides off the stool at the counter where she’s been sitting.
“You found purple!” She exclaims, running towards me to get them. “You got two buckets?”
“Bouquets,” I correct gently.
“Yeah, that,” she says, brushing me off and taking one of them. “Why’s there two?”
I clear my throat and cross the room to where Clover is standing at the stove, extending them out to her.
“Figured you might deserve some flowers too,” I drawl evenly.
Her eyes dart from the flowers to me, then back to the flowers.
“Really?” Her voice is tight, like her throat is strained.
I nod, extending them out to her. When she accepts them, she looks at them like they’re made of a rare resource, something precious.
“Thank you, Beckett,” she says. She holds them close to her for a minute before grabbing two mason jars and filling them with water, putting both of their flowers in them for makeshift vases.
I slide my jacket off and hang it on the back of the dining room chair as Clover moves through the kitchen like it’s second nature to her.
“Dinner smells great. You don’t have to cook, you know,” I tell her.
I don’t want her to think she has to do everything just because she’s staying here, but I know her.
She will feel like she owes me something, which isn’t the case at all.
“I know I don’t,” she insists. “It’s Tuesday, though,” she trails off, and Lennon finishes her thought.
“It’s noodle Tuesday!” She shouts, waving her arms in the air excitedly, and Clover cheers with her. I laugh at them, shaking my head at how they’ve become two peas in a pod in such a short time. It’s wild how she just fits so effortlessly into our lives.
“I’m making spaghetti. You might want to go get washed up, though,” she says, glancing at the time on her phone. “I may have invited everyone over for dinner, and they’ll be here in about an hour.”
I groan, remembering not pressing Brynn for more details when she texted “see ya later tonight” earlier. I should’ve pressed for more details. I begrudingly make my way up the stairs to go shower as she puts their already wilting flowers on the dinner table as decoration.
* * *
Brynn all but shoves me out of the way when I answer the door to get to Lennon and Clover, who are just as excited to see her.
There’s an ungodly amount of high-pitched squealing, jumping, and giggling, but it’s worth it to see all of them so happy.
I make a comment about being chopped liver and finish setting the table right as my parents show up.
We all sit around the long table, passing things to one another, our conversations overlapping.
Clover is sitting next to me, she and Brynn recounting a wild story from camp, filling in the blanks and picking up each other’s thoughts mid-sentence.
I remember this one. The counselors thought they had been behind one of the cabins catching on fire, but it turned out to be the senior counselor’s fault.
He had snuck into the empty cabin to smoke and hadn’t put it out all the way.
Everyone laughs at how animated the girls are as they tell the story, and when Clover bursts out with the ending, she leans forward dramatically.
Her hand makes itself at home under the table, on top of my thigh.
It’s so natural, so . . . normal. I don’t want to draw attention to it because I don’t want this moment to end.
I laugh with them, leaning back in my chair and casually draping my arm around the back of hers.
I notice my mom smiling, and I know why.
She’s missed having family nights like this.
All of her kids, Clover included, and now her grandbaby, too.
This is a dream for her. She winks at me knowingly.
I take the last swig from my beer and stand up, offering to get drinks for whoever needs them.
I’m collecting the bottles when there’s a knock at the door.
We aren’t expecting anyone else, so I’m not sure who it would be.
Maybe the ranch hand who’s been staying down in my cabin?
I set the bottles down on the counter and head to answer the door.
The sounds of laughter pour out from behind me when I open it. My heart is full, my family is together, nothing is going to take this buzz of happiness I’m riding on for the first time in so long.
A scrawny guy with a crew cut stands in front of me. “Beckett Hayes Hollis?”
I consider him for a moment, but can’t place where I’d know him from. “One in the same,” I say, polite but guarded. “How can I help you, bud?”
He hands me a thick manila envelope with nothing on it except for the name of a law firm.
“You’ve been served.”
The world goes quiet.