Chapter Two
Langford
I came out to the fairgrounds today for three reasons. The first was because Tucker and I have watched the parade and fireworks every year since he was born, and my mother always makes a spread you don’t want to miss for the Fourth of July picnic. The third was to see Isley’s face when she found out I would be running against her in the mayoral race.
Politics has never been my thing. I prefer tending to my own business ventures and spending as much time as possible with my son, Tucker. Precious downtime has been dwindling as of late while I’ve been overseeing the construction of the Misty Mountain Ranch and Ski Resort. It takes a lot of time and manpower to clear the land and supervise builds for the slopes, lifts, lodge, equipment rental facilities, offices, luxury resort hotel, stables for the ranch, and customer parking—not to mention, the hours of planning, interviewing, and training the new staff. I’ve even made it my personal mission to lure some snow sports talent away from the slopes out in Colorado. I’ve got a trip planned to see my brother Garrett’s concert in Aspen this November, and I intend to spend a couple of extra days out there to recruit two instructors I have my eye on.
But here I am, running for mayor, all because of Isley Paysour.
The girl has had it in for me since we were in high school. She was the petty little rich girl who, for some reason, did everything in her power to make my life miserable. She was the head cheerleader, homecoming queen, and a royal pain in my ass, along with her brothers. To be fair, I didn’t like them either, and our fathers hated each other, but Isley’s ire was concentrated solely on me for some fucking reason.
There is no way in hell I’m letting her hold the highest leadership role in Balsam Ridge. She’d cockblock anything that I or my family supported just because she could.
I swallow the cookie and smile at her.
“Damn, that’s good,” I say.
“Take another. Take some for your family,” she offers.
“Nah, I think Mom has dessert covered,” I say.
“Langford!”
I hear my name and turn to look over my shoulder to see Mona, one of the owners of Gus’s Diner, walking our way with her arms loaded down with casserole dishes.
Graham and I quickly step to meet her and take the pans from her.
“Thank you, fellas. Gus had a plumbing issue back at the diner, and he sent me to deliver everyone’s preordered plates. I almost lost them back there,” Mona says.
“You should have texted us, and we would have met you at your car,” I tell her.
“There’s more,” she says.
“We’ll get them for you. Will drop these off and fetch the others. Where do they go?” I ask.
“We have a table by the funnel cake truck.”
I inhale deeply and grin. “Is that peach cobbler I smell?” I ask.
“It sure is.”
“My favorite. Nothing beats your peach cobbler, Mona,” I say before lowering my voice to a whisper. “Don’t tell my mother I said that.”
She beams at me and swats at my chest before catching sight of someone behind me and calling out to get their attention.
When she walks off to greet them, I turn back to Isley and Brandee. “Duty calls.”
Isley shakes her head. “Charming old ladies? That’s low,” she says.
I cut my eyes to her and smile. “And it’s a coincidence that you’re wearing that outfit today?” I ask.
She looks down at the silky blouse, which matches her honey-colored eyes, and the snug brown skirt, which hugs her ass, and frowns. “What’s wrong with what I have on?”
“Nothing if your goal is to make all the gentlemen in town salivate,” I say.
She’s a far cry from the rail-thin female who walked the halls of Balsam Ridge High like they were her own personal runway. She’s always been a knockout, but her body has softened, and she’s filled out in all the right places now. I’ve always preferred a woman with curves over walking skeletons, and Isley Paysour has definitely got curves. Her long blonde hair is pulled back into a ponytail at the base of her neck, and she has an evil little beauty mark above the right corner of her mouth.
Her face falls for just a second before she steels herself, and her sassy smile snaps back in place.
“What did you say?” Brandee asks as she steps beside her.
Fuck, I’m such a jackass.
“Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. You look very nice,” I state.
Shut the fuck up, Tuttle.
“Why are you doing this? Do you honestly want to be mayor, or did you file the paperwork because it pissed you off that I was running unopposed?”
“Unopposed. What kind of race is that? The job of the mayor is too important of a decision. People should have choices, don’t you agree?” I ask.
“Viable options,” she corrects.
“And I’m not a viable option, right?”
She shrugs.
“Come on, guys. There’s nothing wrong with a bit of friendly competition,” Graham interjects.
She slides her glare to him before cutting it back to me.
“It doesn’t feel very friendly,” she snaps as her cheeks flush.
“I do enjoy riling you up,” I admit.
She leans over the table. “You don’t have the power to rile me up,” she bites out.
It’ll be fun, proving her wrong.
I forgot about the sexy little line that forms between her brows when she gets angry.
“Game on, sweetheart. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have to get the rest of these out of the car for Mona. See you at the parade.”
I raise my chin for Graham to follow, and he snatches another cookie as he falls in behind me.
“Well, that was interesting,” he says.
It sure the hell was.
“Dad, can I have another hot dog?” Tucker calls out as he and Caleb, Taeli’s son, come skidding to a halt in front of me.
“How many have you had already?” I ask.
He wrinkles his nose, as if he has to think about it, and then he holds up four fingers.
He just turned thirteen, and I swear the boy can outeat me now. He’s always starving.
“Four? You’re going to make yourself sick before the picnic even begins.”
“He had six at Scouts the other night,” Caleb tattles.
“Six?”
Tucker nods. “Hiking is hard. Works up a man’s appetite.”
“A man’s appetite, huh?”
He puffs out his chest. “Yep, and Caleb and I have been hiking all over the place, helping the vendors carry merchandise from their trucks to the tables.”
I reach into the pocket of my jeans, pull out a twenty-dollar bill, and hand it to him.
“In that case, you’d better get one for you both. We can’t have our manpower getting faint from hunger and passing out on us.”
“Thanks, Dad,” Tucker says as he and Caleb take off for the hot dog stand.
“He’s getting so big,” my mother, Sara-Beth Tuttle, says as she, too, watches the boys trot off.
“I know. Time sure flies. Seems like we were bringing him home from the hospital yesterday,” I mutter.
“Wait for the day he has his own son out here.”
“I can’t imagine that,” I say.
“Blink, and he’ll be forty, trust me,” she says as she reaches up and pats my cheek. “I saw you talking to Isley earlier.” She changes the subject.
“Yeah, we stopped by to say hello,” I say, gesturing to Graham.
“I hope you were polite.”
“He was something all right,” Graham utters.
Her head turns to him. “What did he do?”
“I didn’t do anything,” I say.
She holds her hand up to stop me as she looks at Graham for an answer.
“He commented on how she’s dressed. He called it inappropriate.”
Her eyes snap to me. “Langford Tuttle, you didn’t,” she scolds.
“I said no such thing,” I defend, sending a scorching glare at my brother.
He grins at me in return.
Fucking rat.
“He strongly suggested it.” He doubles down.
Mom scans the crowd until her sight lands on Isley. She left the rotary club table and made her way over to Anna and her baby girl.
Anna is the widow of Mike Kunder, a firefighter who worked for my brother, Corbin, Balsam Ridge’s fire chief. He was killed last fall, fighting a wildfire that ravaged the back side of Misty Mountain. Anna was expecting their first child at the time, and six weeks after we laid him to rest, their baby girl arrived. They had thought they were having a boy, so the tiny girl was a surprise. Anna named her Michaela, after her father.
Anna hands the baby over, and Isley cradles her against her chest. Her face is alight with joy as she coos down at the baby.
“I think she looks wonderful. There’s nothing provocative about what she’s wearing. You go over there and apologize to her this instant,” she commands.
“I did apologize to her.”
“Did he?” she asks Graham.
“Kinda.”
She frowns at me.
“I’m not apologizing again,” I tell her.
She points in Isley’s direction and demands in her brook-no-argument tone, “Oh, yes, you are. Now, scoot.”
Looks like I’m apologizing .
Graham laughs under his breath as I stomp off in the girls’ direction.
Asshole .