33. Smug Comes With Abs
SMUG COMES WITH ABS
Felicity
By the time a week had staggered by, I’d become the kind of woman who wore three-day-old eyeliner as a badge of honor and knew the hold time for every department at the county clerk’s office.
I’d spent the morning in a gnawing swirl of emails, signatures, and legal-ese so dense I could practically taste its paper-dust aftertaste in my throat.
It was barely noon by the time I sat at my battered, paint-chipped kitchen table, and e-signed the last digital document, and officially became the unlikely co-owner of a multi-million-dollar cattle operation.
The email notification chimed its little victory song while Maverick, unbothered, used my off-brand glitter gel pens to draw a chicken riding a horse in a rodeo.
I expected some kind of cinematic rush at the finish line, the cold snap of relief, or at least a mental chorus of “You did it!” Instead, I felt the gentle futility of accomplishment, the world did not pause for my epiphany.
Mav, completely unbothered by the seismic implosion of my entire carefully-constructed future, declared his drawing “complete,” and asked for a snack.
I wiped the gel pen gently off my knuckles, thinking of all the women like me—single, tired, determined, and just visible enough to be asked to join the parent-teacher committee but not enough to be invited to the after-party.
But this time, for once, I’d gotten to write the ending.
I’d worked with my lawyer to restructure Uncle Walt’s loan rather than erase it, without bankrupting the Lockharts.
My ownership was a real, legal investment.
My attorney had underlined that three times in the contract, as if to convince even me that I belonged in this equation.
I had a proper stake, a portfolio, and an official voice in ranch decisions, including my events division.
If I wanted to, I could host a line-dancing competition, and no one could legally stop me.
Not that Dean would, he’d basically promised me the world to stay.
I was three bites into a peanut butter and banana sandwich when the doorbell rang.
I wiped my fingers on a tea towel and braced for Girl Scouts or a package delivery, but instead, Tanner stood on the porch.
He looked, for the first time in years, like someone who’d actually rehearsed what he was about to say.
His eyes flicked toward the living room, where Maverick now playing the virtual reality video game Dean bought him, before his gaze came back to me with a kind of somber clarity I didn’t know he possessed.
“Can we talk?” he asked, and it sounded like an apology before the conversation even started.
My first instinct was to roll my eyes, make a snarky comment, or ask what he wanted before agreeing, but I pushed those impulses down and stepped aside and let him in.
He hovered near the door, arms crossed, making himself small.
His aftershave still smelled like the cologne sampler from the airport duty-free.
I walked back into the kitchen and he followed.
“I got your text,” he began, clearing his throat. “About you guys staying.”
The one I sent a week ago?
Cool.
I waited for him to continue, feeling the exhaustion clump, heavy and gray, at the base of my neck.
He let a breath out, then ran both hands through his hair.
“I, um, look, Felicity. I know I’ve been…
unreliable. Selfish, even. But none of that means I love Maverick less.
I never wanted to be the guy who leaves.
I just—” He trailed off, and for the first time, I noticed the lines of worry at the corners of his mouth, the slight bend in his shoulders.
I felt my defenses give, just a little. “I know you love him, Tanner. But loving him and being a dad aren’t always the same thing. You can’t just show up when you remember or when it’s convenient.”
He nodded, silent. Maverick’s laughter drifted in from the next room, pure, high, untarnished by the politics of adulthood.
“I’ve never kept him from you,” I continued, “but from now on, there are rules. Schedules. Boundaries. If you miss a pickup, you explain it to him, not me. There are no more grand gestures. No more showing up in the dead of night with a new toy to fix what you broke. You want to be in his life, you have to show up all the time. Even when it’s boring, even when it’s hard. ”
He nodded again. I didn’t know if he’d heard me or not, but I’d learned that sometimes the saying was the point, not necessarily the outcome.
I expected him to get defensive, to rage or blame, but instead, he just looked tired, defeated, a man whose best story had already aired and now must make do with reruns. “Is this because of Dean?” he asked, quiet. “Is he—are you—”
“No. You being a good father has nothing to do with Dean.” I shook my head but didn’t look away. “Dean isn’t replacing anyone. He’s becoming something entirely his own. Maverick loves him and he’s reliable.”
Tanner nodded. “Can I have him this weekend? Saturday?”
“Yes. Be here at ten.” I knew the only way he could prove himself is if he got the chance to. This was just about giving him the chance to.
His phone vibrated and he pulled it out of his pocket. “Oh, I’ve been waiting for this call. I’m interviewing with a construction company.”
“Good luck,” I told him, and meant it.
He let himself out, and I watched from my window until his car became just another distant glint between the mailboxes.
I wasn’t going to get my hopes up that this would be a turning point.
I was just going to take one day at a time.
From this moment on Tanner had a fresh slate.
I hoped, for Maverick’s sake, that he would make the most of it.
I finished my sandwich, and got Mav ready for bed.
After I read him his story, and tucked him, I headed back to the front room to wait for Dean.
He’d gone with Dawson to Portland to pick up two retired racehorses.
Selma had a soft spot for any animals and people who needed a place to heal, to grow.
I was lucky enough to be one of those who she wrapped her angel wings around.
He wasn’t due back for another hour, so I curled up on the couch with my laptop and attempted to get some work done.
Attempted being the operative word.
Fifteen minutes later, the faint scrape of metal against wood came from the front porch.
I frowned, set my laptop aside, and glanced through the window.
Of course.
Dean was standing on my porch with a screwdriver in one hand, his tool bag at his feet, doing something to the light fixture beside the front door.
Every night he came over, he found something else to fix.
A loose cabinet hinge. A dripping faucet. The gate that dragged when it opened. The bathroom fan that made a noise I’d stopped hearing the second week we were here.
Apparently, my porch light had finally made his hit list.
I opened the door and leaned against the frame. “Hey, handyman.”
He glanced over his shoulder, and the smile that spread across his face did ridiculous things to my insides.
He set the screwdriver down, crossed the porch, slid one hand around my waist, and kissed me.
Not a peck.
Not a casual hello.
A warm, lingering kiss that made my toes curl against the floorboards and momentarily erased every thought in my head.
When he pulled back, I smiled up at him. “That’s a much better greeting.”
“I thought so.” His thumb brushed over my hip. “I got you a present.”
My eyebrows rose. “A present?”
“Yep.”
“What is it?”
“A ring.”
My heart stopped.
Actually stopped.
Just flatlined right there on my front porch.
A ring.
A ring ring?
As in…
Oh fuck.
I loved Dean. I did. More than I’d ever planned to. More than was probably healthy considering the man was currently wearing an old T-shirt, jeans, and a tool belt that had no business looking that good on him and was nicknamed heartbreaker.
And someday?
Yes.
Absolutely.
But now?
We’d only just figured us out. There were still conversations to have. Logistics. Maverick. Living arrangements. Toothpaste preferences. Whether Dean was going to continue treating every minor household malfunction like a personal insult to his masculinity.
Marriage was…
Dean reached into his pocket.
My pulse shot into the stratosphere.
He pulled out…
A key ring.
I stared at it.
Then at him.
Then back at the very ordinary silver key dangling from a very ordinary metal ring.
A laugh burst out of me. Half relief, half disbelief. “You’re an a-hole.”
His mouth twitched. “An a-hole?”
“You knew exactly what you were doing.”
He shrugged and spun the key ring around his finger. “I said I got you a ring.”
“You said it like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like a man who was about to permanently alter the course of my life.”
His eyes gleamed. “Bit dramatic.”
I put my hand over my chest. “You almost gave me a cardiac arrest.”
“Over a key?” he questioned innocently.
“Over the word ring.”
His grin widened.
I swatted his chest. “You did that on purpose.”
“Maybe.”
He held the key on the ring out to me. And as I looked at it resting in his palm, something unexpected happened. The relief faded. And underneath it was a tiny, traitorous flicker of... Disappointment.
Well, that was alarming.
“I’m not asking you to marry me, Felicity,” he pointed out the obvious.
“I see that.” I took the key from him and examined it. “Unless engagement rings have gotten significantly less sparkly since the last time I checked.”
Dean laughed and pride swelled in my chest. Every time I made him laugh I got irrationally satisfied.
His smile faded, leaving something achingly tender behind. “I want you to have a key to my house.”
The mood shifted, the air around us became thick with emotion. His fingers closed around mine, curling my hand around the key.
“What’s mine is yours,” he said simply. “Besides, I have a key to your place. It’s only fair.”
My chest squeezed. Because of course Dean could turn a three-dollar piece of hardware into something that felt suspiciously like a declaration and special occasion.
I looped my arms around his neck. “For the record, if you eventually present me with another kind of ring, I’ll probably say yes.”
His brows lifted. “Probably?”
“Don’t press your luck, Sunshine.”
His hands settled at my waist and his fingers flexed, and his lips curled in a half-grin. “No luck needed.”
I narrowed my eyes, as I fought a smile. “Don’t be smug.”
“I’m not smug.”
“You’re extremely smug.”
“Maybe you like smug.”
“Maybe I tolerate smug because it comes with abs.”
He kissed me again, quick and smiling this time, before stepping away.
I caught the front of his shirt. “Are you coming inside?”
“In a minute.”
He reached for his screwdriver again.
I groaned. “Dean.”
“Just one more thing I need to check.”
I suppressed an internal sigh. “You said that yesterday.”
“And your kitchen faucet doesn’t leak anymore,” he reasoned.
Leak?
Now who was being dramatic?
“It dripped twice a day,” I reasoned.
“And now it doesn’t.”
I watched him turn back toward the porch light, and affection rolled through me, warm and familiar.
That was Dean. He noticed things. Then he fixed them.
The porch light. The faucet. Maverick’s bike. The loose railing. The drawer in my kitchen that was sticking.
If something in my life was broken, Dean showed up with a toolbox, a plan, and the absolute certainty that he could make it better.
And I loved that about him. I loved the way he took care of Maverick.
I loved the way he took care of me. But sometimes, in the quiet corners of my brain where old insecurities liked to set up camp, I wondered if maybe he loved being needed more than he loved me.
Dean was a fixer.
A rescuer.
The guy who flew in when everything went to hell and somehow made the impossible look manageable. And my life had certainly given him plenty of opportunities to play hero.
What happened when I didn't need saving anymore?
“Hey,” I said.
He glanced over at me. “Yeah?”
“You know you don’t have to do all this, right?”
His hand stilled.
I waved toward the light fixture. “Fixing everything. Doing everything. Taking care of everything.”
His gaze sharpened slightly.
I forced a teasing smile. “I managed to survive a long time before you showed up with your big toolbox, you know.”
His mouth twitched, but he didn’t take the bait.
“I’m serious, Dean, I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
He slowly lowered the screwdriver.
Shit. I’d been going for casual. Apparently, I’d missed by a mile.
Dean set the tool down. His tone was low, and authoritative as he explained, “I don't want you because you need me, Felicity.”
My breath caught.
I hated how he did that.
How he could take all the messy thoughts I hadn’t said out loud, strip away the jokes and deflections, and somehow land right on the one thing I was actually afraid of.
It was like the man had a direct line into the most vulnerable parts of me.
I swallowed around the sudden lump in my throat and gave a tiny sniff. “Good,” I managed. “Because I don’t.”
“I know.”
He stepped toward me. One step. Then another. Until my back was against the doorframe and he was standing close enough that I had to tip my head back to meet his eyes.
His hand came up, fingertips brushing my cheek. “I want you because I need you.”
Oh.
Oh, hell.
My heart didn't stand a chance.
Dean leaned down and kissed me, slow and sweet, and I curled my fingers into the front of his shirt as every last defense I had dissolved into the floorboards.
Turned out, there were things more dangerous than Dean with a toolbox. Dean with feelings was one of them. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against mine.
I looked down at the key still clutched in my hand. Then back at him. And one thought landed with startling, terrifying certainty. If he'd pulled a different kind of ring out of his pocket tonight, I wouldn't have probably said yes.
I would've definitely said yes.