by Rae Kennedy
“I think we’re all done.” I hold a small mirror up for Grandpa so he can see. “Very handsome.”
His steely gray eyes visibly light up when he looks in the mirror and his lips pull back in a smile. His head bobs in a nod and then he lifts his hand to gently pat mine. His fingers are cool to the touch and his skin looks as thin and fragile as crinkled tissue paper, but it’s soft. He looks up at me with shiny eyes that seem to hold a glimmer of recognition as they focus on mine.
I put the mirror down and lay my other hand over his. “Hi, Pops.” I smile in hopes this is turning into one of his good days—one of the few days we get to have a conversation.
He pats my hand again. “Colleen,” he says with a content expression.
Confusing me with my mother doesn’t hurt as much as it used to. I smile wider and nod, willing tears not to well up in my eyes.
“Yeah, I’m here.”
* * *
The real Colleen is in a huff to get out the door when I get home.
“Ah, there you are. Will you make sure to unload the dishwasher before the dishes start piling up today? And the living room really needs vacuuming. Actually, if you could just vacuum the whole house—”
“Okay, Mom.”
“Don’t roll your eyes at me, Kyla Jean. It would be different if you were in school, but since you chose not to go to school and you have yet to find another job, you can help out around the house.”
She’s still bitter that I dropped out of the Miss Teen Illinois pageant at the last minute two years ago. If I’d won, it would have meant thousands of dollars in scholarship money. But after hearing from more than one pageant official that I’d do much better at the state and even national level if I lost twenty pounds, I’d had enough of all of it. I’m never going to have a six-pack or a thigh gap and that’s cool with me.
“I help out around here all the time.” I cross my arms.
“As you should. You live here. Rent free, I might add. Do you have any plans? You can’t just lounge around here all summer again. Are going to get a job? You can always come back to work at the diner.”
“I thought you said I was too volatile to work with your customers,” I say flatly.
“You can work in the kitchen.”
“Ugh. Mom.” I get where she’s coming from but sometimes I wish I had a sibling or anyone else she could focus some of her attention on. Being on the constant receiving end of her concern and “helpful suggestions” is exhausting. Maybe I need to find her a boyfriend. No, me first.
“I don’t need to work at the diner. I already have work for the summer.”
She raises her eyebrows incredulously.
“I’m going to be helping out Gracie’s dad on their ranch.”
Her eyebrows have now completely disappeared behind her bangs. “You’re going to be working...on a ranch?”
“They needed some extra help for the summer and since Gracie’s going to be gone and—as you’ve already so clearly pointed out—I have nothing better to do than lounge around the house, I volunteered.”
She still looks at me skeptically as she heads to the door. “All right. When do you start?”
“Tomorrow.”
* * *
Well, shit.
Now I actually have to convince Gracie’s dad to let me work on the ranch this summer. I mean, I’m very convincing when I want to be. I could probably follow him around, talking his ear off, and he’d give me some jobs to do just to get me to leave him alone. It’s a great plan, actually. I’ve needed an excuse to hang around Wes, and this will be perfect since he’ll be there too. I’ll just have to finagle it so that we are working together.
Yes, this will be perfect.
I smile to myself as I slather peanut butter and jelly on a slice of bread for a sandwich—my go-to dinner when I’m the only one home, which is...often. Anyway, it’s not sad, it’s delicious. Six-year-olds fucking know where it’s at.
I rinse off my single plate and knife in the sink then go to put them in the dishwasher, which—fuck—I forgot to unload. So now I’m unloading the dishwasher. The clanking and pinging of glasses and plates seems extra ridiculously loud when the rest of the house is so silent. I have to cram the last glass in the tiny corner cabinet near the sink because the large cabinet just above the dishwasher has a glass front and, according to my mother, it’s for displaying pretty things only. That’s another term for all of the fancy shit we never use. I close the cabinet door—it’s white with a little crystal knob that looks pretty with the pale blue walls. Pretty. Everything has to be pretty.
Normally, I would put the TV on so I can hear someone else’s voice—Lord knows I hear enough of my own. Alex Trebek always had a very soothing voice, actually. But I find myself just looking out the kitchen window once the dishes are put away. I need to get out of this house and I know exactly where to go.
Hey, if I’m going to go through with this plan, might as well start implementing it right now.
* * *
I’ve driven the road to Gracie’s house so many times I could do it blindfolded. I know that’s just something people say to exaggerate how second-nature something is to them, but I’m completely serious about this. I know every turn, every bump, every fucking rock on this route. It never changes and it always takes exactly six and a half songs to get there, give or take a half a song.
There are a few more cars than usual outside of the house when I pull up from the long gravel drive. Of course, because it’s Sunday, and they always have a big family dinner on Sundays. I know this—it just slipped my mind what day it is.
The gravel grinds underfoot as I walk up to the great white house and its wrap-around porch. It’s a large two-story, century-old farmhouse. The paint is starting to peel in places and the wood boards of the porch creek a bit, but I couldn’t imagine a more perfect house. Best of all, it’s always full. Full of people, full of food, full of laughter. I think I spent more time here growing up than I did at my own house.
But I was always here with Gracie, and now, being here uninvited without her, I feel like I’m intruding. Like I’m on the outside looking in. Maybe that’s because I am on the outside looking in—literally. I’m standing on the porch and looking in their dining room window like a creeper.
The whole family is there, minus Gracie. Her parents, Bev and Tom, her two eldest brothers, Jack and Charlie, and their wives and kids, her redheaded brother-who-shall-not-be-named, and her sister, Court, with her new husband, Tuck. I don’t think they are leaving on their honeymoon for a few more weeks.
They’re all huddled around a large oak table in mismatched chairs. Their old hound dog, Angus, is trotting around to each seat, testing out who will throw him some scraps. A simple chandelier casts a warm glow on the whole scene as they pass around steaming bowls of mashed potatoes and grilled corn and fried chicken.
My mouth waters as I register the savory aromas and I watch as they eat.
Two of the little boys are running around the room and Gracie’s little niece is hiding under the table, her blonde curls bouncing with giggles.
Gracie’s dad is so engrossed in whatever conversation he’s in with Tuck and Jack that I think he’s entirely forgotten about the chicken leg in his hand because he keeps swinging it around and has already almost knocked two glasses over. Bev touches his arm softly, giving him a you-need-to-chill-the-fuck-out look—I can see it from here, clear as day. If they offered a degree in reading facial expressions, I would have a freaking PhD. He sets down the weaponized poultry and I can’t see him smile at her from under his big copper-colored beard, but I can tell that he is from the way his eyes crinkle around the edges.
My parents divorced when I was three and my dad moved to Florida. I don’t have a bad relationship with my dad—I think you have to actually have a relationship to classify it as such. I just don’t see him. He sends me a birthday card every year, and that’s about it.
Angus’s deep howling bark pulls me out of my thoug
hts.
He barks again, and again. And now it sounds like he’s scratching at the other side of the front door.
Shit.
And then the door swings open and Eric is standing in the glow of the entryway, one eyebrow cocked and that stupid little smirk on his face again.
“What are you doing, Rosenbaum?”
Fuck. “Umm...”
“Are you stalking me? Because, honestly, I'm flattered. But coming to my family’s house and spying in the windows is a little extreme, even for you. Besides, you really ought to peep through my bedroom window if you’re wanting a show.”
“Are you done?” I fold my arms, bored with his joke already.
He looks up, tapping his finger on his chin and considering for a moment. “I guess now that I know you’ll be watching me through my window—you do know where I live, right? You’d be a pretty terrible stalker if you didn’t—”
“Yes, I know where you live but it’s not because I’m a stalker, it’s because you’re a twenty-seven-year-old who lives in his parents’ barn.”
“I don’t live in the barn. I live behind the barn.”
“Right. In a shed behind the barn.”
“It’s a cottage.”
Bev pops her head out the door behind Eric before I can respond. “Oh, Kyla dear, what a wonderful surprise! Come in, come in.”
“Thanks, Mrs. G.” I smile sweetly at her—it’s the one that’s halfway between a shy smile and my beauty pageant smile.
I follow her through the door without another word to Eric, but he doesn’t move far enough out of the way, causing me to bump against his arm as I walk by. I make a face at him and he shrugs.
Bev waves off my assurance that I already ate dinner and insists I sit and eat with them.
“So what brings you ‘round?” Tom asks from across the crowded table.
Right. Let’s just get down to business. “I actually came to ask a favor.”
“Shoot,” he says, leaning back in his chair.
“I’m looking for some work this summer, and since Gracie is gone, and I know she usually helps out around the ranch, and summer is your busiest time of year, I was thinking I could do some work for you.”
He’s quiet for a moment, running his hand over his beard.
“Oh, how lovely,” Bev says with her hand over her heart then turns to Tom. “Don’t you think that’s a lovely idea, honey?” she says a little more forcefully.
“Could always use another set of hands,” he agrees, assessing me with his warm brown eyes. “But you’ll need to learn to ride.”
“Thank you so much, Mr. G. You won’t regret it. I am a hard worker, and I’m up for anything, and I’ll learn to ride—"
He chuckles, smoothing out his beard and holding a hand up. “I don’t doubt your work ethic or your determination to accomplish something when you put your mind to it.”
Damn right.
“Have Eric or Wes give you some riding lessons,” Tom says. “In the meantime, there’s plenty you can help with around the homestead. We start work at five-thirty.”
“In the morning?” I try to keep my eyes from bugging out. Of course he means five-thirty in the morning. I know they work early but a little part of me is still praying that I’d misheard.
“Yeah,” Eric says, trying to hide his laughter behind the neck of his beer bottle. “Five-thirty in the morning, Rosenbaum.”
I scowl at him because I really did know that.
I plaster a wide smile on when I look to Tom. “I’ll be here!” I think I managed to sound convincingly enthusiastic at the unnatural idea of getting up before the sun.
When everyone gets up and starts clearing the table, Bev insists that I stay and takes my plate because I’m a guest. Of course this means Eric decides to slide into the now-vacated seat next to me, because why not?
He’s wearing a foxlike grin. His whole coloring is foxlike, actually.
“So,” he says. “Who do you want to give you lessons? Me or Wes?”
“Why are you asking a question you already know the answer to?”
“Right. So this is all part of your plan to get with Wes, then?”
“You make me sound so conniving. I’m not trying to trick him. But we do actually have to spend time together for him to get to know me and see how wonderful I am and realize we were meant to be together.”
“Sounds totally non-stalkery.”
I angle toward him in my seat. “You’re just jealous because I’m not stalking you and you’ve spent the last hour choreographing a nude dance number you were hoping I’d see through your window tonight, which you’re now realizing is useless.”
“Wow. The accuracy. You’ve really got me pegged.”
“I didn’t take you for the type who’s into pegging.”
Eric spits out his beer, splattering it across the cream-colored tablecloth. He looks at me incredulously as he wipes his mouth.
“Shit, Ky. You’re going to make me choke.”
“Now choking, that seems more like your kink.”
He blinks rapidly with his mouth open for a few moments before he starts to say something but his parents come back in the room before he forms a coherent word.
I stand and thank them for welcoming me in, the delicious dinner, and the opportunity to do some work. Then I wave goodbye sweetly to Eric as I leave, taking full advantage of the opportunity to wear the smug smile for once while he bites his lip.
“See you tomorrow, Gallagher.”
“Rosenbaum.”
CHAPTER 3
I spend most of the morning mucking the horse stalls while the guys are out doing Lord-knows-what. Know what mucking means? It means cleaning up shit. Literally, I am shoveling and scraping up horse poop and soiled bedding and hauling it off by the wheelbarrow-load. Anyway, it’s fine. It smells. But it’s fine.
Also, I’m sweaty. So sweaty.
It is actually sort of rewarding when everything is swept away and I can lay down some new clean, dry straw for the horses. It smells better at least.
I’m grateful when it’s time to go up to the house for lunch because I am starving. Bev has an amazing spread of roast beef sandwiches with au jus. They’re dripping with mozzarella cheese and definitely the most amazing thing I’ve had in my mouth in at least the last three months. That sounds like an oddly specific timeframe, but it feels right. She also has out fresh slices of watermelon and a vat of coleslaw. I always wondered how these guys can eat like they do and yet still have such lean, muscular physiques. Wonder no more, Kyla, it’s called manual labor and they work fucking hard for it.
“You ready to ride after this?” Wes asks from across the table just as we are finishing up. His blue eyes are cheerful and his lopsided grin that flashes just the hint of his bright white teeth is the perfect mixture of boyish charm and manly sex appeal.
Very manly.
“I am so ready.” I’ve been waiting for this moment all day.
“I’ll help too,” Eric chimes in while chewing a big hunk of sandwich.
“We’re fine,” I say keeping my voice pleasant. “I think Wes can manage to teach me on his own.”
Eric shrugs and rips another piece of roast beef off his sandwich. “I don’t have anything better to do.”
Know that unamused emoji face? That is me right now.
Eric is either unable to accurately decipher facial expressions or he just doesn’t care. My vote is for the latter.
So he follows us as we walk down to the stables.
I ignore him and focus on engaging with Wes. I ask him about his family. He’s an only child like me and was raised by a single mom like me as well. He tells me his mom, Peggy, is doing well. She works at the bank in town and just got promoted to manager this year. I know all this already but it’s nice to hear him talk. He’s usually on the quieter side—not shy, just isn’t the super chatty type. It’s a shame because when he talks, one side of his upper lip curls up more than the other, and it’s like he has a perma
nent smile on his face.
I could stare at that smile, that face, all day. The stubble growing in along his jaw makes him look extra rugged and his shirt is a dark blue plaid button-up that plays up his eyes. And those jeans. They’re tight. Fuck. His thighs are thick and his ass looks so good.
Avert your eyes, Kyla. Now, goddammit.
Back to the face. Much safer. Did I mention he’s wearing a cowboy hat? Well, he is and it’s glorious.
“Which horse do you want to ride? They’re all pretty gentle,” Wes says as we get to the super clean stables. And no, I wasn’t looking at his butt again.
I step closer to him so that I have to look up, my arm just barely brushing along his. “Which horse do you prefer to ride?”
He flashes me a big smile. “I usually ride Gideon.”
I follow him as he strides to the end stall where a tall horse is standing. His coat is a shiny, dark mahogany. He has a black muzzle and a long, black mane.
“I’ll ride him, then.”
“You should ride Daphne,” Eric says from behind us.
Shit, I forgot he was there.
“Yeah, Daphne would be a great horse to learn with,” Wes agrees.
I look to the chestnut mare by Eric with the pretty white dappling. She’s shorter and wider than Gideon but I'm not going to let Eric take over my lesson.
“I want to go with Gideon. I think I can handle him.”
“I’m sure you can,” Wes says with a smile and a wink.
He winked at me. Oh my god. Is he flirting with me?
I watch as he saddles up the horse. He’s explaining how to do it as he goes but if he were to give me a quiz on it later I would totally fail because I am completely distracted by his forearms. His sleeves are rolled up to the elbow, exposing his arms in all their tan and muscular glory. There are veins, people! Veins.
We go out to the little pasture that’s connected to the stables with Eric grumbling behind—probably about me going against his horse suggestion. This area is completely fenced off and not very big, which is good. There will definitely be no galloping and leaping going on in here in case Gideon gets excited.
“All right, let’s get you in the saddle.” Wes puts his hand out to me while patting Gideon’s neck.