“You came back,” I say, still stunned as my heart pounds.
She’s really here? Like she was in her room this whole fucking time I was pouting down here?
She turns her head over her shoulder, looking at both of us like we’re idiots.
She definitely won’t handle a hug right now.
“Can someone look at the shift on the tractor?” she asks, changing the subject. “It’s sticking. And the vacuum? It’s way, way too loud.” She pours a little cream in her coffee and stirs. “Just because y’all build motorcycles does not mean everything on this property needs to be rewired to sound like a muscle car.”
She picks up her cup and starts to walk out of the room.
“I’ll handle Bernadette, feed the horses and dogs, and pick all the tomatoes before I get started on breakfast,” she tells us. “Would someone mind bringing a load of wood up to my room sometime today? It’s getting too cold at night.”
She leaves the room, heading back upstairs, and I stare at my dad, my mouth hanging open a little.
“I’m not feeding you until the stalls are done and Shawnee’s had her work-out!” she yells as she climbs the stairs. “Let’s go!”
My dad’s eyes go wide and he pops out of his chair, stuffing the last piece of bacon in his mouth as I laugh, downing a huge gulp of orange juice before rushing out of the kitchen.
Yes, ma’am
I finish putting a blanket over the mare and run my hand down her head, between the eyes before closing the gate and scurrying out of the barn.
I shiver. Shit, it got chilly. The sun dipped behind the peak an hour ago, and while it’s not quite dark, I’m missing its warmth. Grabbing my sweatshirt draped over the logs, I pull it over my head, fixing my hat again.
“Tiernan!” I shout, watching her step out of the greenhouse and yank the hose back over to the side. “Let’s get drunk!”
She flashes me a small smile, and I inhale, smelling the steaks on the grill.
She jogs up the steps of the house, her rain boots covered in dried mud from the last time she wore them, and I run after her, both of us heading around the deck to the back of the house.
I grab two beers out of the tub, swiping off the ice and untwisting the tops. I hand one to her as we stop next to my dad.
“It’s chilly.” She bounces up and down.
I pull off my sweatshirt and hand it to her. She’s already wearing my old blue and white flannel, but she doesn’t argue. Taking the navy-colored pullover, she slips it on and takes the extra beer I offer.
“Never too cold to grill,” my dad points out.
She smiles. “It smells good. I’m starving.”
He loads the steaks on a plate, I take the grilled corn, and Tiernan runs inside to grab the macaroni salad and potato chips.
We set everything down on the picnic table in the shop, the doors open, and the music playing as the evening air grows crisper. The beer lulls my veins, and I polish off the bottle as I reach behind me and grab the bottle of Patrón off the worktable.
I pour us each a shot, handing one to Tiernan.
“Uh, no,” she says, setting the condiments on the table.
“Yes.” I nod, placing it next to her plate. “We’re getting fucked up.”
Kaleb walks over, taking a seat, and I throw back my shot, blowing a breath at the burn. I slam the glass down and let out a yelp as it hits my stomach, leaping around the table, scooping Tiernan up, and flipping her over my shoulder.
“Because she’s ours all winter!” I spin around, hearing her squeal.
“Noah!” she barks.
But I laugh anyway. Thank fuck this day is ending better than it started. I might’ve actually had to stand up for myself and walk out of here for good.
Having her around will make this house bearable. She makes my dad bearable.
“For Christ’s sake, sit down,” Dad orders. “Eat like a family.”
I put her back on her feet, chuckling and pushing her down in her chair.
Popping another beer, I watch as her eyes lock in on the tequila and she cocks an eyebrow.
Come on. My father never drinks enough to get drunk, and Kaleb could drink my weight in Jack, Jim, and Jose together and still not feel anything.
She takes a deep breath and picks up the glass as my dad doles out the steak, and she tips it back, swallowing the entire shot in one gulp.
And without training wheels. Good girl.
I refill my glass and then hers.
“Stop.” She holds out her hand. “I don’t need to be puking.”
“Tell you what,” I say as she scoops out salad onto our plates. “I’ll make you a bet. If I clean my plate of all my food before you, you have to do two more shots.”
She looks at the T-bone on her plate that’s bigger than her face.
“And if I clean mine first?” she asks.
“Then I’ll do the two shots.”
“You were going to do the two shots anyway.”
I snort. Yes, true.
“I’ll do your laundry this week,” I offer.
“No one else touches my underwear, thank you.”
“Yeah, that’s clear as day.”
Her eyes bug out, and my father breaks into a quiet laugh, he and her sharing a quick glance right before he shuts up.
She purses her lips and glares at me.
“Okay, okay,” I say, getting serious. “If you clean your plate first, I have breakfast duty for the rest of the week.”
She ponders it for a moment and then nods once. “Deal.”
I pick up my steak knife and fork, seeing we both have the same cut of meat and the same scoop of macaroni salad.
Her hands remain in her lap.
“Ready?” she asks.
“You don’t need utensils?”
She shakes her head, an unsettling smirk on her face. “Nope.”
Okayyy. You’re so doing these two shots.
“Go!” I yell.
I shovel in a mouthful and look over, seeing her take her plate and set it on the ground.
Huh?
I freeze, watching Danny and Johnny scarf up everything on her plate, one taking the steak and the other tearing off half as they both escape to a corner to savor their spoils.
What the fuck?
“That wasn’t the deal!” I blurt out, food nearly falling out of my mouth.
“You said I had to clean my plate.”
“You!” I reiterate. “YOU had to clean the plate!”
“Semantics.” She takes a swig of her beer, a look of self-satisfaction on her face.
“That was your dinner, honey,” Dad warns her.
She shrugs. “Saving calories for breakfast in the morning.” And then she looks at me. “Pancakes, please. With sausage and toast.”
She laughs, and I growl under my breath.
At least I can still do her two shots.
We sit and eat, Tiernan picking a sweet pickle out of the little bowl and biting into it.
“Snow’s coming soon,” Dad tells us, lifting his beer as he looks at Tiernan. “We’ll hit town a couple more times, maybe get you some low-key attire of your own that fits.”
“She can wear my shit.” I chew my food. “I got plenty.”
“She’s drowning in it.” And then he looks at her again. “We’ll find some jeans that fit that don’t cost three-hundred dollars.”
“Three. Hundred. Dollars.” I arch a brow at her. “What the hell possesses you?”
She scowls and opens her mouth to snap back at me but then she stops, pausing as she notices Kaleb putting a new plate in front of her and scraping off half his steak, already cut up into bite-sized chunks.
He doesn’t make eye contact and goes back to eating and drinking as if nothing happened.
“Uh…” She searches for her words. “Th—thank you.”
I roll my eyes and take a drink of my beer. I should’ve thought of that.
It takes her a minute to remember where we were, but then she glares at me again. “First of all,” she says, “my family’s personal shopper buys my clothes—or bought my clothes—and second of all…they look good.”
“You don’t need to look good,” my father interjects. “Looking good around here ends you up married and pregnant at eighteen.”
“Your sons definitely know what a condom is and so do I.”
I snort.
“Besides,” she adds, “I haven’t had a single boyfriend. When I’ve had three then you can worry about me ending up pregnant and married.”
“Three?” I mumble over my food.
She hesitates, looking like she’d rather not explain herself. “My mother said no woman should get married until they’ve had at least three…”
She waves her hand as if I know how to finish that sentence.
“Three…?” my father prompts her.
“Lovers,” she blurts out. “Boyfriends, whatever.”
I pinch my eyebrows together. “What the hell are you talking about?”
She lets out a sigh, straightening her spine and looking visibly uncomfortable. Finally, she takes the ketchup, Heinz sauce, and A.1. bottle, moving them one next to the other.
“Lust, learn, and love,” she says, placing the condiments and touching her finger to the ketchup. “My mother said the first boy—or man—is a crush. You think you love them, but what you really love is how they make you feel. It’s not love. It’s lust. Lust for attention. Lust for danger. Lust to feel special.” She looks between us. “You’re needy with number one. Needy for someone to love you.”
My father forgets the food he’s chewing as he gapes at her.
“The second is to learn about yourself.” She touches the Heinz. “Your first crush has been crushed. You’re sad, but most of all, you’re angry. Angry enough to not let it happen again,” she explains. “To not give yourself over so much this time. To not give up your power to be his booty call at midnight and there waiting whenever he decides to show up.”
She’s describing us, I take it.