Bobby’s taken a few healthy bites too, shoveling it in as fast as I am as though he hasn’t eaten all day. I swallow, lifting my chin toward his plate. “Hungry after a hard day?”
He pauses, setting his fork aside. “Same as usual. Picked plums all day.”
“I expected you to say you’d be riding horses all day or rustling cattle. Something like that,” I tease, faking a country accent.
He flashes white teeth so fast it might’ve been a smile or might’ve been a threat. “That what you think a cowboy does all day?”
I shrug. “Isn’t it?”
He mirrors my shrug. “That’s mostly what my brother, Brody, does with Mark. They handle the cattle. My brother Brutal and I do the farming. My sister, Shay, does whatever shit she comes up with—soaps, jams, cakes, and such.”
I blink, trying to filter all the info he shared into something resembling a family tree. “So, you have three brothers and a sister? Brody, Mark, Brutal, Shay, and you?” I swear Olivia said there were two brothers, but the name Brutal is all that really stuck in my mind. Well, that and the image of Bobby throwing a hell of a punch, because that was definitely memorable.
“Nah,” he says, shaking his head. “Two brothers, one sister . . . officially. But the Bennetts, that’s who bought our ranch, took us on, and we’re thick as thieves now. There are three Bennett brothers too, Mark, Luke, and James. And they’re all married, Mark to Katelyn, Luke to my sister, and James to Sophie. Plus, Brody’s got Rix, and Brutal’s got Allyson and a boy, Cooper. And on her throne sits Mama Louise, riding herd over all of us.” He doesn’t sound like he minds that at all, which is surprising. He seems like a rogue, lone wolf somehow who doesn’t let anyone or anything tell him what to do.
But maybe I’m wrong about that? It doesn’t happen often, but sometimes, people are more complicated than they first appear.
Like Unc.
Almost reading my mind, Bobby asks, “What about your family? Big? Small? Normal? Crazy?” He goes back to eating while I think about how to answer that.
“Small and somewhere between normal and crazy, I’d say. Mom and Dad are both hippies who somehow managed to raise two kids. Mom owns an art gallery, Dad is a freelance environmental scientist, and my brother, Oakley, is the black sheep of the family.” I lower my voice as though I’m sharing a secret. “He’s an accountant. And his wife, Madison, is a forensic accountant. They literally discuss math and spreadsheets over dinner.” I shudder, my eyes wide in fake horror.
He chuckles, sipping at his tea. “What about Hank? What’s the thread from you to him?”
Isn’t that a knotted tangle of a snag? But I answer anyway, hearing the pain in my voice but not trying to hide it. “He’s my mom’s dad’s brother. I hadn’t seen him for a while because there was some drama I was too young to really understand a few years back. But when my grandfather died and I got older, it just seemed like it was time. I didn’t want to miss out on something—on Unc—because of things that didn’t have anything to do with me.”
Bobby places his hand over mine comfortingly. His skin is warm, soft, but I can feel the rough calluses along his fingertip where it dances over my knuckles. “I know Hank is glad you’re here. I haven’t seen him smile this much in years.”
I smile, having guessed that Unc isn’t really the smiling sort, but I have seen a softer side coming out the last few days. He’s been less grumpy about letting me help, and he even thanked me for doing so much. And he did leave early for poker, something Doc said was a first. Unc might have been surprised at my unexpected visit, but I think he’s glad I’m here now, which means I’m doing exactly what I’m supposed to do.
“I’m glad you’re here too.”
Blunt and bold, and suddenly, his touch is full of heat, not comfort. His finger traces down the length of mine, then back up and down the next. It’s as though he’s memorizing my hand, inch by inch, and for such a relatively casual touch, it feels immensely intimate.
His eyes follow his finger, devouring my skin, and I watch as his jaw tightens. He is a monster in cowboy clothing, a Wrangler-wearing good old boy who is so far out of my league, it’s not even funny.
I should move my hand away. I know I should. But I’m frozen in place, stuck in his magnetic pull that feels so good, sending tingles from my fingertips to places much more needy.
He threads his fingers through mine, effectively holding my hand like we’re kids on a date across the bar. Slowly, his eyes trace higher, eventually meeting mine directly. I know my gray eyes are probably as wide and bright as his are hooded and dark.