“I love you, too.” I cough again and Sam reaches over, pressing the back of his hand to my forehead.
“You feel a little warm.”
“I’m fine. Don’t baby me. But really, do baby me. I like it even though I’ll say I don’t. Though if you treat me like I’m sick, then I will get sick.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” he chuckles. “If I need to give you a quick lesson on how viruses work, I will. But we should get Mason in on it first. He still lacks medical common sense.”
“And to think they let him carry a gun.”
“Right? He’s still my annoying younger brother,” Sam admits. “I forget he’s all grown—wait, he’s not.”
I laugh, but the laugh turns into a cough. It’s one of those coughs that hurts way down deep in your chest, but again, I ignore it because I don’t have time to be sick. Sam gets out first, telling me to wait so he can open my door and hold the umbrella for me. He’s such a gentleman, really. They don’t make men like him too often anymore.
“It really cooled off,” I say, wishing I’d brought my jacket that I left at my dad’s. I have winter gear stored in his basement, since I obviously don’t need it home in LA. Jacob’s mud-covered pickup bumps down the driveway right as we get onto the back porch.
“Hey!” he calls, rolling down the window. “I just got a call about a baby horse being born. Want to come with?”
My eyes light up and I nod enthusiastically. “I’d love to! Want to come?” I ask Sam.
“Let me get you a coat, and then yeah, let’s go.” He puts his lips to mine. “Go get in the truck and stay warm. I’ll be right out. And you owe me sex in my childhood room for this.”
I laugh, but feel another rush go through me. “Deal.”“Here, babe.” Sam hands me a cup of warm tea. We stood in a cold barn for nearly two hours, first watching the cutest foal being born, which was amazing and beautiful even though it was much messier than I anticipated. Things seemed perfect until the mare suddenly got weak after giving birth, and Jacob had to rush to give her medical treatment.
Both mama and baby horse are doing fine now, and I’m in the Harrises’ living room, sitting on the couch with a fuzzy blanket over my lap. It’s still raining, which is more than a little disappointing since I was hoping to go walk through the woods, or at the very least, sit out by the dock. The doors leading to the covered back porch and patio are cracked open, letting in the gentle sound of the falling rain.
I take a drink of tea, try not to make a face from all the sugar, and set it on the coffee table. Sam sits next to me and I spread the blanket out to cover both of us. Mason was already in the living room watching a serial killer documentary on Netflix, and has been grumbling the whole time about how the case should have been handled differently, and how he would have caught the guy if he’d been assigned to the case…never mind that this all happened thirty years ago.
Resting my head on Sam’s shoulder, I’m almost asleep when Jacob comes back over, joining us in the living room.
“You are a lively bunch,” he notes, sitting on the couch.
“There’s nothing to do,” Mason says back, eyes still on the TV. It’s raining and this town isn’t exactly hopping.
“I just picked up a bunch of puzzles,” Mrs. Harris tells us, looking up from her sewing table. What would have traditionally been an office has been converted into her sewing room, with double French doors that open into the front foyer and give a view into the living room.
“Puzzles? Sounds so fun,” Jacob quips.
“We could make it a competition,” Mason suggests.
Sam turns, eyebrow raised. “How the hell do you make putting a puzzle together competitive?”
“You can make anything competitive when you drink,” Mason shoots back.
“That still doesn’t answer my question.”
Mason thinks for a second. “Everyone starts by taking a shot. Then we set a timer for fifteen minutes. Whichever team has made the least amount of progress has to take another shot. And we’ll repeat every fifteen minutes.”
Amused, I look at Sam, who’s staring at his youngest brother incredulously.
“Sometimes I wonder how you’ve made it this far in life,” he says, and Mason laughs.
“You’re just afraid you’re going to lose. Plus, we all know you can’t hold your liquor,” Mason shoots back.
“The last time I threw up after drinking too much was in high school,” Sam rounds.
“You drank in high school?” Mrs. Harris says, leaning over her table to get a better look in the living room.
“No,” all three boys answers together, and I laugh.