I hope he gets it. I hope he thinks it’s cute. I hope he doesn’t think it’s stupid.

  It’s not negative self-talk, not really. It’s just that today is major and I want it all to go perfectly. This will be a story we tell each other around the fireplace fifty years from now, and the planner-perfectionist side of me hasn’t left anything to chance.

  Except Bruce’s reaction.

  I wrap my arms around his waist tighter, giving his wide berth a good squeeze. He pats my hands with one of his, enveloping me. “You okay?” He’s quiet, sensing there’s something going on with me but giving me the time and space to open up when I’m ready.

  We’ve gotten so good at this. At talking, at being together, at being… healthy. It wasn’t easy, and it didn’t always happen the first time. I still gave him shit, making him pay for mistakes he didn’t make when I’d get scared at just how big my feelings for this man truly are and how vulnerable that made me. But he’s been nothing but patient with me, usually kind but sometimes forceful when he needed to be, not letting me duck away from us.

  It makes me feel free. He makes me feel free, safe in the cocoon of his strong arms and endless love.

  Which is why I’m not really nervous about Bruce’s reaction. I’m excited. That’s what this buzz of butterflies in my belly is… anticipation.

  We’re almost there, so I start the story I planned on telling.

  “You remember when we first met?” I press my cheek to his back, the memories washing through me. I’d been a young girl, on the verge of a life-changing moment and not even knowing it. All I’d known was absolute horror at the prospect of giving a speech in front of my whole class.

  “Speech class?” The vibration of his answer feels good against my cheek and I smile.

  “I was so nervous and no one was listening- “

  “I was listening to you.” He sounds offended, as if I dare question that he hangs on my every word. To his point, he pretty much does. He’ll listen to me rant about how inaccurate Law and Order is, and how ridiculous Judge Judy is, even though I still binge watch every episode of both of them. They’re my guilty pleasures.

  “Okay, so you were listening to me wax poetic about saving the ducks. But no one else was. I think that’s when we started falling in love.” I sigh dreamily, lost to the happy times of our youth before everything went wonky. Before everything got back on track.

  Bruce snorts. “I was already half in love with you, that’s why I was listening to you talk about baby ducks. I started falling in love with you on the first day of school when you walked into that class and sat down like you were holding court. Blonde, blue-eyed cheerleader with a smile for everyone… you fucking blew my mind. I pretty much started jacking off to mental pictures of you that night.”

  I make a noise of displeasure, but really, I’m blushing and pleased at the vulgar compliment. “Uh! So crude! I’m trying to be sweet and romantic here, and you’re ruining it.”

  He drops his voice down low and grumbly, knowing exactly what it does to me. He’s not playing fair at all. “You didn’t mind me being crude a little while ago in the middle of your dream kitchen.”

  “Well, that speech was when I started falling in love, and that’s a sweeter story, so I’m sticking with it.” I dig my chin into the bulky muscle of his shoulder, daring him to disagree. He merely grunts, so I take it as a win. “And that was when you asked me out too. Today’s that anniversary.”

  I’m trying to time it just right.

  We crest over the ridge, the pond stretched out below us, surrounded by its grassy drop-off shore and filled with… yellow rubber ducks.

  Bruce’s barking laughter peals out loud and joyful over the hills of the ranch, and I revel in its lightness. My brutal monster of a man cracking up so hard he’s got tears leaking out of his eyes.

  “What the fuck, Al? Did you fill the pond with ducks for our anniversary?” He’s twisting in the saddle, trying to see me and the pond at the same time.

  I laugh too. “I did. I thought it’d be cute. Do you like it?” I’m grinning like a loon, not even needing his answer because I know he does.

  “Come here.” Bruce’s voice has gone soft and frayed at the edges. He grabs my waist and pulls me to the front of him, my legs straddled backwards over his but Lollipop doesn’t even stumble a single step.

  Good boy, Lollipop, I think, and then Bruce wipes every thought from my mind with a kiss.

  His lips melt over mine, sweet and soft but deep with history. He’s the boy I fell in love with so long ago, but he’s more than that. I’m the girl he fell in love with so long ago, but I’m more than that now too. Somehow, who we became is who we were always meant to be, twists and turns and all that just adding depth to the flavor of our love.

  When we come up for breath, Bruce presses his forehead to mine, his palm heavy on my neck as he looks deep into my eyes. “I love the ducks. And I love you, Allyson Tannen. Always have, always will.”

  Tears try to fall, stinging and burning at the corners of my eyes. For so long, I cried at night, full of fear and doubts, until I almost gave up on caring and was empty inside, too much of a husk to cry. But now… every tear I cry is of happiness because of the man in front of me. He makes me so damn happy, makes our son so happy, and is the true love of my life. “I love you too, Bruce Tannen. Always have, always will.”

  We kiss again, not for the past, and not even for the present. But for the future, because it holds so much possibility now.

  “What are we gonna do with a couple hundred rubber duckies, baby?” Bruce sounds like he’s still a little in shock at my crazy gift.

  “Save them, of course,” I declare. “I’ve already got plans for them.”

  He lifts one dark brow, probably trying to figure out what closet he’s going to store them in because he’d do that for me, no matter how crazy it sounds.

  “Until July at least. Then we’re donating them to the town festival for their duck pond game. Every kid’s a winner.” I wave around invisible pompoms and smile, knowing he didn’t see that coming at all.

  “Thank fuck! Though maybe we can keep one as a souvenir if you want?” He presses his lips together and nods like he’s making a big concession for me.

  My big, gruff and growly cowboy has a sweet, romantic side and he wants that duck for himself, sure as the sun’s gonna set tonight, but I’ll let him blame me for it to save face. I already know what a big teddy bear he is. “Sure, we can keep one. Maybe we’ll paint a heart on it, put it on your nightstand so you can remember the day you asked me out and started falling in love with me.” I raise a brow pointedly and he smiles.

  “That sounds real nice, Al. That was such a great day, the start of us.” He places a sweet kiss to my forehead and Lollipop starts to wiggle. “Oops, guess we’re wearing out our welcome. Let’s get down to the pond and have lunch, let this guy roam a bit.”

  I hug Bruce tight, putting my head on his shoulder and he hitches me up higher so I’m basically straddling him and not resting on the saddle at all. This is not the way to ride a horse, it’s ridiculously awkward, a bit painful, and if Luke saw us, he’d probably cuss a blue-streak that we’re destroying Lollipop’s training, but I’m not letting go of Bruce right now, so we carefully and slowly meander towards the pond.

  We’re going to celebrate where we began. And to celebrate where we are. And even though it was rough as fuck, to celebrate the road in between that brought us back together.

  ROUGH EDGE

  1

  BRODY

  “Well, as I live and breathe. Is that you, Brody Tannen? I haven’t seen you in ages, boy!”

  Mrs. Perkinson squints her rheumy eyes at me and I do my best not to cringe. It’s not that she’s unkind, but she’s at least the fifth person to tell me the same thing this afternoon alone. You’d think I hide out on the ranch and never see the light of day in town. There might be some truth to it, but I don’t need people pointing it out left and right all damn day.

  “Good afternoon, ma’am.” It’s the bare minimum of words to not be accused of rudeness. I’d know because I’ve tested it over the years. My preference was a simple ‘hello’, one word and done, but apparently, that made me sound like a grunting ass and didn’t meet the requirements of respecting my elders. So the needlessly complicated ‘good fill-in-the-blank’ and ‘ma’am’ or ‘sir’ is what I’ve gone with.

  So far, so good. And I’m almost done with deliveries of my sister’s homemade, high-demand seasonal treats, not only for the day, but for the entire week. No more pies, no more jellies and jams, no more soaps, and best of all, no more people. I can’t wait to not have to people. Yes, that’s a verb, because again, it’s simpler to say ‘people’ than ‘I don’t prefer to socialize, thank you very much’ because who needs all those useless words when one will get the same message across just fine?

  “Get your hiney on into my kitchen and let me feed you. Skin and bones, you are!” Mrs. Perkinson’s bony finger juts out, poking at the thick slab of muscle on my chest.

  Great. She’s obviously gone blind as a bat if she thinks I’m skinny. Most people cross the street when they see me coming—too tall, too broad, too brooding, too asshole, with a reputation of kicking ass first and asking questions never. I’m too busy being busy to give a shit with consequences unless they affect my family.

  “As much as I’d like that, ma’am, Shayanne would have my hide,” I say with as much ‘aw shucks’ as I can muster, not a single fuck given that I’m throwing my sister under the bus, but I can’t help scratching at my lip with my thumb as the lie passes between them. “I’m on her schedule, you see.”

  She takes the jar of lemon curd from my hand, signaling the end of this conversation. Or at least I hope it does, but I’ve still got to say polite goodbyes and whatnot or she’ll be tattling on me to Shay for sure.

  “Well, that girl works her tailfeathers off, so I won’t begrudge her requiring the same of you lot. Only way to keep you hellions in check is a firm hand. Glad to hear she’s got one.” Sweet Mrs. Perkinson becomes a bitchy old biddy right before my eyes, and I’m no longer willing to uphold niceties when she’s insulting me and my brothers, even if she is one of Shay’s customers.

  Without so much as a goodbye, because I ain’t wasting words when I don’t have to, I turn and shuffle down the two steps of her porch. I climb into our old farm truck and peel out of her driveway. She probably thinks I just proved her point, that I’m a rude motherfucker with no proper manners despite my poor sister’s attempts to housebreak me, but I don’t care.

  If anything, I raised Shayanne, not the other way around. Little thing was just thirteen when Mom passed. She took over that role without a fuss, but she needed some guidance growing up, and that responsibility fell to me as the man of the house, because Dad sure as hell wasn’t.

  Not that I’m thinking of him.

  May the Devil himself be pissing on his soul down in hell.

  I hear Mom scolding me in my head and sigh heavily as the speedometer creeps up to sixty on the old country road. “Fine, Mom. I hope Dad’s resting comfortably in hell, does that work for you? Because we both know he ain’t up there with you. When you were here, maybe it could’ve gone that way. But you know how it was later, so don’t be rewriting history now because it’s rude to speak ill of the dead.”

  I turn the radio up to drown out the voices in my head. I don’t hear them very often anymore, not Mom’s sweet assurances that I’m doing okay and definitely not Dad’s harsh bites that I’m fucking everything up. Truth be told, they’re both right in some ways.

  But the growl of the old diesel engine drowns them both out easily, and they float away on the wind blowing through the open window. Along with any preconceived notions Mrs. Perkinson has.

  For a moment, I’m free.

  Wind in my hair, Johnny Cash on the radio, a thermos of diesel-strong black coffee in the seat beside me, and the blessedly open road before me. The speedometer cranks higher, and there are no responsibilities weighing on my shoulders like stones, no expectations gripping with tight fingers to hold me in place.

  I’m Brody Tannen. I’m myself, but also not.

  I’m nothing and no one. I’m free. And it’s bliss.

  Right up until the old truck jerks, slowing down even though I never let up on the pedal.

  “Shit, Bessie! What the fuck are you doing? At least hold it together until we get to town.” Okay, so I’m sweet-talking the truck like the girl I took to the senior homecoming game, and perhaps more relevant, the afterparty where she got drunk as a skunk and nearly puked in my truck.

  Bessie—the truck, not the girl—sputters but rallies and keeps chugging along, down to twenty-five now. The ride is rough and jerky, but we’re so close to town, I can see signs rising high in the sky. I rub at the dash encouragingly instead of pulling over. “See . . . just up ahead, girl.”

  I scan, looking for a parking lot I can pull over into, not as familiar with the main drag on this side of the mountain. When Shayanne expanded the delivery radius of her homemade treat business to this side of the mountain, I’d told her to go for it, thinking it’d be our brothers, Brutal and Bobby, doing the deliveries, or hell, even Shayanne herself when she could. I didn’t give a shit. I didn’t plan on coming to the far side myself, and I definitely didn’t plan on getting stuck over here. But that was then, and here I am now.

  Like a beacon rising in the sky, I see a white sign ahead. Cole Automotive.

  Son of a bitch, must be my lucky day in some twisted sort of way. It’d be damn better if Bessie were running smooth as butter, but I’ll take a mechanic shop over parking in some pot-hole-riddled, abandoned lot of a closed dollar store. Anywhere better than that would probably call the police on me for abandoning a piece of shit like this.

  Sorry, Bessie, but you know it’s true.

  I jerk my way into the lot, cranking the engine off as soon as possible. “Fuck!” The bark of frustration is timed perfectly with the bang of my fist on the steering wheel. The sentiment is repeated as I slam the door.

  I turn toward the bay doors of the garage, thankful that they’re still open at least. The sun’s starting to move down in the sky, foretelling a hell of a sunset, but that’ll be a few hours away with the long spring days. It takes a second for my eyes to adjust to the dimmer light inside and my ears to adjust to the absolutely blaring heavy metal music.

  “Motherfucker.” The murmur isn’t silent, but no one would know that because of the music’s volume.

  I see a small coverall-clad figure standing on a stool, ass in the air and head buried in the engine compartment of a truck. “Hey, kid!”

  No response. Not even a flinch.

  “Hey! Kid!”

  I step to the side, reaching out to tap the kid on the shoulder. But instead of the ‘good afternoon, sir’ that manners and customer service require, according to Shay, I get greeted by a wrench swinging up in an arc from inside the vehicle to aim right at my head. My hand shoots out automatically, catching the kid’s wrist to stop the attack. “What the fuck?”

  The kid’s wrist twists in my hand, some looping motion that breaks it free, and at the same time, a steel-toed boot connects with my gut and pushes me back.

  Pushes me back, all two hundred pounds of don’t-fuck-with-me warning-labeled asshole actually moving from the kid’s shove.

  “Get your fucking hands off me, motherfucker.”

  The response is threatening and more of a lip reading, but the message is loud and clear. It also comes accompanied with a press of the wrench to my throat that keeps me off-balance after the not-quite kick.

  “Hey, hey . . . sorry . . . just trying to get your attention.” Every bit of my apology is yelled at volume eleven in an attempt to be heard over the music and drown out my own instincts to instantly fight back.

  And something suddenly becomes real fucking crystal clear. It’s not a kid in front of me. It’s a woman. A gorgeous one.

  She’s tiny, maybe five feet tall at most, and swallowed by her navy-blue coveralls, which are rolled up at the arms and the ankles.

  There’s a thick knot of dark hair piled on her head and a map’s worth of freckles across her nose and cheeks, along with a few smudges of black grease. Her dark chocolate-brown eyes are blasted through with gold, not like some pretty poetry shit but like she’s about to start shooting fire right at me.

  “Alexa, turn down the music.” The deafening music quiets, leaving only the ringing in my ears. “What did you say?”

  The urge to swallow against the wrench rides me hard, but I don’t dare, not willing to admit to her or myself that I’m at her mercy. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. Wanted to see if someone could look at my truck.”

  The wrench drops to her side. “Then you knock on the damn door like a normal fucking human being. You don’t touch me, or anyone, without permission or without their even knowing you’re fucking here.”

  I don’t know that I’ve ever met someone who curses as much as I do. And I curse a fucking lot, which is saying something considering I don’t speak much. I think I just fell in love a little bit with this wisp of a woman. Not seriously, of course, but that big mouth is kinda fun in a surprising way. A very small percentage of folks stand up to Brody Tannen, and an even smaller percentage of women ever gives me sass. Insults, yes, but smartass back-talk? This might be a first.

  “Hell of a way of getting customers—blasting metal, attacking people, and cussing them out when they’re just trying to hire you to do your damn job,” I deadpan, only half joking.

  She’s shit for customer service. I’m shit at being a customer. Match made in heaven, we are.

  “Waltzing in here like you own the place, putting hands on people, and somehow thinking you’re in the right.” She ticks off my shortcomings on her greasy fingers with the wrench and enough attitude that she should be ten feet tall and bulletproof. “Fuck off. We’re closed.” Somehow, the movement of dismissal she makes with the wrench feels like she just flipped me off. Makes no sense, but it’s the truth, and there’s talent in that, I suppose.