Page 18 of Unruly

Rhett’s eyes snap to me. “Don’t.”

“You’re wound tighter than a⁠—”

“Cash.”

“—spring on a brand new trap, is what I was going to say.” I hold up my beer. “Sit down.”

His jaw works. And for a second, I think he’s actually going to keep standing there out of pure stubbornness. Then Dawson drops into the chair beside me and steals the last beer out of the cooler. Rhett, because he can’t stand being the only one left standing like an idiot, finally pulls the other chair around and sits.

I clink my bottle against Dawson’s. “You really cannot help it,” he mutters.

“Never could.” I grin.

Rhett rubs a hand down his face. “One of these days I’m gonna knock your teeth in.”

“You’ve been saying that since I was twelve,” I shoot back. “Still waiting on it, big brother.”

Dawson chuckles low. “He’s just pissed we don’t run the ranch like he would.”

“You two would burn this place to the ground in a month if I let you.”

“Probably,” I admit cheerfully. “But it’d be a hell of a party first.”

We settle into the kind of easy bullshit that only happens when it’s just the three of us. The argument about the bull fades into the usual mix of insults, ranch gripes, and old stories. Dawson continues to get on Rhett about being a control freak, and I pile on because it’s too easy.

The screen door creaks open and Mom steps out, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised. “Boys. You’re being too loud. Some of us are trying to sleep.”

Dawson immediately tries to look innocent. “We’re barely talking, Ma.”

She gives him the look. “I could hear you three arguing about that damn bull from the kitchen. Take it down a notch or take it to the barn.”

“Yes, ma’am,” we all mutter at roughly the same time.

HALLE

The barn at Thornwood Ranch glows with strings of lights overhead, packed wall-to-wall with people who’ve known me since I wore pigtails. Music plays low through the speakers, country classics that came out before half of us were born, and laughter bounces off the rafters.

It’s crazy how much this barn has changed since I was little. I spent a good bit of time in the summer running around these fields, but when my mom left, Dad and I spent more time here than we did at home. Being able to hang out with Grandpa Ben was the highlight of many of my summers.

Sloane, Aunt Aria, Tierney, and I stand near one of the tables in the front corner of the room, nursing a glass of wine. Aunt Aria laughs at something Tierney—her best friend and partner in crime for decades—says while Sloane nods with a softer smile—the calmest out of the three of them.

“—and then he tells me he’s ‘rethinking his priorities,’” Tierney says, rolling her eyes. “At seventy-four. Like I don’t watch him eat gas station hot dogs in the truck when his sons aren’t watching. Priorities my ass.”

Sloane laughs, warm and genuine. “Men reach a certain age and suddenly discover self-help TikTok.”

“Or they discover expensive cars and bikes,” Aria adds dryly. “Same difference.”

I smile and let myself sink into their rhythm for a minute.

Aria catches my eye over the rim of her beer bottle with a look. She’s always seen me in more ways than any of my parents could. She never lets me hide behind my own sarcasm for long.

“You’re quiet today,” Aunt Aria says, bumping my hip with hers.

“Dad and Sloane saw the disaster zone firsthand, as you know.”

Me. I’m the fucking disaster zone.

Across the barn, I catch Colt’s eye. My little brother gives me that knowing look—the one that says he has tea and we’ll be dissecting my life later. He grins, disappearing back toward what looks like a pissed-off Rhett Thornwood.