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“Fuck off. You’re burning the burgers,” I griped.
He wasn’t, but the distraction worked. Coop tended the grill and switched topics.
Silas would be traveling for his job as an NFL commentator in a couple of weeks, Ivy was working on college applications, and Chase wanted dibs on her room when she moved out next year. I chuckled as he described his familial melee while studiously ignoring the tug of envy.
I rarely thought about my old life with Jess. We hadn’t been happy, and at the end we’d been incapable of faking it. However, I wished our story were sweeter. It would have been nice to have a relationship like Coop and Silas’s. They’d built something special and had somehow figured out how to meld their lives with ex-wives, busy jobs, and the emotional angst that was just part of raising teenagers.
Honestly, I didn’t mind being single. I valued my peace, and I had no desire to be in a relationship for the sake of companionship and regular sex.
Of course, my mind immediately drifted to an image of the logger on his knees on a hotel bed, worshiping my dick. His beard tickling my thighs, his nails raking my ass, and— Christ, that was hot.
I chugged the dregs of my beer and refocused on whatever Coop was saying. Something about my dad. Talk about an erection killer.
“…specialist online prescribes activities that get the synapses going. Gardening, scrapbooking…”
“His doctor said the same thing, but can you really see my dad scrapbooking?” I chuckled incredulously.
Cooper joined in, shaking his head. “No, but he could build something.”
“Ooh, this is good.” I set my empty bottle on the picnic table and rubbed my hands together. “Coop, are you volunteering to build a treehouse with the guy who gave you a ticket for loitering in the parking lot after school ’cause he was sure you were up to no good?”
“Hell, no. But if you remember correctly, that was Homecoming week and he ripped up the ticket when I scored a touchdown at the game against Pinecrest.”
I rolled my eyes. “I bet he’d take a woodworking tip or two from you. Great suggestion! Thanks, Coop. You’re a real pal.”
“Not so fast, wiseass,” Cooper scoffed. “I’m a patient man, but I don’t think I’m the right guy for the job. However, you might recall that I’m the dude in charge at the mill. I know a lot of very skilled craftspersons who’d be willing to spend an hour with your dad.”
“Don’t be so sure about that. Most of those guys grew up with Captain La Rue and they got their fair share of tickets, too. Remember that time Dad put Ted behind bars for drunk and disorderly conduct…the night of his wedding? The whole town was up in arms.”
Cooper barked a laugh. “True. To his credit, he released Ted within an hour. No harm no foul as far as Ted was concerned. In fact, he’s still bummed he was too drunk to remember it.”
“His wife does remember, and Carla isn’t nearly as amused.”
We snickered like a couple of idiotic teens and in unspoken agreement let the subject of my father’s declining health drop in favor of lighter topics—like our sons’ football practice schedule and the former pro QB who’d been rumored to be joining the high school coaching staff, much to Coach Troy’s chagrin.
Kids and dogs circled the barbecue like vultures, and soon enough we were congregating around the picnic table, feasting on hot dogs, burgers, corn, and Ivy’s special potato salad. There was so much sweetness and laughter, and with it came a frightening realization that this too would pass eventually.
These kids would go on to college, possibly in other states. They’d come home sporadically, sharing adventures with friends we might never meet. Hey, that was life. The only constant was change. I knew that, but I’d never been more aware of being in that middle place—a parent to a younger generation and responsible for an older one.
It was eerie and lonely.
I forced myself to pay attention to the kids’ banter about a pop star I’d never heard of who’d been spotted doing nasty things on a yacht in the Mediterranean. Our teenagers sputtered at our confusion. Hadn’t we heard their song? You know, the really popular one they sampled on beer commercials.
No clue. I listened with half an ear as they educated-slash-scolded their dads for being pop culture troglodytes.
That was okay.
Another rogue vision of Waylon surfaced out of nowhere, and my mind wandered with the pleasant distraction of that mouth, that naughty grin…
The man was smart, sexy, funny, and good with his hands. He was a logger.
Who needed a project.
Huh.
No.
What the fuck was wrong with me? Manufacturing reasons to see Waylon was so…high school. It was laughably ridiculous and—
