Page 28

The smell of grilled meat is basically a religious experience right now.

Chicken, ribs, sausages, burgers—I don’t even eat red meat that often, but I’m contemplating proposing to whoever’s responsible for that smoky, spicy, mouthwatering scent.

Which is why I’m currently carrying two giant containers—macaroni salad in one hand, coleslaw in the other—over to the massive picnic table that’s already half-filled with people and side dishes and drinks.

Rosie is running through the yard, wearing clothes this time. She’s playing with a couple of kids—goats, not children.

The sight is something else. Still, it’s sweet, innocent, and homey, and I-I kind of like it.

Adults are lounging with beers and red solo cups, and someone is playing country rock from a speaker that’s been duct-taped to a porch post.

It’s chaotic.

It’s loud.

It’s borderline magical.

I’m filled with a sense of longing. I mean, it’s been so long since I felt anything like this.

Camaraderie. Kinship. Family.

I set the bowls down, arrange the serving spoons like I’m on a cooking show, and then turn back toward the house.

“Napkins,” I mutter to myself. “Get the napkins before someone wipes barbecue sauce on their jeans and blames me.”

I slip back inside, grateful for the moment of quiet—until the kitchen door swings open behind me and in walks Zeke.

Carrying a plate.

Of brownies.

My eyes narrow.

“Are those brownies?”

“Cinnamon cayenne brownies.”

He looks almost guilty.

“Seriously?”

He shrugs those massive shoulders, making all my girly bits perk up.

“Yeah.”

“So, you can bake?”

He sets the plate on the counter and shrugs. “Sure. I like it. I mean, sometimes. Since Penny had the twins, she’s not baking as much and we all developed a taste for chocolate. It was self-defense.”

“You always over-explain yourself?” I tease.

“Well, now I’m not sure I should answer that.”

I step closer, eying the glossy top layer of the brownies, the faint hint of spice in the air. “So, you really made these?”

“Guess I’m just full of surprises.”

“Oh, I bet you are,” I murmur, grabbing a napkin and pretending to dab sweat off my forehead. “Seriously. Cayenne and cinnamon? Are they spicy spicy? Or just a little warm?”