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She rolls her eyes. “Let’s run the rest of the way.”

Before I can object, she takes off ahead of me, leaving me in her dust.

Wren stays long enough to greet Ford with a quick hug and grab her bike.

As she rides away, I decide teenagers are assholes.

Ford, however, standing in his uniform with arms folded over his chest and leaning against his patrol car looks like a delicious snack I’d like to devour. It’s only been a couple days since the festival—since I left him in the middle of the night—but I’ve kept my distance. I texted him a few times, but other than the LL meeting, I haven’t seen him. And I’ve missed him. I wrap my arms around his waist and lean my cheek against his chest.

“You know,” he says, the deep timbre of his voice vibrating my face, “I think girlfriend status means I’m supposed to see you more, not less.”

“Told you labels were stupid.”

He laughs, wrapping his arms around me. I prop my chin on his chest to look up at him; he plants a kiss on my lips. “You want to talk about what happened the other night?”

“Not yet.”

He kisses me again. “I can handle that.” Another kiss. “How was Wren today?”

“Fine.” I push off his chest with a sigh. “She’s hanging out with the Letts girl.”

He chuckles. “Let me guess, you told her all about how you felt about her mom.”

I give him a flat look. “I told her I didn’t think it was a good idea and then she got, I don’t know, pissed. Short. Like a different personality came out to play that made me . . . murdery.”

“She’s a teenager. Murdery is the name of the game.” He takes my hand in his and kisses my thumb as we walk toward the house;I consider his explanation and decide I hate it but bite my tongue. “What’s that one?” he asks.

I follow his gaze to the bird feeder and grin. “Carolina chickadee.”

“You trying to seduce me again?”

I laugh, climbing the steps and push the front door open. “Only if it’s working.”

“You saying the alphabet would seduce me.”

“Bet you really enjoyed preschool with Ms. Mitchell.”

He drops my hand and swats my ass, grin on his face as we step inside the house. “Damn, Scotty. Looks good in here.”

I pinch my lips between my teeth, a futile attempt to hide my smile. Because he’s right. It looks good. Damn good. The tan leather sofa is complemented by the dark wood floors; the natural light from the windows paints the whole house so perfectly it could be in a magazine or on one of the many blogs I scoured to pull it together. Canisters of flour and sugar, a coffee maker, and a toaster sit on the kitchen counter under shelves of mismatched mugs and glasses Wren helped me pick out from a local thrift shop. Zeb’s record player with a box of records sits in a corner opposite a tall cactus in a large terra-cotta pot. The walls are bare, open for whomever comes next to fill them.

Ford runs a hand over the white marble countertops in the kitchen, tracing a subtle gold swirl. “What’s next?”

“Well,” I sigh, toeing off my tennis shoes. “Wren picked out a chair—some purple monstrosity—and I got a coffee table made by a guy who makes custom pieces from Rocky Ridge. That comesnext week.” I go over the list in my head, having just sent an update to Vince this morning. “They’ve been working on the bathrooms, which are still a demolished disaster. I have to pick tile for the backsplash, which, it needs to be the right color, you know?” I look around, shrug. “I guess that’s it. Host Thanksgiving for June next month and get it listed.” I pause, rework the list out in my head, then add, “Oh! And I got a huge-ass bed coming in a couple days.”

I grin, proud of how far it’s come.

Ford works his teeth over his bottom lip.

“You let Wren pick an ugly chair?”

“Yeah . . .”

“And you picked out a huge bed, custom table, and can’t find the right color tile?”

My eyes narrow. “So?”

His eyebrows lift. “Doesn’t sound like you want to sell.”