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My heart dips. “Which store?”

“That adorable little bookstore in Lubbock. Drove out there today after lunch because only the best will do for Wyatt Rivers.”

She’s throwing my line back at me—the one I made about the fancy cowboy hat I bought for the potluck because I wanted to look good for her—and I love her cleverness, the way she cares, so damn much that I can hardly breathe around the happy swelling inside my chest.

“You didn’t have to.” My voice is husky.

“I wanted to.” Sally nods at the package. “Open it.”

I try to keep my hands from shaking too much as I carefully insert my finger underneath the seam of the wrapping paper and pull up the tape.

Sally chuckles. “You can tear the paper.”

I don’t want to tear the paper. I want to fold it up. Keep it forever, a memory of this moment.

The paper falls away, revealing a box set of all theLittle House on the Prairiebooks.

I don’t know whether to laugh, cry, or holler with delight.

My throat closes in.

They’re just fucking books.

But when I glance up at Sally, it’s clear we both know they’re so much more than that.

“Since you and your mom enjoyed these stories so much, I thought you and I could revisit them,” Sally says, and I notice her eyes get a little misty too. “Could be a cute way of keeping her memory alive?”

Her thoughtfulness.

Her insistence that I don’t bottle shit up or sweep my grief under the rug.

Her bravery, confronting things that aren’t easy to face.

I’m speechless.

Me, the guy who has a line for everything. The guy who can’t help but crack a joke, deliver a verbal blow, tease the hell out of whoever I’m talking to.

I’m so fucking in love with this girl that I literally can’t speak. For a split second, I worry I’m having a heart attack.

Please, God, don’t let me die just when shit’s getting good.

But you know what? My heart keeps beating. My lungs keep filling with air. My blood keeps pumping, making me feel more alive than I ever have.

More scared, yes. But I’m still standing, aren’t I? Talking about Mom, revisiting my past—well, it hasn’t killed me yet.

Holy shit, I’m actually okay.

“Thank you,” I manage.

Sally sets down her wine and gently takes the box set from my hands. “You’re welcome. Do we start chronologically?” She unwraps the plastic from the books. “Or do we dive right into your favorite? I do loveLittle House in the Big Woods, butFarmer Boyis, well, you. For us though, maybeThese Happy Golden Yearsis the best way to go? I don’t remember therebeing explicit sex in it, but we can make some up to add some literal and figurative spice? Jesus, listen to me. You’ve turned me into an absolute perv.”

“Sally—”

“I know, I know. Not like you mind. I don’t either, if I’m being honest.” She surveys the books, running her fingertips over the spines. They’re gingham, the color of Easter eggs—pastel blue, powder pink, violet. “They’re so pretty, aren’t they?”

“Sally—”

She looks up, drawing her brows together when she takes in my expression. “Shit, this is too cheesy, isn’t it?” Her cheeks flush. “Or does it hit too close to home? I’m sorry. I was hoping it might make you feel better?—”