Page 5

I’ve known my father isn’t a good man for a long time. But even that is a gross understatement, considering the charges awaiting him. It’s been almost a year since he was arrested, and every day since, I’ve felt the aftershocks. Arresting the proverbial bad guy was only the beginning.

Nobody tells you what you’re supposed to do when the life you’ve built starts to fray around the edges. Things that I’ve felt in my gut since I was young have been true all along. Being proven right comes at a cost, and it’s a much higher currency than ideas and affirmations.

My mother’s gone. And my father is the only family I have left.

For most of my life, I’ve mistaken obligations for care.

And I learned too late about love and its exchange rate.

I stupidly allowed blood and loyalty to win out.

And because of that, most of my hometown assumes I’m a loving daughter.

But if anyone really paid attention, they would have seen how often I avoided being where I was expected.

And now I get side-eyes and snarky comments, since everyone’s accepted the bullshit my father doled out.

It disgusts me. And that disgust is the reminder I need for anger to replace my anxious thoughts.

I press the side button on my phone, pushing the call to voicemail.

Today’s going to be a good day. A great one, even.

My black leather-bound notebook has my favorite pen tucked into the last page that I wrote on.

April: Late-night favors of the skin and licking kind right after having the most perfect combination of potato chips topped with charcuterie—brie, gouda, chambert, and prosciutto. Warmed for 5 min at 350 degrees. Salty perfection.

I turn the page and take a quick second to jot down a thought that would make a perfect end to tomorrow night’s speech, just as an aggressive pounding on my front door has me looking up. Tossing the book aside, I slip on a fresh white tank.

“You expectin’ company?” Hawk asks with a quick flick of his eyes down my body as he starts moving toward the door. “I’m a little more decent than you are...”

“You sure about that, Chief?” I say in a flirty tone.

“Want me to answer it?” he asks with a smirk and a shake of his head.

There’s another loud rap of knuckles on the door before he reaches it.

I pluck out my newest pair of panties from the black-and-pink striped bag and yank off the tag, slipping into the bright pink silk slowly, being mindful of the delicate lace that encircles each leg and the waist. Glancing at the clock, I realize whatever extra time I thought I had is now long gone.

Shit . The sunrise should have tipped me off; they always want to be on the river before dawn.

The heavy fists on the front door echo out again.

When the door swings open, I expect it to be my best friend, with his dark-rimmed glasses and goofy smile.

He’s more than ready to kick off his wedding weekend.

But instead, it’s an unapproving glare and deafeningly silent exchange from Ace.

He leans against the doorway and crosses his arms, his face reprimanding me with an I don’t like waiting look.

It’s so much fun to push him whenever possible, mostly because nobody ever does, but this morning, I’m not even doing it on purpose.

I sarcastically smile at the man wearing slutty Wranglers instead of his typical suit.

It’s impossible to ignore how much I appreciate the build and stature of the man I’m not bedding and never have.

Internally, the attraction bells are sounding off like race-day trumpets.

Externally, I try my damndest to appear casual about the current situation: the man I’m hooking up with, the man I fantasize about during those hookups, and then me, who’s in only a tank top and underwear. Fuckity fuck .

I clear my throat and then nonchalantly ask, “You boys have met before, right?”

Neither needs to answer, because they have. Plenty of times, just never like this.

Ace barely glances at Hawk, instead walking past a waiting handshake and into my apartment with an exasperated exhale.

“Not interested in your morning bullshit, Hadley. You’re going to make us late.”

I wave at the air in front of me as I hustle by him, looking for my favorite fishing hat. “Being late only matters for parties and periods, Atticus.”

I hear him swear under his breath just before he says, “You have no pants on.”

It’s so satisfying that he noticed. Sucking in a gasping breath, I brush by him again, my hand slapping my chest. “Did you see my panties?!” I smirk as I walk past him. “Or was it a little lip slip?”

I saunter up to the waiting fire chief, who’s witnessing the back-and-forth between Ace and me. He can read exactly why I haven’t slowed. When I reach the threshold of the front door, I drape my arms around his neck and kiss his cheek.

He smiles against my neck and whispers, “You okay here if I leave?”

But instead of bristling at the innuendo, I lean into him, catching the campfire smell that always lingers on his skin as I say, “More than capable of taking care of myself, Chief. But thanks for asking.”

He kisses along my shoulder, and if I was a betting woman, I’d be pretty confident that he looks right at Ace as he grabs a handful of my ass and squeezes me in his bear hug.

When I pull back, he looks over my shoulder briefly, and then back at me. “Stay out of trouble, Hadley.”

“Unlikely,” I hear Ace mumble from my kitchen, like the looming presence he is, as Hawk leaves me with one last quick kiss.

With Ace watching me move around my apartment, searching for my lucky hat, it’s hard not to add an extra sway to my hips. It is his attention I’ve always craved, after all.

“What are you looking for?” he asks as he, too, takes a look around my apartment.

This place is filled with soft pinks and purples, and sleek, modern lines, and it’s decorated with anything and everything I love.

A bohemian vibe with a lot of bold colors and local artwork.

My ostrich pink feather floor lamp doesn’t give off much light, but it reminds me of old Hollywood.

The same way the movie posters of A League of Their Own , Mannequin , and The Money Pit hang along the hallway leading into my living room.

Favorites because I like them and not because some critics told me I should.

I have no idea if any of the paintings or photography peppering the rest of my walls are worth anything.

I didn’t buy them for that reason. I simply like what I like.

There’s a black cat clock that’s eyes swipe left and right on every tick and tock, pictures of my life scattered along the walls, a closet that has far too many sports jerseys mixed with dresses and colorful accessories.

It’s cozy and maybe a little cluttered, but this space is all me .

“Ah! Found it,” I say, holding it up like a prize.

But he simply glances at the clock, and then pours himself a glass of water. “Hawk coming this weekend?”

I search for my shoes that are meant to go with my dress for tonight and my tux for tomorrow. “He’s on call,” I yell from my closet. It’s not a complete lie, but I won’t go into the flawed reasoning as to why I didn’t invite him as my date.

When I come out with my rose gold pumps in one hand and curling iron in the other, Ace looks at me with his brow furrowed.

Today, he’s all bluegrass Kentucky. A horseman and not a bourbon boy.

The Wranglers that hug his thick thighs are their own version of an assault weapon.

His black T-shirt has the Foxx Bourbon logo stitched along the sleeve in black embroidery, making the gray that runs along the sides of his otherwise dark, almost black hair stand out a little more.

I teased him often about being old, but the truth is, Ace Foxx is just like his bourbon: better with some age.

And damn, do I drink him in every once in a while. If only I literally could.

“Where’s your bag?” he asks, moving toward the door.

I lean back, peeking from the doorway of my bedroom. With a smile, I tease, “This your way of telling me you want to have a sleepover, Ace?”

He looks at me with narrowed eyes, stopping all movement.

I may have pushed him too far with that one.

His jaw is clenched, like he’s holding back from saying something like, Cut that shit out, Hadley.

But instead, he stares at me, meeting my eyes first, and then up to my hair.

The quiet that’s settled around us is nothing short of uncomfortable now.

Maybe he’s not in the mood to dish it back today.

“My gear is in my trunk already,” I say, lifting my chin toward the door. When he still doesn’t say anything, my cheeks flush hot.

This is one of those times when something feels different.

Like I’m not the only one wondering if the attraction and pull is mutual, if it would ever tip over between us.

There are times when he looks at me like this, and I want to physically push him and scream, to beg him to tell me what the hell he wants.

“Ace—”

But he cuts me off. “I’ll be downstairs. You have five minutes or I’m leaving.”

I swallow the feeling of rejection, telling myself again to get over it when it comes to him, and then hustle to wash my face and brush my teeth.

When I waltz outside ten minutes later, sure enough, the asshole left without me.

“You must’ve really pissed him off today.

” The low Kentucky drawl of Griz Foxx rings out to my left.

His thick white mustache matches his full head of hair, sideburns cut tight against his weathered skin.

It isn’t surprising that the Foxx brothers are so damn good looking.

Not when they had genes like this. Most couldn’t guess Griz’s age; the man still moves, jokes, and drinks as if he’s the same age as his oldest grandson.

“And it’s not even 7:00 a.m. yet,” I say with a laugh as I walk closer. “Did he leave you here, too?”