Page 89 of Distress Signal

“This looks amazing.” Moving into her space, my body pressed against hers, I took a giant whiff of the lasagna and cheesy garlic bread.

Reagan inhaled sharply, then shoved me out of the way, grabbed both with oven-mitted hands, and carried them to the table.

“There’s salad and wine in the fridge too,” she said, and I grabbed them before joining her.

After she shed the mitts and set them on the island, I pulled out her chair. Once she sat, I opened the wine and poured us each a glass. Truthfully, I wasn’t a big wine guy, but since Owen had married into a family who owned a winery, I’d been known to drink it more than I used to. Chateau Delatou was the only label I kept in my house.

Reagan caught me studying the bottle of Pinot Grigio and said, “I hope you don’t mind. I found it on the rack in the pantry.” She took it from me, squinting at the label. “I’ve never heard of this winery before.”

“It’s my sister-in-law’s,” I said. “Owen’s wife’s family owns a winery in northern Michigan.”

Setting the bottle down in favor of her wine, she sipped. “It’s delicious.”

“I’ll take you there one day,” I promised. “You’d love Delia and her sisters.”

Reagan smiled but didn’t say anything, and I quickly realized my misstep.

Mention of my sister-in-law and her sisters was likely a sore spot for my girl.

While I searched for a safer topic of conversation, Reagan blurted, “I want to scout the ranch for photo locations for the wedding.”

I blinked in surprise. “Okay…”

“Is there an ATV or something I could borrow? And maybe a map?”

“Not necessary,” I said quickly.

“What do you mean?”

“Have you ever ridden a horse?”

She pursed her lips and narrowed her gaze. “I’m southern. Of course I have.”

I grinned. “Perfect. Horseback is the best way to see the ranch.”

“I can borrow one?”

“Of course. We’ll go out tomorrow if you want?”

“We?”

“You didn’t think I’d let you see my family’s ranch for the first time without me there as a guide, did you?”

Reagan smiled, almost reluctantly, but it dropped quickly. “Tomorrow is Friday. Don’t you have to work?”

“I can take the day off.”

“You don’t have to do that for me.”

“I want to.”

“But you shouldn’t.”

“Stop arguing with me, woman.”

“But it’s so much fun,” she grinned.

I merely growled in response, though my lips twitched with a barely leashed smile of my own as I returned my attention to my meal.