Page 25 of Falling for the Bombshell (Falling for #1)

Front Porch Love & Perkins Pie

Blaine couldn ’ t stop glancing over at her as they pulled up the long dirt road, the sky stretching wide and blue over his grandparents ’ land.

Linnie had her bare feet up on the dash, window cracked, long curls blowing slightly in the wind.

She was humming something soft—maybe a Taylor Swift song—her smile easy, like she belonged here.

And maybe, Blaine thought, she already did.

He hadn ’ t brought anyone out here before.

Not even back in high school. Not even when his buddies joked about “ farmboy Blaine” and how he could throw a football half the length of this land.

This place was sacred. It was horses and hay bales, grease-stained garages, Sunday breakfasts, and the soft creak of the porch swing after a long day.

He parked near the barn, tires crunching on gravel, and sat there a beat longer, taking in the view—not just of the land, but of her. Linnie glowing in the afternoon sun, looking out at the horizon like she ’ d been here a hundred times before.

“ You okay?” she asked, turning toward him.

“ Yeah,” he said, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “ Just thinking how good you look in this light.”

She rolled her eyes, but her cheeks turned pink. “ Flirt.”

“ You started it—humming Taylor Swift like that.”

She laughed, that soft, musical sound that hit him square in the chest.

First came Grandpa, in denim jeans and a trucker hat that said Built Ford Tough, arms wide like Blaine had never left.

Then Grandma, flour on her apron and a dozen cookies in the oven.

She hugged Linnie so long that Blaine had to clear his throat to get her to let go.

Then the uncles. Uncle Terry—the cool one.

With the ‘ 68 Camaro and an actual racetrack in his backyard. He let Linnie sit in the front seat and rev the engine, and Blaine caught the way her eyes sparkled like she ’ d never been more alive.

Uncle Ron and Aunt Patty… well. They were a different flavor.

Doomsday preppers with a fully stocked bunker, shelves of water jugs, and a framed news article about Jodi Arias on the wall.

“ I still think she ’ s guilty,” Aunt Patty said, pointing at it with a wooden spoon.

Linnie didn ’ t miss a beat. “ She totally is. You can just feel it in your gut.”

That was it. Aunt Patty declared her an honorary niece right then and there.

The cousins came next—four boys who immediately challenged Blaine to cornhole and dragged Linnie into the mix like she ’ d been at every barbecue since birth.

She was laughing so hard at one point, she had to sit down on the porch swing, curls sticking to her flushed cheeks.

The sun was beginning to dip, casting long golden light over the pasture, and before long, her eyes fluttered closed.

Blaine sat down next to her quietly, not wanting to wake her.

He leaned his head back, letting his hand rest lightly on her thigh.

The swing creaked gently as it moved. He looked out at the land, the mountains in the distance, the warm wind rustling the trees—and then down at her.

He didn ’ t need a sign. He already knew. He was in love with her.

Grandma insisted on driving them to Bozeman for dinner. “ It ’ s Friday! That means pie and breakfast-for-dinner!” she chirped, like it was the law.

Linnie lit up like it was her birthday. “ They have caramel apple crumble?”

“ Baby,” Grandma said, “ they have everything.”

At Perkins, they sat in a booth with vinyl seats and wood paneling. Grandpa made jokes about Blaine needing to eat more meat to “ bulk up” while Linnie giggled over her strawberry French toast and played footsie with Blaine under the table.

When the pie came, Blaine fed her a bite with his fork. His grandma “ oohed” so loud that the table next to them turned to look. And it was somewhere in the background—maybe on the restaurant speakers, maybe just in his head—that the opening notes of You Are in Love began to echo.

And you understand now why they lost their minds and fought the wars. And why I ’ ve spent my whole life tryin ’ to put it into words

He looked across the booth at her, at the way she leaned her chin on her hand when she listened, at the way her eyes danced when she talked to his grandparents. It wasn ’ t just love. It was life-making, bone-deep, always love.

Back at the house, Grandma gave them each a separate guest room. “ You can stay next to each other, but I ’ m not running a sin wagon,” she said with a wink that somehow made Blaine more embarrassed than if she ’ d just scolded him .

He tried to respect it. He did. For like twenty minutes.

But as the house went quiet and the sky outside turned velvet-dark, he slipped out of bed, tiptoed past the creaky hallway floorboard, and eased open Linnie ’ s door. She was curled up under the quilt, one leg peeking out. Her eyes opened the second he shut the door behind him.

“ You lasted twenty-two minutes,” she whispered with a sleepy grin. "I missed you.”

She lifted the blanket and he slid in, wrapping his arm around her waist. Her back tucked into his chest like it was made for him.

“ I love your family,” she murmured.

“ I love—” he almost said it. Almost.

But the words got caught in his throat. Not because they weren ’ t true.

But because they were so true it scared the hell out of him.

Instead, he kissed the back of her neck.

Held her tighter. Breathed in the scent of her shampoo and the leftover sugar from Perkins.

And somewhere out there, a porch swing creaked in the wind, the stars shined a little brighter, and Blaine let himself dream about forever.

The song hummed in his head again as sleep took him:

And you can hear it in the silence, silence, you can feel it on the

way home… you are in love…