Page 3 of Jack of All Trades (The Morrison Brothers #4)

I'm up with the sun, like always. Some habits you can't break, and for me, early mornings are as natural as breathing. I stretch, feeling the familiar ache in my shoulder from yesterday's practice ride, and swing my legs over the side of the bed.

Through my window, I can see the backyard where we'll be hosting Rex's party. It's nothing fancy. Just a patch of grass with my mom's old flower beds along the fence, but it's home. I make a mental note to mow it before Maya comes over.

Maya. Rex's sister.

I shake my head, trying to dislodge the image of her that seems to have taken up permanent residence in my mind.

Those green eyes flashing with challenge.

That curtain of dark hair she uses like a shield.

The way her laugh, when I finally coaxed it out of her, sounded surprised, like she hadn't meant to let it escape.

"Get it together, Morrison," I mutter to myself as I head for the shower. "She's Rex's little sister. Off-limits in about twelve different ways."

Besides, she's made it abundantly clear she's not interested. She's got me pegged as some shallow rodeo cowboy who charms his way through an endless parade of women.

And okay, maybe there's some truth to that. But it's not the whole story. Never has been.

The hot water helps clear my head, and by the time I'm dressed in worn jeans and a faded blue t-shirt, I've managed to convince myself that my interest in Maya is purely about making this party work for Rex. That's all.

I head downstairs, the old wooden steps creaking in the familiar places.

The house is quiet in the morning light, filled with ghosts of memories.

Mom in the kitchen making pancakes. Dad teaching us boys how to fix a leaky faucet.

Ethan coming home from his first deployment, thin and haunted.

Michael hunched over college applications at the kitchen table.

David tossing a football in the living room despite Mom's strict no-ball-in-the-house rule.

Now it's just me rattling around in these rooms, keeping the place alive because someone had to. Michael offered to buy me a newer, nicer house when his tech company took off, but I couldn't do it. This place isn't just walls and a roof. It's the last connection to the family we were.

I make coffee and take it out to the front porch, settling into the old rocking chair that's been there since before I was born.

The street is quiet, most of Pine Haven still asleep.

Mrs. Larson across the way is an early riser like me; I can see her watering her roses, and I lift my mug in greeting when she glances over.

This is what I love about Pine Haven. The simplicity of it. The way time seems to slow down here. My brothers never understood why I stayed when they all left for bigger, more exciting lives. But this is where I belong, dirt roads and all.

My phone buzzes on the porch railing, and I reach for it, expecting a text from one of my brothers or maybe my manager about the upcoming rodeo circuit.

Instead, it's Maya.

*Still good for noon? Need to know what decorations you already have so I don't duplicate.*

Straight to business. No good morning, no how are you. I find myself smiling despite the brusque tone of her message.

*Morning to you too, sunshine. Noon works. Don't have much in the way of decorations. Some string lights maybe.*

I hesitate, then add:

*Looking forward to seeing you again.*

I hit send before I can overthink it, then watch as the typing bubble appears, disappears, and reappears again.

Finally, her response comes through:

*It's just party planning. Don't make it weird.*

I laugh out loud, startling a bird from the nearby oak tree. This woman does not pull punches.

*Wouldn't dream of it. See you at noon.*

I pocket my phone and finish my coffee, oddly energized by our brief exchange. There's something refreshing about Maya's direct approach. No games, no pretense. Just unfiltered honesty, even if that honesty comes wrapped in barbed wire.

The rest of the morning passes quickly. I mow the lawn, clean the house, at least the downstairs, and clear space in the garage for the food tables.

By eleven-thirty, I'm showered again and changing shirts for the third time, which is ridiculous because this isn't a date.

It's party planning. With Rex's sister. Who clearly can't stand me.

I finally settle on a plain black t-shirt that Mom always said brought out my eyes, then immediately feel foolish for caring. I add a red plaid button-up over it, sleeves rolled up, casual and unfussy. There. That looks like I didn't try too hard, which I definitely didn't.

At precisely noon, there's a knock at the door. Maya Torres is punctual. I file that information away alongside the other bits and pieces I've collected: she's fiercely loyal to Rex, she doesn't suffer fools, and somewhere beneath that tough exterior is a laugh that sounds like pure joy.

I open the door, and there she is, looking even better than I remembered. She's wearing jeans again, but these are paired with a soft green top that makes her eyes look like emeralds. Her hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail, revealing the elegant curve of her neck.

"Hey," I say, stepping back to let her in. "Right on time."

"I said I would be." She walks past me, her shoulder brushing mine in the narrow entryway.

"So, this is the legendary Morrison house," she says, looking around the living room with undisguised curiosity. "Rex talked about this place like it was a palace."

I laugh. "Compared to where you guys grew up, maybe it seemed that way."

Maya's expression shutters slightly at the mention of their childhood home, and I mentally kick myself. From what Rex has told me, their father was a mean drunk who eventually drank himself to death, leaving Rex to raise Maya on his own when she was just a kid.

"It's nice," she says after a moment. "Homey."

"Thanks." I gesture toward the back of the house. "Want to see the yard? That's where we'll set up for the party."

She nods, following me through the kitchen to the back door. As we walk, I catch her studying the photos on the walls—family pictures from happier times, Mom and Dad with the four of us boys at various ages.

"That's Ethan, Michael, David, and me," I say, pointing to a particular photo taken at the lake when I was about ten. "In age order."

"You were a cute kid," Maya says, then immediately looks like she regrets the comment.

"Were?" I place a hand over my heart in mock offense. "Past tense? You wound me, Maya."

She rolls her eyes, but I catch the ghost of a smile. "Show me the yard, Morrison."

I lead her outside, watching as she surveys the space with a critical eye. It's not large, but there's plenty of room for the small gathering we're planning. The old oak tree provides natural shade over half the yard, and the wooden fence my dad built still stands strong around the perimeter.

"This will work," she says with a nod. "We can set up tables along that side, put the food under the tree for shade. Maybe string lights from the tree to the house for when it gets dark."

"I like the way you think," I say, genuinely impressed by how quickly she's visualized it. "I've got some lights in the garage we can use."

She turns to face me, all business. "I'm thinking simple food. Burgers, Rex's favorite potato salad, that kind of thing. Nothing fancy. And definitely a chocolate cake. He pretends to be too tough for cake, but he loves it."

"I know," I say with a smile. "You had to be there for his twenty-one-birthday party. He ate half the cake himself."

Maya's expression softens slightly. "You were there for that?"

"Yeah. I remember you were away at summer camp. Rex showed me pictures of you in a canoe, looking miserable."

She laughs, the sound startling both of us with its suddenness. "I hated that camp. Mosquitoes the size of birds, and mandatory crafting hours. It was torture."

"Why'd you go?"

"Rex wanted me to have 'normal kid experiences,'" she says, making air quotes. "He worked double shifts at the garage that summer to pay for it."

There's such fondness in her voice when she talks about her brother. It's the most unguarded I've seen her since we met.

"He's a good guy," I say. "The best."

"Yeah." She looks at me appraisingly. "He says the same about you."

I feel my neck warm under her scrutiny. "Rex exaggerates."

"Does he?" She crosses her arms, head tilted slightly. "He says you're the only reason he didn't end up in jail like our dad a few times. That you kept him straight in high school when he was headed for trouble."

Now I'm definitely blushing. "That's not. I just gave him a place to crash sometimes. It wasn't a big deal."

"It was to him." She holds my gaze for a moment longer, then turns back to the yard. "So, string lights. What else do you have?"

I accept the change of subject. "It’s like I said, not much, but let's check the garage. Mom kept all the holiday stuff out there, including some generic party decorations."

We head to the detached garage, which is part storage, part workshop. My old dirt bike takes up one corner, and my rodeo gear is neatly organized on a rack against the wall. The rest is boxes of memories that I haven't had the heart to sort through since Mom died.

"Sorry about the mess," I say, leading Maya to a stack of plastic tubs labeled in Mom's neat handwriting. "Decorations should be in these."

As I pull down the first box, my shoulder twinges again, and I can't quite suppress a wince.

"You okay?" Maya asks, more perceptive than I gave her credit for.

"Fine," I say. "Just a little sore from practice."

She frowns. "Practice?"

"Rodeo," I clarify. "I was on Devil's Spite yesterday. One of the meanest bulls in the circuit. He got in a good shake before I made the buzzer."

Maya's frown deepens. "That sounds dangerous."

"It is." I don't bother denying it. "But it's what I do."

"Risk your neck for a shiny belt buckle?" There's a challenge in her tone.