Page 68 of Role Play (Off the Books #1)

Forrest

“That’s him,” I say, nodding toward the unmistakable figure leaning against a dusty, red pickup truck in the Jackson Hole Airport parking lot.

Even from a distance, my father cuts an impressive silhouette—tall and lean, with a well-worn Stetson pulled low over his eyes.

At sixty, Boone Hawkins could still star in Yellowstone , fully equipped with his silver handlebar mustache and the don’t-mess-with-me squint that terrified my teenage friends.

“Papaw!” Dakota shouts, tugging her hand free from mine to race across the parking lot.

I watch, throat tight with emotion, as my daughter runs toward the grandfather she’s only ever seen in photos. This moment—their first real meeting—has been a long time coming.

My dad’s weathered face breaks into a wide smile that shaves a decade off his age. He crouches down, arms open but hesitant, as if unsure how to greet a granddaughter he’s never held. Dakota shows no such uncertainty, barreling into him with the force of a tiny missile.

“There’s my girl,” he says, his usually gruff voice gentle as he carefully wraps his arms around her. “Even better looking than your pictures, that’s for sure.”

Dakota beams up at him, completely at ease.

“You look just like your pictures, Papaw! Daddy showed me so many!” Without an ounce of trepidation, she tugs at the tip of his mustache, as if familiarizing herself.

Dad makes a funny face and then chuckles, uncharacteristically, giving Koda far more grace than he’d ever give me.

If I tugged on his mustache as a kid, he’d dropkick me across the room.

My dad’s eyes find mine over her head, saying everything his old country soul can’t articulate with sappy words: She’s precious, good to see you, son, thank you for bringing her home. I answer his unspoken words with a simple nod of my head as we approach.

Beside me, Sora fidgets with the sleeve of her jacket, and I give her hand a reassuring squeeze.

“Dad, this is Sora.” I nudge her forward, her feet glued to the concrete like a child nervous on their first day of school. I’m not used to her this bashful, which warms my heart because it means this is important to her. “Sora, I’d like you to meet the one and only Boone Hawkins.”

My father straightens up, one hand still on Dakota’s shoulder as if afraid she might disappear. His sharp eyes immediately focus on Sora, a look of genuine interest and warmth replacing his usual stoic expression.

“So you’re the city girl,” he says, extending a callused hand.

Sora looks like a fish out of water as she takes Dad’s hand. “Yes, sir. Born and raised in Manhattan.”

There’s a beat of tension-ridden silence, and then Dad throws in the biggest plot twist I could’ve imagined.

“It’s good to know some good things can come out of the city,” he says amidst a barking laugh.

He yanks Sora awkwardly into his chest and gives her a bear hug.

“Been looking forward to meeting the woman who got my son to finally come home.”

Sora freezes for a millisecond, then melts into the hug. All the acceptance and validation she needed flooding out of one embrace. “Mr. Hawkins, thank you for having us. I’ve heard so much about you and the ranch,” Sora says when Dad finally releases her.

“Boone, please,” he insists, his smile revealing the crow’s-feet around his eyes. “And I hope some of what you heard was good.”

“All of it,” she assures him.

My dad looks pleased, if a bit flustered. He’s a man of few words by nature, and that hug probably satisfied his social quota for an entire month.

“You don’t look a damn thing like Pumpkin’s mama,” Dad says, surveying Sora head to toe before he flashes her a sly grin, then turns his attention back to Dakota, leading her to the truck.

“Is that a bad thing?” Sora asks, lowering her voice so only I can hear.

“Oh, that was a Boone Hawkins compliment. Pay attention, they are few and far between, and oftentimes nonsensical,” I offer.

“You said Hannah was beautiful…and I look nothing like her.”

I grasp her shoulders, positioning her so she’s facing me. “He’s saying I’m making better choices. But he can’t come right out and say that because?—”

“Ah, yes. Country boys don’t trash-talk their baby mamas.”

“And country men don’t talk smack about their granddaughter’s mom.” I tap the tip of her nose. “Just so you know, I can count the number of people Dad’s ever hugged on one hand. High honor. He likes you.”

“Good,” she coos. “I like him too.”

I wink at her. “It’s still early and he’s on his best behavior. The grump is coming. Prepare yourself.”

She chuckles as Dad calls out to us.

“Daylight’s burning. Let’s get on with it, you two,” he says while helping Dakota climb into a car seat in the back of the truck.

I load our luggage into the truck bed, then point Sora to the back seat. She climbs in beside Dakota. I hoist myself into the front passenger seat, and Dad scowls at me from the driver’s side.

“Hold up now,” he says, his frown deepening. “You’re putting the lady in the back? Didn’t I raise you better than that?”

“The buckle’s still loose up front, Dad,” I explain, barely tapping my seat belt clasp, which releases without protest. This seat belt is mostly for show. Wouldn’t protect me against an ill-mannered kitten, let alone a head-on collision. “I’d rather have Sora and Dakota where it’s safest.”

He considers this, then nods, apparently satisfied with my reasoning. “Attaboy.” Then, to Sora: “Sorry about that. Truck’s seen better days, lil lady.”

“It has character,” she replies with a genuine smile. “And I’m happy to be back here with Dakota. We’re going to count cows on the drive.”

The engine roars to life with a rumbling growl that vibrates through the floorboards. Dad peels away from his parking spot, the truck’s suspension groaning in protest.

“Sounds like a dinosaur!” Dakota exclaims delightedly from the back seat.

“Sounds like you’ve been neglecting repairs,” I murmur to Dad.

“She’s fine. Bessie’s got some miles on her,” my dad agrees, patting the dashboard affectionately.

“But she’s reliable. And plus it’s the cold season, every spare penny I have is going to feed.

Prices keep climbing. If Deacon keeps robbing me blind, I’m going to start making the trek to Cheyenne for better prices,” he grumbles bitterly.

“Then you’ll need a better truck,” I note, mentally calculating what I can afford to help him with. Obviously the money I send home every month is barely putting a dent toward his needs.

As we pull away from the airport, I notice my father glancing in the rearview mirror more often than necessary, his eyes finding Sora each time. Not checking up on her—more like reassuring himself that she’s really there. That we’re all really here.

“So,” he says, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled over us, “how was the flight? Always did hate those tin cans myself. Haven’t been on a plane since?—”

“Since Grandma’s funeral,” I finish quietly. “My mom’s mom,” I quickly explain to Sora through the rearview mirror.

“Once and never again,” Dad adds.

“If you’d hop in a tin can every now and then, you’d get more time with Dakota,” I reason.

He nods, a shadow crossing his features before he deliberately brightens again. “Pumpkin, how’d you like flying? Scary?”

“It was the best !” she announces. “My ears went pop. And I got pretzels and apple juice and the clouds looked like vanilla cotton candy and I could see tiny cars from the window!”

My dad chuckles, a rusty sound that suggests it doesn’t happen often. “Is that right? Sounds like quite an adventure.”

“It was! And Daddy let me have the window seat, and Sora told me stories about sky dragons that live in the clouds, and?—”

She’s off, chattering away about every detail of the flight as if it were an epic journey rather than a four-hour trip in economy class. My dad listens attentively, asking questions at just the right moments, drawing out more excited descriptions from her.

For a man who typically communicates in grunts and nods, it’s an impressive display. I catch Sora watching him with a mix of surprise and appreciation, also recognizing the effort he’s making.

“Thought we’d make cowboy chili for dinner,” he says during a rare pause in Dakota’s narrative. “Forrest’s favorite.”

“Chili is your favorite, but you don’t like spicy food?” Sora asks.

“I make it wimpy-style for him,” Dad says, earning a giggle from Sora.

“Ah, that’s the secret. We have to make Forrest’s food wimpy -style,” she emphasizes.

“I hope by ‘we’ you aren’t referring to yourself, because we both know even edible is a stretch for your cooking.”

She smacks my shoulder. “How dare you,” she sasses to me, then sweetens her tone as she addresses Dad. “Would you teach me how to make your chili, Mr. Hawkins? I’d love to learn.”

“I appreciate your manners, but Boone is fine, hon. And I’d be happy to show you the family recipe. You’ll cook with me today and I’ll show you all the steps.”

Sora clasps her hands together in glee. “Wonderful.”

“You’ve still got good insurance on the house, right?” I ask loudly. “Protection against fire and such?”

I’m met with another smack from the back seat, this one with a little more oomph behind it.

The rest of the drive over, the scenery I know so well is filled with easy conversation—it’s familiar but new at the same time.

My dad has always been a quiet man who values his solitude, but there’s a lightness to him today I haven’t seen in years.

Having Dakota and Sora here is drawing out a side of him I didn’t know existed.

We turn off the main highway onto a dirt road that winds through a barren stretch of land. The truck bounces over the uneven terrain, and Dakota squeals with each jolt, finding it hilarious.

“Son, you’re set up in your old room, and I put a cot in there for Dakota. Got the spare room all ready for you, Sora,” Dad says. “Put in a space heater too. That side of the house gets cold in the mornings.”