Page 50 of Someone to Have (Skylark #3)

SNEAK PEEK

Chase

I hear shouting as soon as I open the truck’s door, and my booted foot pauses in midair.

Definitely kids’ voices—high-pitched and squeaky.

It doesn’t sound like they’re in trouble, but something’s happening in that house.

I know it doesn’t say much about me that my first inclination is to close the door and drive away.

The whole purpose of me being here at my childhood best friend’s house on the outskirts of Skylark, Colorado, is to help his widow with their seven-year-old twins.

I’ve never been much for kids, and I sure as shit don’t want any.

Don’t need any extra noise in my life—not with the headaches that still plague me after being trampled by an angry two-thousand-pound bull six months earlier.

The headaches aren’t the worst of my lingering issues if I’m being honest, but they aren’t nothing.

Only, I made a promise. Not specifically to Teddy McAllister, given that he and I hadn’t spoken for nearly four years before he died in a river rafting accident two summers ago. I’m here because of his mom .

And because by helping Teddy’s mother, Linda McAllister, I’m going to secure the future—and purpose—I need like my next breath since that damn bull stole the life I knew.

Linda told me Molly will be non-weight-bearing on the ankle she sprained for at least a month. It’s her right ankle, so driving is a definite no. But Linda also wasn’t willing to give up her five-week-long trip abroad which is where I come in.

Suddenly, the noise from the house subsides, and I’m standing there listening to birdsong in the morning air.

It’s early April in Colorado, and although a spring snowstorm is almost guaranteed at some point, there are enough signs of the change of seasons that our feathered friends are singing a hallelujah chorus at having made it through another winter.

My boots crunch on the gravel driveway as I approach the house and climb the three front porch steps. One of them has a loose board, but I can fix that.

I’m way more comfortable being handy around the house than being the manny around the house, but here we go.

I knock and step back, steeling myself to face Teddy’s widow, Molly. I’ve seen her around town a couple of times since my accident. Although she’s grudgingly polite—because that’s who she is—I know she doesn’t like me.

I don’t blame her.

I was a guest at her wedding to Teddy six years ago, and like I said, the twins are now seven. You can do the math on the timing of that blessed event.

I don’t think people use the term “shotgun wedding” anymore, but that’s how Teddy acted that weekend. Like someone was holding a proverbial gun to his head to get him to do the right thing by the one-night stand he knocked up.

Probably shouldn’t say knocked up either. At least, not to her face.

I said a lot worse that weekend.

In my defense, I didn’t realize she was listening when I told my friend that he should call off the wedding and send his pregnant bride back to wherever she’d come from.

I felt compelled to speak up. Blame it on the bro code. Or the fact that Teddy and I spent most of that weekend halfway to plastered.

I didn’t realize the bride I was aggressively shit-talking was standing just outside the door. So when Teddy told me to go fuck myself, and I walked back into the hallway, her wide blue eyes landed on me with all the force of that goddamn bull.

My heart leapt into my throat, but she spun on her heel and retreated down the stairs of the rented house in the mountains before I could explain. As if there were words to make her hate me less than she had a right to, given what I said.

Even though deep down, I’d issued the warning as much for her benefit as his.

Teddy McAllister was handsome and charming and had a magnetic energy that drew people—women especially—toward him.

He also had a troubled soul and could just as quickly repel those same people, leaving a trail of pain and heartache in his wake.

More than anything, Teddy hated feeling like he was tied down.

He’d spent his childhood under his mother’s thumb, an only child raised by a single mom who indulged his every whim while never letting him forget her sacrifice.

Sometimes it felt like I got the better deal with a run-of-the-mill asshole dad who my mom, sister and I could never make happy. At least he was consistent.

Teddy’s childhood was like walking through a live minefield, not knowing when he was going to set something off. The golden boy who could both do no wrong and never live up to Linda’s exacting expectations.

I knew in my heart he’d make a terrible husband and mediocre father—at best. And although I didn’t know Molly, I could tell she needed more than Teddy would be able to give her. Deserved more.

Despite my attempt at tough love, he went through with the wedding, and she did a hell of a job avoiding eye contact with me for the rest of the weekend.

That summer, I won my first championship on the pro rodeo circuit.

My life got busy, and somewhere between prize buckles and late-night drives to the next town, Teddy and I let our friendship slip away like a mountain creek at the end of summer.

Too shallow and rocky to carry anything of value downstream.

I heard from my sister that he and Molly had twins, but I didn’t hear another word from him.

Truth be told, I didn’t reach out either.

I can tell myself I was too busy chasing the next prize to pick up the phone or text.

Maybe it was shame, or maybe I wanted to believe my old friend had found happiness after all.

But I never forgot the look in Molly’s eyes that wedding weekend.

So, yeah, color me surprised that she’s willing to accept my help now. Here I am, the man who predicted her marriage would fail, and she’s swallowing her pride to let me be a part of her world. I guess desperate times and all that, on both our parts.

The door swings open, and a boy with strawberry-blonde hair, a smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose, and what looks like a jam smudge on his cheek stares at me.

He’s also soaking wet and shirtless, which seems odd given that Linda told me to be here at seven-forty-five to help ensure the kids got to the bus stop at eight sharp.

I open my mouth to greet the kid, but he lets out a yell that has me shivering.

“Stranger danger!” he screams. “Mommy! There’s a stranger at the door! He’s driving a white van!”

I glance over my shoulder at my white pickup and offer it a silent apology for being mistaken for a van. Don’t even get me started on the child abduction insinuation. I quickly take off my Stetson and run a hand through my hair.

In need of a cut, yes. Creeper vibes, I don’t think so.

The kid is still shouting as he runs through the house, and I figure I should follow him in. We should get this school-day show on the road.

Molly and I have shit to work out, but first things first. These kids need to get to the bus stop because I haven’t had enough caffeine this morning to drive them twenty minutes into Skylark to make it to school on time.

“Mommy, my hair’s a mess! I have to dry it!”

“Stranger danger, Mommy! The guy’s got a white van!”

“It’s a truck,” I call out. “With an extended cab,” I add for good measure.

The front door of Linda McAllister’s farmhouse opens into the living room, which looks much the same as I remember from childhood, even though it’s been nearly fifteen years since Teddy and I spent hours playing Call of Duty while draped across that plaid sofa.

One of the owners before Linda renovated the small rooms into a modified open concept to give the space a larger feel.

The kitchen is off to the left and looks like a pancake bomb recently detonated in the center of it.

Liquid drips from the linoleum counter, and the cabinet doors under the sink are wide open, like somebody had been looking for a way to turn off the water.

“What’s this about a stranger, Luke?” Molly demands as she comes around the corner of the hallway that leads to the laundry room, hopping on one foot as she holds the injured one aloft behind her.

It takes a moment for her eyes to narrow with recognition.

“Chase Calhoun? What are you doing in my house?”

Her tone isn’t any friendlier than it was on the first question. And she’s brandishing a?—

“Will you point that thing somewhere else?”

“Why are you driving a white van?” she counters.

“It’s a truck, Molly. Not a van.”

“It looked like a van.” The boy’s stopped shouting, which is a blessing .

“Mommy, what about my hair?” the girl trailing behind Molly asks. “And my shirt?”

That’s when I see it.

Oh, fuck me.

I was so distracted by the plunger and her glare that I didn’t notice Molly’s T-shirt is wet. Also see-through.

Her bra is pink.

And she’s cold. Or at least her nipples are cold. Either that, or she’s smuggling raisins.

Now that I’ve noticed, I can’t look away.

Even worse? She sees me not being able to look away.

She lets out a little yelp, drops the plunger, and hops down the hall again.

I’m left staring at the two kids.

“Hello,” I say. “I’m Chase. I was friends with your daddy.”

The boy turns and follows his mother, but the girl—with her bright blonde hair, big brown eyes, and a bearing that reminds me of my old friend—steps closer.

“Are you the friend that wrestles bulls?”

“I ride them.” I clear my throat. “Or at least I used to.”

“Daddy talked about you,” the girl tells me matter-of-factly. “He said you were a troublemaker.”

Takes one to know one.

But I don’t want to speak ill of the dead. Certainly not to the dead guy’s daughter.

“Your dad and I had a lot of adventures. Maybe you, your brother, and I will as well.”

She tilts her head. “Mommy doesn’t like adventures.”

“She doesn’t have to come along then, does she?”

“Come along where?” Molly’s back and still glaring. “Seriously, why are you here?”

She’s using crutches now, though she doesn’t look much more stable than she did with the hopping. But she’s swapped out the wet T-shirt for a red flannel—buttons done up wrong.

I could fix them for her. I’d like to. Maybe brush my knuckles across her collarbone. I bet that creamy skin would be the softest thing I’ve ever touched.

“I’m here to get the kids to the bus stop on time,” I say.

Her mouth drops open. “Excuse me?”

“Are you the nanny?” the girl blurts.

“He’s not the nanny,” Molly says through gritted teeth.

“I prefer the term manny. That’s what I told Linda, anyway. Your grandmother. Your mom’s mother-in-law,” I clarify the last two like they don’t know who I’m talking about.

“I want a girl,” the boy whines. “You said Grandma hired a girl.”

“I’m not a girl.”

“Yeah, we all get that,” Molly says then puts a hand on the boy’s wet head. “It’s okay, Lukey. I’ll figure this all out before you get home from school. Grab your jacket from the kitchen.”

“You need a shirt first, kid,” I tell him.

“It’s in the dryer,” he says, voice trembling.

“You’ve only got one shirt?” I tap the watch encircling my wrist. “Because we gotta go, buddy.”

“It’s his Thursday shirt,” the girl tells me.

“Why don’t you wear your Friday shirt?”

His chin starts to quiver.

Shit.

“It’s okay, sweetie,” she says gently. “Check the dryer. Your Thursday shirt should be good to go. Laurel, will you get the backpacks and grab your lunches from the fridge?”

She flicks a dismissive gaze in my direction. “Chase, I think you’ve done plenty. I’ll walk them to the bus stop and?—”

“You know how long that driveway is, right?”

“I’m capable of walking on crutches.”

“I never said you weren’t.”

If looks could kill, they’d be digging my grave right now. I guess I don’t blame her since she has every reason to believe I’m a complete dick.

But I’m not. Not anymore.

“I’ll walk with you.” I try to make my tone placating.

For the record, I don’t do typically placating.

She doesn’t look impressed. In fact she looks irritated as fuck. “Not necessary.”

“Humor me. We have some stuff to discuss once the kids are on their merry way to school.”

“We don’t.” I can practically hear her teeth grinding.

“Hey, Luke,” I say as the boy starts to move past me.

He stumbles back a little. “Ye-e-ss,” he stutters like I’m some child-eating clown who drags his victims to the sewer.

“Your mom told you to grab a jacket.”

“Don’t yell at me,” the boy tells me.

I run a hand through my hat hair. “I wasn’t yelling.”

“It sounds like you’re yelling,” the girl says, her chin tipped up like she’s daring me to say more.

I glance over at Molly, who raises a brow. A brow that clearly says, Don’t yell at my kid, you stupid fucker. Message received.

“A jacket,” I repeat in a softer tone.

Luke’s eyes widen, but he moves to the kitchen and grabs a hoodie from a chair.

The girl grins at me. “Now you’re whisper-yelling. You need to work on that.”

“I’ll work on it,” I agree with a sigh.

“You won’t be here long enough to work on it,” Molly says as she and her kids head toward the front door.

She might not be yelling, but her soft as steel voice gets the message across loud and clear.