Page 2 of Someone to Hold

I glance at my whitepickupand offer it a silent apology forbeing mistaken for a van. It’s an F-150, extended cab, new tires. Don’t get me started on the kidnapping insinuation.

I whip off my Stetson and run a hand through my hair. It could use a trim, but we’re not talking “creepy van guy” long.

The kid bolts inside, still shouting, and the door swings wide.

I figure that’s my invitation.

I step inside, and the chaos hits full throttle.

“Mommy, my hair’s a mess!”

“It’s white van!”

“It’s a truck,” I call out, already regretting what I’m about to step into here. “With an extended cab.”

The front door of Linda McAllister’s farmhouse opens into the living room, which looks the same as I remember from childhood, even though it’s been nearly fifteen years since Teddy and I spent hours playingCall of Dutydraped 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 open, like somebody had been looking for a way to turn off the water.

“Who is this 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.

She stops cold, and it takes a moment for her eyes to narrow with recognition.

“What the hell are you doing in my house?” She’s brandishing the plunger like a weapon.

I lift a brow. “Can you point that thing somewhere else?”

“Why are you driving a white van?”

“It’s atruck, Molly.”

“It looked like a van.” At least the boy’s stopped shouting.

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

That’s when I notice

Oh, fuck me.

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

Her bra is pink.

And she’s cold. Either that, or she’s smuggling raisins.

I can’t seem to 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 with two smallish humans and about seventeen kinds of awkward.

The boy bolts after his mother. But the girl tilts her head, bright blond hair and skeptical brown eyes reminding me of her dad.

“Hey there,” I say with a nod. “I’m Chase. I was friends with your dad.”

“Are you the friend that wrestles bulls?”