“Oh, yeah. I forgot about that.” Josie grabbed the basket of rolls and handed them to me. She knew I’d never met a roll I didn’t like. “We’ll see.”
Colt did not look pleased. Mrs. Gibson looked horrified. Me? Well, I still hadn’t stopped grinning.
Mrs. Gibson peered at Josie as she sliced into the roast. “If you promised Colt you’d go with him to the dance, it’s only right you keep your word. That’s just good manners.”
“And lecturing your grown daughter at the dinner table while we have a couple of guests sitting around it is the opposite of good manners.” Josie peered right back at her mom as she heaped a couple servings of mashed potatoes on to her and my plates. Josie probably didn’t think anything of it—she was too distracted by her flaring temper to realize what she was doing—but no one had ever taken care of me the way she was. Handing me the biscuits even though she didn’t take one, dropping a spoonful of potatoes on my plate, giving me only a small portion of peas because I wasn’t hot on them . . . I wasn’t used to people showing me that level of care and concern.
“Thank you,” I said and waited for her to look at me. When she did, I slid my hand beneath the table. I let it rest on her leg, just above her knee. She didn’t gasp, she didn’t jolt, she didn’t even look surprised. The look on her face said she’d almost been expecting it. Then her hand found mine, and our fingers tangled together. I couldn’t imagine ever getting tired of holding Josie’s hand.
“You’re welcome,” she replied.
After that, dinner was pretty uneventful. Other than Colt keeping his lips vacuum-sealed to Mr. Gibson’s ass and Mrs. Gibson criticizing each of her dishes by what was missing and which ones needed more salt, it was a pleasant dinner. Mostly thanks to Josie’s and my hands never separating. Thankfully, Mrs. Gibson’s roast was tender. I would have rather picked it up and eaten it with one hand than let go of Josie’s to cut it.
Plates were being cleared when Colt cleared his throat and made his move. I knew that look in his eyes. I’d practically invented that look. I didn’t like that look when some douche had it aimed at Josie. No, that wasn’t quite true . . . I hated that look aimed at Josie.
“My mom was just saying as I left tonight that if I didn’t bring you home so you two could catch up, she was considering disowning me.” Colt wiped his mouth with his napkin and shoved back from the table. “She had the actual disownment paperwork signed and ready to go. So what do you say? Will you come over to my place tonight? Or will I be homeless and motherless tomorrow?”
I hated Colt Mason. If there was any question before, his cheap move confirmed it. I knew exactly what Colt had in mind about bringing Josie to his place, and it had nothing to do with talking or parents being anywhere around.
“I don’t know. It’s late, it’s freezing, I’m tired, and Garth’s here. It’s his first night.” I didn’t miss the quick glance she threw my way. Nothing like sharing a secret that would probably get both our asses thrown out if her parents found out about my first first night. “Maybe some other time?”
Mrs. Gibson was just about to say something when Colt cut in. “It’s barely nine o’clock, coats and car heaters do a pretty good job of taking care of the cold, I’m guessing your mom threw on a pot of coffee to serve with dessert, and Garth’s a big boy capable of tucking himself in. Isn’t that right, Garth?” Colt glanced at me for a fraction of a second, making it clear I wasn’t worth his time or attention.
“I don’t know about that. I’d take Josie tucking me in over myself any night. Strictly hypothetically speaking here,” I added when Mr. and Mrs. Gibson’s heads snapped my way.
“Oh, yeah. I forgot you’re used to some woman tucking you into bed, or your truck cab, or the bathroom counter of Brandy’s, or beneath the grandstand bleachers, or—”
“The bathroom counter at Brandy’s? Have you seen that thing? It’s a hazmat team’s wet dream. I might not be picky, but I would not choose to be tucked in there.” I knew Colt was trying to get to me, to turn me into a cussing ball of instinct. I also knew why he was trying to release my inner Hulk. He wanted Mr. and Mrs. Gibson to have front row seats to the Garth Black Loosing his Shit Show. I wasn’t sure what I wanted more: to ruin Colt’s baiting me plan or to not let the Gibsons see I was the guy they assumed I was. Both were strong motivators for fighting Colt’s traps.
Before Colt could decide what to hit me with next, Mrs. Gibson paused before heading into the kitchen with the tower of dirty dinner plates. “Josie, why don’t you head over to Colt’s after dessert? You made two pies, after all. You could take one over for his family to enjoy. I know you’re tired,” Mrs. Gibson added when Josie looked ready to argue, “but I’m sure Colt will get you home before it gets too late. Isn’t that right, Colt?”
“Of course, Mrs. Gibson. I’ll make sure she’s home by eleven.”
Eleven? That would give them at least a couple of hours at the Masons’. That was way, way, way too much time for Josie to be at Colt Mason’s. Assuming he was the one-pump wonder I’d always believed he was, thirty seconds was too long for Josie to be at his place.
“Thank you, both of you”—Josie stood, her gaze flicking from Colt to her mom—“but I am twenty-one and able to decide if I want to go out and what time I want to be back by. But thank you for your efforts to treat me like a thirteen-year-old. Always appreciated.” Without another word, Josie charged past her mom into the kitchen. I wasn’t sure if I should expect her to start breaking stuff or if she’d come back with a butcher knife in her hands. Based on the blaze in her eyes, I was betting on the butcher knife. Josie and I had quick-flare tempers, and I knew from fighting my own that it was best for me to work it out myself.
That was why I stood up and headed for the kitchen. Josie’s words from that morning were on my mind—about how I didn’t know what was good for me. If she was right, that meant working my temper out on my own wasn’t the best case scenario, which meant leaving her to work out hers wasn’t either. Either way, I just wanted to be with her. Mrs. Gibson was setting the dishes in the sink, and Josie had her head in the . . . freezer. That was a form of cooling down from a temper high I wasn’t familiar with.
“Joze?” I ignored Mrs. Gibson’s looks and headed for the fridge. “If you’re looking to vent your temper, I’ve got a whole list of effective ways to go about it without crystallizing your brain.”
“Oh, yeah? Do you have a whole list of effective ways to go about getting ice cream out of the freezer?” Holding out a tub of vanilla ice cream, she closed the freezer.
“You know me, I’ve got a list of effective ways for doing everything.”
“I wouldn’t use the work effective. More like creative.” She smirked at me as she grabbed a scoop out of a drawer.
Mrs. Gibson stationed herself next to Josie and tried to grab the scoop. “I’ve got dessert. Why don’t you go back out there and keep Colt company?”
Josie whipped it out of her reach. “I made dessert. I’m serving dessert. Why don’t you go keep Colt company since you’re his number two fan?”
Mrs. Gibson put a hand on her hip and let out a sigh of exasperation before heading back to the dining room. “With an attitude like that, it’s no wonder you’re twenty-one and still single. You’re my only child. I’m counting on you for grandbabies—lots of them—preferably before I’m dead.” She stopped just outside the kitchen. “Are you sure you don’t want some help with dessert, honey?”
“No, thanks, Mom. Garth’s here—he can help.” Josie grabbed some plates and set them on the island. “With dessert, and heck, maybe even the grandbaby making. You know, kill two birds with one stone. In five whole minutes, you might be able to enjoy a piece of homemade pie and knowing you’re going to be a grandma in nine and a half months.”
I shifted from the look Mrs. Gibson gave me. She’d probably disown a grandchild if I was the baby’s father. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Gibson, I’ll keep it to the pie.” One more head shake and she was gone. “So? How are we going to do this thing?” I headed toward the island where Josie had thrown down what looked to be a cherry pie.
“I’ll cut. You scoop.” She handed me the ice cream scoop and grabbed a huge knife from the butcher block. I knew Josie would wind up with some huge-ass knife in her hand before the night was over.
“I was referring to the other way you wanted me to help you out. This island here looks pretty solid.” I grabbed the ledge of the island and rocked into it. “Brace yourself.”
Josie glanced at the island then at the area just below my belt buckle. Her face flushed. “You do realize I’m holding a knife, right? You might not want to go whipping anything out you want to hang onto.”
I loved that she was blushing. I loved what she was blushing over. It made me want to throw her up on that counter. Screw the pie. Or . . . forget about the pie. “You’re right. I’ve got the scars to prove that seducing a woman who’s clutching a knife isn’t a good way to go about things. Plus, I did promise your mom I’d keep it to the pie tonight.”
“And tomorrow night?” Josie cut into the pie. She was trying so hard not to look at me I almost felt her about to break out in a sweat.
“All bets are off.” I stepped closer to Josie so my arm was intentionally touching hers. I knew my touch and words were making her uneasy. I wanted them to. I wanted to see if what she’d said earlier was true. I wanted to see if her actions proved that she wasn’t sorry for what had happened between us or if she’d just said it. “Who’s Colt’s number one fan?”
I wasn’t looking to change the subject; that was just where my mind went next. It was all over the place when I was around Josie. Her eyebrows came together.
“Just now. You told your mom she was his number two fan. Who’s his number one fan? You?” I probably would have chucked the ice cream across the room if she said yes, but I had to know.
“This is Colt Mason we’re talking about,” Josie answered, smiling at the pie. “I think it’s pretty obvious that he’s his number one fan.”
If I wasn’t sure she wouldn’t slap or knife me, I would have kissed her hard and long for that. Instead, I did the only kind of cartwheel I ever would do—the internal kind—and nudged a little closer. “It’s been obvious to me since I set sight on the guy. Glad to know I’m not the only one.” I pried open the ice cream lid and put the scooper to work. “Am I to take that as an indication that you will not be going to his place tonight?”
“Garth.” Josie’s voice was full of warning as she worked on the pie.
“Josie,” I mimicked. “He’s a douche. You pretty much just admitted that, so I’m also taking that as an indication that you won’t be going with him to the hillbilly hoe-down at—”