Page 16 of Homebound

Pride swells deep in my heart. That shouldn’t matter, but it does. With her wild golden curls that I’m constantly untangling and those bright green eyes, there’s no doubt she’s mine. “Yeah, you think so? She’s pretty darn cute, isn’t she?”

“Yeah, I do.” She swallows, slow and thick, before she clears her throat. “Your room’s down the hall on the right, but I’m sure you remember.”

I glance down the hallway and stiffen when I spot what’s sitting on the wooden cupboard. Right there, I see it—that cowboy frame with us shoving strawberries into each other’s mouths.

“You kept the strawberry photo?” I ask.

She pauses. “Yeah, Patterson. I kept it.”

I wait for her to add something, but she doesn’t. Spinning around, she heads to her bedroom with Tuna hobbling behind her, but before she can shut the door, I stop her.

“Dakota?”

She stiffens, and I’ve already noticed she does that every time I say her name.

“What?”

I swallow a lump. “I heard you called off your engagement, and I’m sorry about you and Boone. Must’ve been a tough decision.”

She gives a blasé shrug, but she’s picking at her cuticles like she always does when she’s nervous. “Not really. We were never a good fit, and I see that now… Night, sugar.”

She closes her bedroom door, treating me like all the other men in her life.

Sugar.

I hate that nickname, but I don’t hate it nearly as much as having to watch Boone Bowman get down on one knee in front of her family and her looking so damn ecstatic that I had to chug three bottles of cheap champagne to put a smile on my face. I had the world’s deadliest headache the next day and vowed never to drink champagne again.

The sugary death trap.

After one last two-step dance where I lied and said I was happy for her, not dying inside, she dropped my hand, and I booked a ticket back to Nashville. After that, I cut off all communication because I needed to get over her.

What was I going to do? Fight for her? No. She thought she loved him, and I wanted her to be happy, even if it meant I’d never be.

That day three years ago changed the course of my life. All because she uttered that one crushing word to Boone Bowman—yes.

7

SAYS EVERY FATHER

WYATT

The next morning, Dakota sprints out the door for an early workout, so I decide to help my moms plow the flower fields. All the rows are blooming in spite of the triple-digit heat, so Dakota’s been doing a great job helping manage the farm. I thanked her last night, but she just she shrugged, like managing a ten-acre farm is no big deal.

It’s a huge deal.

My parents’ family owns Windmill Meadow Ranch—a boutique flower provider for small-town businesses in the Texas Hill Country. It’s a family business, and all my aunts and uncles help manage the ranch during the winter months since we only come back from Nashville during the summers. I’m pretty sure everyone on my Southern mom’s side of the family has owned a flower farm at some point, which is how I learned to make a bouquet faster than a florist.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, it’s hotter than a sauna in hell out here,” my mama, Stella, complains while spraying the row of orange zinnias with her garden hose. “Since when did Texas get to be so hot? I don’t remember it being this bad. Do y’all?”

“Yeah. You walk outside and start sweating,” my other mom, Jessie, says.

She presses a kiss to her sweaty cheek. Over twenty years together and they’re still ridiculously in love. Maybe that’s why I’m such a hopeless romantic, pining for a woman who wants nothing to do with me.

“Do you say your prayers in church with that dirty mouth of yours?” my mom adds.

She winks under her sun hat. “You bet I do. Every fuckin’ Sunday. If our sweet baby Jesus sends me to hell for having a dirty mouth, I want no part of that heaven.”

“Mama,” I groan, rubbing SPF 100 on Vi’s sweaty face. There will be no sunburns on my watch. “How many times do I have to tell you to watch your words around Vi? She’s repeating everything right now.”