I’m closing the clasp on a pair of small, silver, hoop earrings when my cell phone rings. Without even looking I reach over and hit the speaker button. “Hello?”
“You’re alive!” Dylan Thompson, my best friend, practically screams into the phone. “I was starting to wonder.”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t be a drama queen; I texted you the night we arrived.”
“To let me know you were staying in some strange woman’s house. I haven’t heard from you since then.”
“Monroe is like the least strange person you’ve ever met, and I texted you again yesterday. You just ignored me.”
“You did no—oh, there is a text from you. Huh. Look at that.”
“Yeah, look at that.” Dylan and I met at one of the foster homes we were sent to when we were five. We hit it off instantly, staying with that particular family for nearly four years which allowed our friendship to be cemented. We’d been separated after that, but lucky enough to be close enough together that we had been in the same school. We both moved around a couple of times over the years, sometimes close enough that we could still hang out, and sometimes our only form of communication had been over the phone, but our Senior year of high school, we were placed in the same home again.
It didn’t seem to matter whether we were together or not—Dylan has always been, and always will be, more than just my best friend. We consider ourselves sisters.
“How’s Hickville?”
I sigh heavily. “Do you have to call it that?”
“Yes. You live in the country, Tristan. You left city life behind, and now I’m not even sure you have a Starbucks near you.” She pauses briefly, for effect, I’m sure. “Do you?”
“I have a Coffee Haven.”
“Not the same thing,” she sighs heavily. “I have no idea how you’re surviving.”
“It’s a real struggle.” I forgo shoes or socks, thankful I painted my toes yesterday morning. I wiggle them now, studying the dark purple color to make sure there are no chips I need to worry about. “How are things with you?”
“I don’t want to talk about me.” There’s more of an edge to her tone than usual. Dylan has a low, husky voice that has men fawning all over her, but there’s always a little bit of a bite to it. The homes that I was in growing up weren’t always fantastic, but they definitely weren’t the level of unfantastic that Dylan faced in a couple of her homes. She never talked about it, so I’m not one hundred percent sure what happened, but I have my suspicions, and none of them are fantastic.
“So we’re going to talk about me,” I say drily. “I’ll try to contain my enthusiasm while I gush about all the incredibly exciting things that have been going on in my life the last couple of days. Because moving with a three-year-old in tow is a real laugh riot.”
Dylan has started laughing about halfway through my little tirade. “Sarcasm duly noted, and impressive.”
“Thank you.”
“Now, how’s my girl? How’s she settling in?”
I head down the short hallway to the girl-in-question’s bedroom. She has taken the time to spread her comforter out on the floor and has Phant, and a few other stuffed animals, situated in a circle as they pretend to drink tea. She’s changed into a purple princess dress with tons of lace and ruffles, and a pink plastic tiara sits crookedly in her curls.
“She’s doing good. She’s madly in love with the neighbor’s dog.”
“Oh no, they have a dog?” Dylan says with a laugh. “You’re never going to get her to give up the dog dream now.”
“Maybe I can convince Owen to give me Huck. He’s the perfect dog.”
“What was that?” Dylan demands.
“What was what?”
“Say his name again.”
“Huck?” I start to head down the stairs. I had originally planned on macaroni and cheese and hotdogs for dinner, but now that Owen is coming over, it doesn’t seem like that’s going to be the best option.
“Forget the dog. Owen, say Owen again.”
“Owen,” I drawl out his name as I open the fridge and study what’s inside, which isn’t much. “Owen, Owen, Owen. Why am I saying his name?”
“Because you get all breathy and excited when you say his name. You like him!”
I reach inside the fridge for the cheap bottle of Moscato I’ve got inside. I contemplate foregoing the glass and drinking straight from the bottle, but don’t want to risk Stella seeing me. I can imagine her telling her new teachers that her mom drinks straight from the bottle.
“What are we, five? I do not get breathy when I say his name.” Do I? “You’re delusional.”
“I really don’t think so.”
The doorbell rings just as I finish pouring the glass of wine. I tuck my cell phone between my ear and shoulder and head toward the front door. “I don’t get breathy when I say his name.” I hiss just as I open the door. “Dylan, I have to go.”
“Is that Owen?”
“Goodbye, Dylan.” I push the end button and slide my phone into my back pocket. When I look back up at Owen, he has a frown on his face, and his eyes are narrowed as they study me.
He’s changed out of his uniform and into a pair of khaki shorts that he’s paired with a dark blue, button-down collared shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms. Still, no hat, probably because it would sit right on the stitches, which I imagine would be uncomfortable. But no hat means his hair is wild and free around his head. It also means that my fingers are itching to reach out and run through the silky strands.
“Who is Dylan?”
Chapter Six
Tristan
I blink at the question. “What?”
“Dylan,” he growls. “Who the hell is he? Is he your boyfriend?”
It takes me a full minute to figure out what he’s talking about. Then another full minute for me to respond, because he’s jealous. Of Dylan. The laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it, and the frown on his face turns into a full-on scowl.
“Tristan.” His voice is still growly, which makes me laugh even harder for some reason. “Tristan, who the hell is Dylan?”
“Oh! Mr. Owen said a naudy word again, Mama. Is awnt Dwyn hewe?” Stella comes running down the stairs. “My Huck! Hi, My Huck. Hi.”
I hadn’t even noticed the dog, but he’s practically vibrating while Stella talks to him. He keeps looking back and forth between Owen and Stella, like he’s waiting for permission to play with my daughter. Owen is still staring at me though. He shouldn’t be allowed to look that good with a scowl on his face. It is several levels of unfair that even frowning, he is still the sexiest guy I’ve ever seen.
“Owen,” I say calmly. “Dylan is my sister, not my boyfriend.”
“Awnt Dwyn can’t be Mama’s boyfriend.” Stella laughs. “She’s a gwrl. Can My Huck and I go play, Mama?”
“That’s up to Owen.” I tilt my head to the side, attempting to communicate with him that he should release the dog to go play with Stella before one, or both of them, spontaneously combust from anticipation.