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One man sits at the table, dark hair speckled with dashes of gray and skin turned brown by the sun. One cup in front of him, and a pile of clean dishes drying on the counter, I would wager he’s the infamous Cookie I’ve heard about.
“Hey Cookie, how are you doing?”
Rhett has an easy way about him, naturally so kind it becomes disarming. I mean to suspect ulterior motives, but I find my guard down by mistake without even knowing it.
“If it isn’t little Everett.” The big man smiles upon seeing him. “And you brought a friend. Weird place to take a date, man.”
“Not a date.” Rhett clears his throat. “This is Sunny. She’s our new groom.”
The large man straightens in his chair. “Yeah? That must have gone over like ants in the sugar bin with your old man.”
Rationally, I know it’s his way of stating the obvious, Rhett made a mistake bringing me on, but the way Cookie’s eyes glow with acceptance and excitement, I’d never guess any of this is negative.
“You’re not wrong.” He nods his head for the fridge. “She missed dinner. Do you have anything leftover?”
My stomach growls again. I press my hands over it like I’m trying to keep a child quiet, but it does just about as much good. Cookie’s eyebrows rise a little. “Yeah. Chile relleno tonight. I was just about to call it a night. If you need my help—”
“No.” Rhett is quick to wave him off. “I know you wake up early, get some sleep. I’ll take care of things.”
There’s no mistaking the grin on his face. “I’m sure you will, amigo.”
Rhett watches him leave, exhaling something near relief when Cookie is finally gone. Turning to me, he says, “He’s just teasing. Cookie is like that.”
“You’ve known him a long time?”
“Definitely. Since I was nine, I think. He’s the reason I’m here, well, half of it anyway.” Rhett starts for the fridge. “We’ll leave my tragic past for another day.” He shoots me a grin over his shoulder. “You get your secrets, maybe I should keep mine.”
“No,” I pause at the counter island, waiting behind him like a starved dog eager for dinner, “I think you should divulge all your secrets to balance out my lack of sharing.”
He laughs while he’s fishing through the fridge. “Somehow that doesn’t sound fair.”
“I don’t know if you got the memo,” I drum my fingers on the tile counter, “but life isn’t fair.”
Rhett sets a towering stack of plastic storage containers stuffed full of food next to me. “See, that’s the thing about ranches.” He shrugs. “No memos.”
He makes me forget about hunger for a second, about all my issues, about the men who are searching for that smoking heap of junk I left on the beach, and for the second time tonight, I forget my life is in shambles.
“Not a single one?”
“No, not even from the mares. And you’d think they’d be the first ones to start sending information around.” He leaves me to retrieve plates from a cabinet, but I find myself eager to keep the lighthearted banter moving.
“They would too. A memo about daily treats, and how they should eat before the rest of the herd.”
He picks up my thread and adds his own. “I know they’d send out one about tack fit, and never being allowed to inform them when they’ve put on a few pounds.”
“Well, that’s just common courtesy for any female, equine or not.”
The microwave chirps as he warms the plate he’s served up. “I guess so. I’m not great with girls. I tend to put my boot in my mouth.”
“I hope you’re careful where you were stepping before that then.”
That earns me a full-bellied laugh. Somehow, I feel like I’ve won a prize. Rhett seemed serious around the others I met tonight, everyone but Cookie. Getting him to laugh that hard, it’s a feather in my cap like my brother used to say.
Immediately, my heart clenches, but my stomach follows suit and I lean over to brace myself against the counter. The air changes between us. A plate scrapes the counter as he slides it in front of me. Rhett waits, and I feel his stare burning into me. I hate being the charity case. I hate needing him this badly right now. I’m independent and strong, and I hate feeling weak. But the smell of the food takes all my conscious thought hostage. After he presses a fork into my palm, I don’t remember taking the first bite. I don’t think I taste the first seven bites. It wouldn’t matter if it was the worst food I’d ever tasted. It was food, and that’s all that mattered in that moment.
Near the tenth bite, I start to pick up flavors, chicken and cheese, peppers and spices. By the fifteenth bite, I slow a little to chew better. Hiccups start not long after. Rhett joins me with his own plate, but not nearly as full as he served up for me. A glass of water slides toward me. With no regard for how I look, I drink it without pausing. Setting it back on the counter, I return to the food, wishing I had a way to get it to my stomach a little faster.
Rhett refills the glass and sets it next to me. I reach for it, but his hand catches my arm. “Slow down. You’re gonna make yourself sick, and if you puke, you’ll be just as hungry as before.”
