Page 157 of Micah

“See?” Bit points triumphantly. “She likes me.”

“I barely know you,” I say with a snort.

“Exactly! And you're already teasing me. We're practically best friends.”

Esme rolls her eyes.

“Don't encourage her, Sloane. Seriously, she’s like a fungus.”

“You know you love me!”

“I’m not saying I don’t, but give the poor girl time to adjust,” Esme chides gently.

The banter is hysterical, and honestly?

I'm so damn happy to be part of it.

I don't think I've laughed this much in...

God.

Years, maybe.

Not the polite little chuckle I give customers.

Not the fake smile I plaster on my face when Patrick starts one of his moods.

Real laughter.

The kind that makes your stomach hurt and your cheeks ache.

The kind that reminds you life isn't all responsibility and bills and trying to keep everybody else afloat.

I didn't realize how lonely I'd become until these two women barreled into Micah's cabin carrying groceries like they belonged here.

Maybe they do.

Maybe that's just what the people at Jersey Iron Ranch are like.

They show up.

No questions asked.

No scorekeeping.

No making you feel like you owe them something afterward.

It's nice.

Really nice.

Dangerously nice.

Because I can already feel myself wanting more of this.

Sunday barbecues.

Coffee in somebody's kitchen.