Page 6 of The Best Shot

Ava and Grant’s house sat deep in the hills, a cabin that had outgrown the word two additions ago.

It was all limestone and cedar, with a deep porch big enough for a swing and two rocking chairs.

The smell hit me before I made it through the front door.

Smoke. Garlic. Butter. Brisket.

Ava opened the door and immediately wrapped me in a hug. “Hey. Missed you.”

“Same.”

She stepped back. “Caterers just left. They brought the sides. Help me set up.”

I squinted at her. “So this is what I get for being punctual? Manual labor?”

Ava snickered. “Fine. You get a pass. It’s mostly all done anyway.” She hooked her arm through mine and steered me inside. “Come on. Catch me up.”

Grant was at the back door in his apron, already headed out to the smoker with a pair of tongs. Between the beard, the motorcycle, and the tattoos climbing both forearms, Grant ought to have been intimidating. Then he’d look at Ava and suddenly he was just a man hopelessly gone over his wife.

He stopped when he saw me.

“Hey, Yasmine.”

“Hey, Grant.”

His gaze swept over me once. “Productive trip?”

“Yup.”

“Worth it, then.” He nodded toward the back deck. “I’ll save you the end piece.”

The end piece. The brisket equivalent of a love language.

“King. Always knew you liked me best.”

His mouth twitched. “Don’t tell Tabby.”

Then he headed back outside to check on meat that was almost certainly doing just fine without him. Left alone too long, Grant would organize a garage, build a deck, or accidentally start a business.

Havoc, Grant’s dog, was stretched across the living room floor, enormous and brindle and deeply committed to doing nothing. His broad head rested near Annie’s knee, one ear flopped inside out, while she sat cross-legged beside him with one hand buried in the loose skin at his neck.

He cracked one eye, decided that was damn near heroic, and let it drift shut again like the weight of the world rested on his lids.

“Hey, Annie.”

She blinked up at me from beneath a bushel of blue-tipped curls. “Sorry. Do I know you?”

I sighed. This was her warming up.

“You’ve got the look of my best friend,” she drawled, “but she vanished into Patagonia like a ghost, fired off one and a half texts, and got herself officially declared dead in my book.”

“Annie—”

“I’ve been very brave about it.”

“There wasn’t reception, Annie.”

“Mm-hmm.”