Golden Trail (The ‘Burg #3)(25)
Author: Kristen Ashley

“Then I’ll cook,” she offered and his hands slid down her neck to her shoulders and then around her back and he pulled her closer.

“Nope, you cooked last night. We had a huddle before you arrived and Jas has decided he’s going to amaze you with his culinary brilliance.”

He watched her eyebrows go up. “You had a huddle?”

“Yeah,” his arms gave her a squeeze then he dropped one, slid the other one to her shoulders, he moved to her side and walked them forward, “they’ve been briefed.”

She slid her arm around his waist and turned her head to the side, tilting it up to look at him and he felt the soft hair of her ponytail glide across his forearm at her shoulders. “They okay with, um… everything?”

Layne nodded. “They’re good.”

She looked to the house as they took the two steps to the small, white fenced, cement front porch and whispered, “Okay.”

She didn’t sound okay. She sounded tentative and scared as hell.

He pushed her forward, opened the storm door and held it over her head as he shoved the front door open and she preceded him.

“Hey Mrs. Astley!” Tripp shouted, sliding across the wood floors on his tube socks with his greeting and Layne decided that lessons in cool were definitely in order for his younger son.

“Hey Tripp,” Raquel replied and then was hit dead on with a frontal assault from Blondie that rocked her back on one of her slim high heels.

“Down, Blondie,” Layne ordered, closing and locking the door and Blondie ignored him for the first time in her life, pawing at Rocky’s fancy-ass sweater and aiming repeated lashing of her tongue on Rocky’s neck like Rocky’s perfume was eau du bacon. “Tripp, get her off Roc.”

“Blondie! Come here, girl, come on!” Tripp called, slapping his thighs and Blondie’s head jerked back and forth between Tripp and Rocky in excited indecision as to who was her favorite person in the world. It didn’t take her long to decide on Tripp and she shoved off Rocky and ran at Tripp who tackled her and wrestled her to the rug in the living room.

“Hey Mrs. Astley,” Jasper said and Layne’s eyes went to where he was standing, leaning against the wall, arms crossed on his chest, foot crossed at the ankle, face set in a look of amused indifference and Layne wished Tripp wasn’t wrestling with the dog and instead was paying attention to his brother because Jasper, unlike Tripp, was the master of cool.

“Hey, Jasper,” Rocky replied. “I hear you’re cooking for me tonight.”

“Pasta bake,” Jasper returned.

“Pasta bake? What’s that?” Tripp called from the floor in the living room while still wrestling with the dog.

“I don’t know,” Jasper answered. “I’m gonna make it up as I go along.”

“Great,” Layne muttered and then his world collapsed.

It did this because Rocky’s head twisted to look over her shoulder, her ponytail flying, and she smiled at him. Directly at him. Her eyes hitting his and her dimple hitting her cheek.

He could kiss her, hold her in his arms, pin her to the wall, lie on top of her on a couch and have a conversation and he felt it and knew he liked it but he could take it.

But he couldn’t take that smile aimed at him. That smile that twenty-one years ago promised a beautiful life and then three years later it reneged without any explanation.

It was then he realized he hadn’t fully thought through this plan.

Before he recovered, she turned back to Jasper and said, “I don’t know, it sounds good to me and I’m so hungry, I could gnaw off my own arm.”

“I bet Jas’s pasta bake will at least taste better than your arm,” Tripp noted.

“Shut up, Tripp,” Jasper returned and looked at Layne. “You want a beer, Dad?”

Layne stopped staring at the back of Rocky’s head and looked at his boy.

“Yeah, Jas,” he replied.

“You want one, Mrs. Astley?” Jasper asked.

It was then Layne got a good look at her sweater. He avoided shopping like the plague but he reckoned just her sweater cost more than every stitch of clothing he and his boys were wearing. It came to him that when he was at the grocery store, he probably should have bought her wine or, alternately, a two hundred and fifty dollar bottle of champagne.

“Beer sounds good but I’ll get it,” she answered Jasper, her heels clicking on the tiles as she moved into the kitchen.

Layne followed her and rounded the corner right when her head came out of the fridge. She had two bottles between her fingers and she handed both to him.

“Can you do mine? Those twist tops hurt my hand,” she said quietly.

“I can do it!” Tripp offered loudly and Layne heard thundering, tube sock covered feet.

“I think I got it, Pal,” Layne said, twisting off the caps and flicking both into the garbage before he handed Raquel her beer. “Get your brother a soda to keep him hydrated while he slaves at the stove.”

“Gotcha,” Tripp grinned and pushed through Layne and Rocky to get to the fridge.

She shifted out of Tripp’s way. Layne looked toward Jasper who was standing in the middle of the kitchen surveying the scene exuding ice cold teenage football hotshot badass cool.

“Jas, you gonna pull together this pasta bake or what?” Layne prompted.

“I’m on it,” Jasper muttered and headed to the pantry.

Layne got close to Rocky and touched the small of her back with his hand. She was lost in thought even though she was looking right at him so when his fingers hit her, she jumped and her head tipped further back.

“Have a seat at the island, Roc,” he invited.

“Right,” she whispered and moved to the island.

She took a seat, Layne leaned against the end closest to her stool, Tripp leaned forward on the island in front of her with his own soda and Jasper re-entered the room with his arms filled with a variety of groceries.

“So, Mrs. Astley –” Tripp started but she interrupted him.

“How about, if we’re not in a building with lockers in it, you call me Rocky?” she suggested, “That work for you?”

“Cool!” Tripp shouted, “And since you and Dad are gonna be an item, can I tell my friends I call you Rocky when I’m not in a building with lockers in it?”

“Tripp,” Layne used a warning tone.

“Dude, you don’t have to tell them shit,” Jasper advised, standing at the stove and dumping pasta in water. “They ask questions, you just say, ‘Dad says I’m not allowed to talk about that,’ or, ‘we had a family meeting and we decided not to talk about home time’. That way, they have no clue what’s goin’ on and they make everything up in their head. That’s way better.”