Gin Fling (Bootleg Springs, #5)(51)

“Not only is he gorgeous and built like the human version of a racehorse, but he’s also very smart and very nice,” I told her.

“And you’re sure you’re just roommates?” Mom prodded.

I didn’t want to get her hopes up and then dash them when I went back to Pittsburgh or on to wherever my career took me. “Just friends,” I insisted. Just friends for now. Hopefully sex-having friends soon.

“Have you tried pretending you forgot where your room was and walking into his in a towel?” she asked, her face serious.

“Mom!”

“Kidding! Kidding,” she promised. “You two looked like you were getting along. And I’d love to see both of my kids living their happily ever afters.”

Her heart was in the right place. But her nose could stand to be removed from our business.

“Speaking of,” I said grasping for a subject change. “What do you and Dad think of June?”

“She is abrupt. Inflexible. Sharply intelligent. And—”

“Absolutely perfect for GT,” Dad interrupted. He joined us in the living room. A mug of coffee in one hand.

My mom beamed at him. “In short, we’re thrilled. She’s so different from the women he’s dated the past few years,” she said.

My parents were devout believers in karma and tried never to speak ill of anyone. The “women” my brother had dated before June could be neatly labeled attention-seeking gold diggers. But we were too polite to mention it.

“Tell us more about your survey, Shelby,” Dad insisted, settling his broad shoulders back into the armchair. He may have been wired to love football, but Dad never shirked his fatherly interest when it came to my studies.

I unleashed the nerd girl in me and filled them in on the responses I’d received so far, regaling them with the nuggets of small-town life.

Before long, we heard a car in the driveway.

I peered through the front window, watching as GT and June got out of his SUV. They raced around to the hatch.

GT carefully lifted the pig out of the back and carefully checked her leash and harness while June gave her a good petting.

“Your grandpig is here,” I announced.

My parents burst through the front door greeting GT and June—and Katherine—as if it had been months rather than hours since they’d last seen each other.

It made me want to check in on my own little family.

Me: How’s BR?





Jonah replied immediately with a picture of the puppy sound asleep on his back, his paws frozen in the air as if mid-run.

Jonah: Now the little punk sleeps.





I thought of how I’d woken up that morning. With the ghost of Jonah’s body heat still warming me. How could I broach the subject without being weirdly clinical about it or awkwardly clingy?

Me: I hope I didn’t crowd you last night.





Good! Subtle. Not too pushy.

Jonah: Not at all. Thanks for the co-parenting help.





It was no “You look stunning in the morning, and it took all my willpower not to wake you with sex.” Baby steps. The more comfortable Jonah felt with me, the easier this friendship would be. The more potential we had… temporarily, of course.

There was a ruckus when my parents trooped back inside with June, GT, and the pig.

We sat down to a casual lunch of sandwiches and family patter. June, obviously enamored with her new pet, paused every few moments to check on Katherine or take her picture or give her words of encouragement.

My parents took turns shooting indulgent looks at each other, and I was suddenly fiercely glad we were all together.

“There’s a woman in the backyard,” Dad said mildly, his gaze fixed out the window.

We abandoned our meals and crowded against the dining room window. We observed as a woman of indeterminate age strolled across the backyard. Her clothes were dirty, but her face and the hair under her battered Bootleg Cockspurs cap were clean.

She had an odd hitch in her stride.

“That’s Henrietta Van Sickle,” June announced, nudging GT to lift up Katherine so the pig could see what we were looking at.

“Really?” I pressed closer to the glass.

“Who’s Henrietta Van Sickle?” Mom asked.

“She’s the town hermit,” I explained.

“I heard she doesn’t speak and she doesn’t have indoor plumbing,” GT added.

“You have a town chicken and a town hermit?” Dad asked.

“Of course. Doesn’t everyone?” June frowned.

When Henrietta moved around the side of the house, we followed her from window to window.

“She is most likely heading into town for supplies,” June hypothesized. “She makes the trip every eight to ten weeks.”

“I should go talk to her,” I decided, moving toward the door. I didn’t know if Henrietta would have access to a computer, but I’d love her input for my survey.

“Is that a good idea?” Mom asked in her careful, motherly, trying to respect her children’s boundaries way.

“It’s a great idea,” I assured her.

I ducked out the door before anyone else could voice their concerns and jogged down the steps. Henrietta was moving toward the road at a good clip.