The Buy-In (Graham Brothers #1)(44)

I should have known this might happen. But there will be absolutely no shipping of anyone in that cell with my friends. This is a no-ship zone. Thankfully, Winnie’s got my back.

“Ew, Val. No.” She pokes Val in the arm. “Those are not guys you want to date.”

Winnie is right, but neither of us want to date a Dale, either. And apparently there is no shortage of Dales, as Winnie has tried setting both of us up with multiple of his plain-cracker friends.

“Ow!” Val rubs the spot and gives Winnie a dirty look. “You and your bony fingers!”

“I’m with Winnie on this. They are definitely off limits,” I tell her in a low voice. “They’re not man candy. Think of them like an onion dipped in caramel. Looks like a caramel apple on the outside but—”

“Tastes like an armpit,” Winnie finishes.

Chevy booms out a laugh. He was the one who played that prank on us years ago at Halloween. We should have known, considering the way he always liked to prank us. But a caramel-covered onion looks surprisingly just like a caramel apple.

“Right,” Val says, wrinkling her nose. “But just in case, should we call dibs?”

“No!” Winnie and I say at the same time.

Val begins counting on her fingers. She looks at me first. “Pat is obviously yours—”

“He’s not mine,” I snap, still managing to keep my eyes off the cell. I am a paramount of self-control.

“One can be for Winnie. Maybe the big, grumpy-looking one. I think he could probably handle her.”

“I have a boyfriend,” Winnie says. “Hel-lo.”

“I keep forgetting,” Val mutters. “He’s just so—” I elbow her, and she changes course. “Right. Okay, and one is wearing a wedding ring, which leaves the super muscly one for me.” Val gives Chevy a sideways glance to see if he’s paying attention. He’s scrolling through his phone.

“How do you even see a wedding band from here? Especially with all the mud?” Winnie asks.

Mud?

“It’s a skill,” Val says. “And why are they so filthy?”

Chevy chuckles. “They might have gotten hosed down at the Backwoods Bar.”

I finally allow myself to glance to the cell, where my eyes have been begging to go since I walked in. I have to commend my self-control for lasting this long. My gaze lands immediately on Pat.

Are there even other guys in there with him? As far as I’m concerned, it’s always only Pat. Regrettably so.

Pat is, in fact, covered in what looks like dried mud. From his hair to his boots, he is a light brown color, his hair and clothes stiff with it. Only his face and hands look like they’ve been cleaned at all. He should look worse for being filthy and for spending the night in a cell. But, this being my life—which is far from fair—even from here, Pat is still the best-looking man I’ve ever seen.

He flashes me his ridiculous smile, the one which would be cocky on someone else. Except Pat isn’t puffed up or proud. On the surface, it might come across that way. He possesses a sense of confidence, a fearlessness, and an exuberance for life. But he’s always been the kind of man willing to make a fool of himself, to let all his feelings hang out no matter the consequences. He’s the kind to jump despite the risks.

Except when it came to me. To us. There, he was better at jumping ship. And I’m not going to give him a chance to do so again. Because it wouldn’t be so hard to let me fall in love with Pat again. I’m not so sure I ever fully fell OUT of love with the man.

Remember—NO SHIPPING ZONE! Zero ships will be shipping from this port.

Val nudges me with her shoulder, finally breaking my gaze. Her smile is knowing, and it makes me feel a little stabby. “Are you totally sure we’re here for butt-kicking?” she asks quietly.

“I’m sure.”

Chevy crosses his arms. “Their lawyer should be here any minute. If you want a chance to talk while he’s behind bars I’d do so quickly.”

Why did talking to Pat seem like a good idea, again? Oh, right, because he and his family—a good portion of whom are also crowded in the cell and every bit as caked with mud—bought my freaking town. I cannot wake up every morning knowing at any moment I might run into the man who has that feral cat in me clawing up the furniture. Pat is simply too big of a risk.

I need to make sure he knows this—us—isn’t ever going to happen again.

It can’t. I’ve lost too much. I won’t make the mistake of offering him my heart again. Because Pat isn’t just offering me a second chance. He’s holding out hope in a shiny, wrapped package with a bow. Hope is not a luxury I can afford right now.

I mentally check the zipper on my bulletproof heart vest.

Do bulletproof vests zip? ANYWAY.

I try to take a fortifying breath, but the air somehow tastes like stale coffee and pickles, and I end up coughing. Winnie pats my back ineffectually.

“I’m okay,” I croak.

“Yeah, you are,” Winnie says. “I wish I had popcorn for this. Chevy, is there any popcorn in the break room?”

“I’ll check.”

Ignoring them all, I draw in a steadying breath and stride toward the cell. My eyes stay fixed on Pat. His smile grows as I approach.

My heart tries to do some kind of flippy thing it definitely has no permission to do, and I tell it to stand down. The zombie butterflies try to stir, and I stomp them with the heel of my boot. The feral cat seems to be trying to figure out how to claw through the fabric of my bulletproof vest, and I kick her out of the way.