Her lips part, her voice breathy with surprise at hearing the words she never expected. “There’s not much of a need for a defense attorney in Sunshine.”
“I can practice other types of law.”
Her eyes narrow. “You would hate that.”
I cup her jaw. “I’ll do it—for you and Presley. If that’s what you need, I will.”
Her brows pinch together—half with heartbreak, half with anger. She steps away from me, her voice breaking. “I do not want to be the sacrifice you make! I never did! We both deserve better than that.”
And then she launches herself at me, wrapping her arms around my waist, her soft warmth aligned with mine, burying her face in my chest, refusing to let go. I hold her right back, tight and safe, kissing the top of her head, murmuring gentle words, pressing my nose to her hair because it smells so sweet.
We stay like that for a while, until her tears are all dried up. And it just feels . . . sad. Like the very last minutes of a funeral.
“I’m marrying JD on Saturday, Stanton. I need you to understand.”
I grip her arms and lean back, so she can see my eyes. “It’s a mistake. I came here for you. I’m not giving up on us. Understand that.”
“You don’t know—” she starts.
But then I get an idea and I cut her off with a comically heavy Alabama accent. “I’m not a smart man, Jen-ney. But I know what love is . . .”
She covers her ears, and squeaks, “Don’t do that! Don’t you Forrest Gump me! You know that movie makes me cry, you evil sonofabitch.”
She punches me on the arm, both of us almost smiling.
“Yeah, I know.” I sweep her blond hair back, letting the heat of my hand seep through her T-shirt, rubbing my thumb along the ridge of her collarbone. “Does he know that? Does he know you like I do, Jenn?” I step closer, leaning toward her. “Does he know how much you like those long, wet kinds of kisses or how licking that spot behind your—”
Her hand covers my mouth. She peers up at me with patient amusement, like I’m an incorrigible adolescent. “That’s enough, you. He knows me—some things better than even you. What he doesn’t know, he’ll have plenty of time to find out.”
I stick out my tongue, licking circles on her palm.
She squeals and snatches it away.
“I want you to meet him, Stanton. He’s a good man. You’ll like him.”
I cross my arms. “If he’s breathing, there’s no way I’m gonna like him.”
Jenny jerks her thumb toward my truck. “C’mon, take me home. Presley will be done with cheerleadin’ soon.”
“Let’s pick her up,” I suggest as we walk side by side to the truck. “Together. She’ll like that.”
“All right.”
I reach out to hold Jenny’s hand, like I’ve done a million times before, but she moves it away. I frown. Then I snatch it, not letting her escape, purposely entwining all of our fingers.
She gazes impassively. “You done?”
Holding her eyes, I slowly bring her knuckles to my lips. “Darlin’, I have not even begun to start.”
She stares up at my face, looking like she can’t decide if she wants to laugh or burst into tears—maybe both at the same time. Her hand cups my jaw, her head shaking.
“Oh, Stanton, I know I’ve turned this whole thing into a shit-show . . . but I have missed you.”
12
Stanton
After I drop Jenny off at her parents’ house, I bring Presley to mine. She and Sofia seem to hit it off when I introduce them in my old room. Then the two of us head outside, tossing a football. My throw spirals through the air, arching midway, then comes to rest in her hands. A perfect pass.
It’s nice to know I’ve still got it.
She aligns her fingers on the laces like I’ve shown her since she was old enough to hold a ball and launches it back. She most certainly has her daddy’s arm.
It’s not that I want her going out for the football team or anything, but I think there are certain skills every girl should learn—if only so they’re not overly impressed when some cocky little prick comes along trying to show off. How to change a tire, throw a football, ride a horse, drive a manual transmission—how to change the oil in a car is important too.
Plus, our catches give us time to talk. To reconnect when I’ve been away for months at a time. I’ve always imagined having those chats when she’s a teenager—about drinking, smoking, screwing—will be less awkward if there’s a football between us.
“So . . . what do you think about this weddin’ business?”
She giggles as she catches. “Were you surprised? I was gonna tell you all about it last week, but Momma said to wait—she said you’d be really surprised.”
I force a smile. “Oh, I was surprised, alright.”
“I get to be the flower girl!” She practically bounces. “My dress is blue and satin, and I feel just like a princess in it. And Granny got me blue slippers to match. Momma said I can get my hair done up and I can wear lip gloss!”
Her enthusiasm loosens my lips into a more genuine grin. “That’s good, baby girl.”
Presley’s next pass is wide, and I jog to grab it as it bounces on the grass. “And this JD guy . . . you like him?”