Page 36 of Weather the Storm
SIMON
“Want me to make us some lunch?” Magnolia asks as we turn down my long driveway. “It’s only f-fair since you made breakfast.”
I throw the truck into park and my stomach grumbles. “Lunch sounds good.”
Magnolia points that pretty smile of hers my way, and I swear to God, my blood runs faster through my veins. It’s almost scary how much I’ve come to love this woman, how easily I can see a future with her.
Inside, Magnolia gets straight to work, pulling out a head of lettuce and other fresh produce. I watch almost in awe as she navigates my kitchen as if it’s her own, which really, it is if I have my way and can convince her to move to my bedroom from the guest room—but one thing at a time.
“Mags, I’m gonna run and check the mail. I never got around to checking it yesterday.”
“Okay. Lunch should be ready by the time you’re back.”
I step over to her and press a lingering kiss to her plump, lickable lips before turning and walking out the front door.
Usually I make sure to grab the mail when I turn down the driveway on my way home, since it is fairly long, but the weather is mild today, so I decide to walk to the mailbox and back.
A few moments later, I’m flipping open the lid and collecting several letters—bills and junk mostly—and a few catalogs into my hands. In the distance, I hear a vehicle accelerating.
The sound of the racing engine grows louder and louder. I close the lid on the mailbox and look up just in time to see a sleek, black luxury sedan careening toward me. I throw myself back and down, toward the ditch that separates my property from the road, and praise fucking God, the car misses me. My mailbox, however, is not so lucky. The post is splintered right down the middle, as if lightning struck it, and the box itself lands in the ditch next to me.
The car was undeterred by the hit and kept right on going, not even fucking bothering to check to see if I was okay. Unfortunately, everything happened so quickly, I wasn’t able to get the make and model or tag. “FUCK!” I shout, my voice echoing.
In all the commotion, I didn’t see Cash’s truck idling at the end of their driveway. By the time I notice them, he and Myla Rose are both already out of the truck and running over. Judging from the looks on their faces, they must’ve seen the whole thing.
Myla Rose kneels at the edge of the ditch, in full mama-bear mode. “Oh. My. God. Sim! Are you okay?”
Cash is hot on her heels, baby Brody cradled in his arms. He passes him to Myla and quickly hops down into the ditch next to me, where he helps me gather up the mail I dropped. Once it’s all collected, we hike ourselves up and out. “What the hell just happened?” he asks.
“No fucking clue. I heard the engine revving, and when I looked up, they were on me.” I shake my head, disgusted with myself for not being able to get any details about the car other than its color.
“I’d have gone after ’em if Myles and Brody weren’t in the truck.”
“I know you would have. Dammit, I wish I’d have gotten a better look at it.”
“It was an Audi, an A4 I think,” Myla Rose says, holding Brody closer to her chest, pressing a kiss to his head.
Cash reaches out and strokes her cheek then ruffles Brody’s auburn curls that are so much like his mother’s. “Damn, darlin’. Did you see anything else?”
Myla Rose nods. “I don’t remember the tag number, but I know I saw a palm tree with a moon in the center.”
I turn to stone at her words. I know that tag—it’s a white palmetto tree, and more importantly, a South Carolina license plate. “Motherfucker!” I yell, kicking at the ground.
Brody startles at my loud tone and begins crying in his mother’s arms. Any other time she’d have my ass for scaring her son and using such foul language in front of him, but today she seems to be giving me a pass. Instead of lighting into me, she begins murmuring in his ear and bouncing him lightly.
I stare at the two of them, wondering if Magnolia would’ve been the same with her son, had she been given the chance.
The sound of Cash talking breaks me from my dark thoughts. “Hop in the truck and we’ll drive you back up to the house.”
“Thanks,” I say as I climb up into the back seat. Myla Rose comes around and opens the other door, securing Brody in his car seat.
“Hey, little man,” I coo, reaching across the middle seat to him. He instantly grips my index finger with his tiny, pudgy ones, squeezing with all his might—he’s shockingly strong for six months old. He tries to pull my finger into his mouth, but my arm’s not long enough. “You tryin’ to eat me, B?”
“Sorry,” Myla Rose says, glancing at me from the front seat. “He’s teething like crazy and will gnaw on anything he can get into his mouth.” She laughs to herself before continuing. “Just the other day, I found him slobbering on a Milk-Bone.”
“What in the hell’s a Milk-Bone?”
I catch sight of Cash’s smirking grin in the rearview mirror. “It’s a dog treat, dude.”
