His dark brows furrow. “I don’t. And Tucker was a big help.” He fixes his gaze on my son as he practically preens under thecompliment. “He tossed the carrots and potatoes into the crock-pot once I cut them.”
“It was fun, Daddy!”
“Good job, bug.” I ruffle up the hair on his head before turning to Ash. “Do I have time to take a quick shower?”
Nodding, a smile tugs on his lips. “Yup. Everything will be ready in about fifteen minutes or so.”
As I stand under the hot stream, I replay my day, much like I do every evening after work. Except tonight, the part of the day I can’t stop thinking about is Ash, and the way he was cooking in my kitchen. The way he seems to have already—after only one day—bonded with my kid in a way that took Cassie at least a week.
And Cassie never cooked dinner for us either.
I mean, it wasn’t her job, so I didn’t expect her to. Like I didn’t expect Ash to. But it’s…nice. It’s nice to get home from a long day in the hot sun, my body aching and tired, and have the house smell of an amazing home-cooked meal, and not have to do anything for it.
Once I’m finished, I dry off and dress in a pair of sleep pants and a plain white t-shirt, meeting Ash and Tucker in the dining room, where dinner is already finished. Dishing up, the three of us sit at the table, and my stomach grumbles.
“This smells delicious,” I compliment as I slather some butter on a biscuit. I was right earlier; it’s a pot roast.
“Thanks.” Ash’s cheeks pinken again. “I used to enjoy cooking with my mom when I was a teenager. This was one of the first recipes she taught me.”
“I used to cook with my dad,” I offer, realizing we have that in common. “Funnily enough, the first thing I ever made with him was smoked brisket.”
Ash chuckles, brow cocked as he meets my gaze. “Kind of an overachieving first meal to learn, don’t you think?”
My chest rumbles with a laugh. “Yeah, suppose it is. That’s Gentry Moore for ya, though.”
“The first thing I learned to make was a grilled cheese,” Ash teases. “And halfway through my twenties, I still have yet to work a smoker.”
“Well, maybe one day you’ll have a chance to learn.”
The food tastes as good as it smells, if not better. Tucker spends the entirety of dinner alternating between shoveling food into his mouth and giving me a play-by-play about their day together, right down to what they ate for breakfast and lunch. Apparently, Ash makes a “stellar”—his word—ham and cheese sandwich.
No idea where he learned that one.
Tucker is talking a mile a minute as he tells me about the painting, the bike riding, how they played with the chickens and Bubba, and even how Ash showed him some music he’s never heard before. It’s “so cool,” according to my son.
After we finish eating, Ash insists on cleaning up the dinner dishes as I give Tucker a bath and get him ready for bed. Bedtime is the same every single night; Tucker makes his rounds with the chickens, ensuring they all go back into their home for the night, and then we sit on his bed as I read him three different bedtime stories. The same stories every single night. You’d think he’d get tired of them; I know I have.
A little after eight, and he’s out like a light. Heading out to the living room, I dim the lights, pick a record and put it on, before pouring myself three fingers of Foxx Bourbon, and sitting in the recliner by the window. A sliver of daylight still clings to the horizon, and as I slowly sip the smoky, rich liquor, I watch as it disappears.
The older I get, the rougher ranchin’ is on my body. I’m not even thirty yet, but my muscles ache like I’m nearing sixty. I don’t know how my father does it. Or how his father did it. Thisline of work is fulfilling, and I wouldn’t have it any other way, but my gosh, there are sacrifices you must make in order to do it, and this is one of them.
I’ve zoned out, running through my to-do list for tomorrow, when footsteps from down the hall reach my ears. Turning my head, my gaze lands on Ash as he pads into the living room, a pair of athletic shorts and a hoodie on. He stops mid-step when our eyes meet, an unsure smile tugging on one side of his mouth.
“Is it okay if I join you?” he asks softly, gesturing to the couch.
I nod, bringing the glass up to my lips and taking a pull from the amber liquid. “You live here too,” I tell him. “You don’t have to ask to sit in the living room.”
He doesn’t sit right away like I figured he would. Instead, he walks over to my collection of records, carefully thumbing through as he inspects them. His thick, dark eyebrows pinch together and he’s chewing on his bottom lip, clearly deep in concentration.
“You’ve got quite the collection,” he finally murmurs, not bothering to look over at me. “Interesting taste.”
I snort. “Says you.”
Ash turns his head, lips curling into a grin. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I haven’t forgotten about your terrible music that was blaring when I got home.”
“There’s something seriously wrong with you if you think Rain City Drive is terrible.” A chuckle bubbles past his lips as he drops down onto the couch. The sound of it scratches something inside my mind, but I don’t understand why. It’s deep yet airy, and it makes the hairs on my arm stand on end.
