"I'm telling you, Geoffrey, you're using too much lighter fluid." Bowen calls over to me and waves a beer bottle for emphasis. "You're gonna singe your eyebrows off, you jackass."
"At least I’ve got eyebrows to singe," Geoffrey fires back. "Unlike someone who thought bottle rockets and facial hair were a good combo."
"Fuck off," Bowen mutters, shooting a glare at Alexander. "At least I’ve still got a full head of hair to lose.”
Alexander groans. “Dammit, let’s just go already. Some of us would like to eat before midnight.”
The sun is nearly down, and they’ve been prepping the grill for over two hours. At this point, it’s more spectacle than strategy. But there’s a charm to it that you just don’t get outside of Texas, and I can’t help but giggle.
"Let me handle this." Danner steps forward, and the other guys grumble. He continues, "These sustainable bamboo charcoal cubes burn cleaner and more efficiently?—"
"Oh, for fuck’s sake," Bowen groans.
Boos erupt from the rest of the crew. Literal jeering.
“Poor Danner.” I bite back a smile.
“Ehh, I don’t know.” Holden lets out a low, deep chuckle in my ear.
Danner is the newly-discovered Kingridge half-brother from California. Everything about him screams West Coast from his organic cotton T-shirt to his obsession with composting scraps. But somehow, he’s finding his place here. Or at least he’s trying to.
"Bowen, just let Geoffrey do it," Priya calls out from the picnic table, where she's arranging what looks like enough potato salad to feed a high school football team. "He’s got this."
"Thank you," Geoffrey says with mock reverence, flashing a triumphant grin.
"Don’t let it go to your head," his wife Brynn Rose chimes in, emerging from the kitchen with a platter of corn on the cob.
Geffrey smiles at Brynn Rose, and for a second, the bickering fades. Everyone’s moving around in this loud, messy, completely imperfect rhythm. I love it. It’s not curated or polished or posed. But it’s family.
Holden brushes his thumb against my shoulder. “You’re smiling.”
“I like your family. They’re… real.”
“They’re something, all right,” he chuckles. “You sure you’re ready for this level of chaos on the regular?”
Before I can answer, Hunkleberry, the ranch’s ancient farm dog, comes bounding across the lawn with someone’s flip-flop in his mouth.
“Hunk!” Alexander’s wife, Cassidy, calls out, hopping after him in one shoe. “Bring that back, you thief!”
The dog does a play bow. His tail wags like mad. Then bolts across the field with Cassidy chasing hot on his trail. As the chaos passes us, Holden hops up to help.
I make my way toward the dessert table, where Priya’s laying out a spread fit for the entire population of Sagebrush Creek. I join her, settling freshly picked strawberries and blueberries on a tiered tray.
“Is it always like this?” I ask.
“This is calm,” Priya deadpans. “Last Christmas, Fallon and Anny got into a gingerbread house contest that ended with architectural sabotage and a frosting war.”
“Of course they did. I’m starting to think Kingridge men don’t do anything halfway.”
From there, it’s a frenzy of neighbors, food, and alcohol. The music starts and people sing along. The Southern Knights football family parties can’t hold a candle to a Kingridge bash. Four hours pass in the blink of an eye.
Before I know it, the sun disappears. Before I know it a beautiful display of fireworks explodes overhead. The whole ranch lights up in color, music, and laughter. There are families on picnic blankets in red, white, and blue outfits. Kids playing cornhole and plates piled high with food.
But none of it compares to the sparks I feel when Holden pulls me close.
We settle onto a blanket of our own beneath the stars. He tucks me against his side, strong and steady. The smell of barbecue and wildflowers floats on the breeze. I’ve stoppedfeeling like an outsider. Somewhere in the last week, this place became home.
Later that night, as the fireworks wind down, the Kingridge brothers gather near the grill.
