Page 12 of Major Love

“Love you,” I tell him, like I always do before he signs off, and he nods his head, our secret look passing between us.

We learned it the hard way. Every day can be your last.

Make it count.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I love you, too.”

And then he ends the call and leaves me to my own devices.

Alone in his cabin, with the Nashville press hot on my heels, and nothing but a carry-on, my MacBook, and a pair of cowgirl boots.

Chapter 2

Jason

I put my truck in park in the space directly opposite the hardware store, eyes on the vehicle riding the curb right outside the double doors.

I step down onto the blacktop and make my way across the road, wondering how long my brother Mitch has been waiting for me to arrive.

Tripp, the store cashier and the owner’s eighteen-year-old son, leans over the front counter when I breach the entrance.

He catches my eye and grins. “Your truck looks like it’s on ’roids.”

I laugh as I walk past him. “Yeah, it got ’em from your kitchen cabinet.”

“You know who was just in here?” he continues, and I spare him a glance as I scan the front section.

“Who?”

“That blonde chick, Denver Layne. She was asking about you,” he adds with a wink.

“Uh-huh,” I drawl wryly, flicking through the new stripwood they’ve got in store.

“You should ask her out,” he says excitedly.

I shake my head. “Not gonna happen.”

“Why not?” he asks, leaning forwards. “She’s fine as hell. And super into you.”

I give him a smirk as I replace the timber. “Appreciate the confidence. But I’m not looking.”

His brow creases with confusion and I chuckle quietly as he mulls that over.

Between deployments I used to loosen up a little, but now that I’m back home it hasn’t been on my agenda.

I mean, there was one person who I considered, but it was impossible to get a hold of her. For one, she doesn’t live in town anymore, and two, she’s probably not even single.

She was always so damn beautiful, there’ll be a million guys wanting to lock her down.

And screwing my way around this town is the last thing I’d ever do. Everyone knows everyone, and I don’t need the whole neighbourhood knowing my business.

I turn the corner to the next aisle and my brother Mitch glances up from the shelves. There’s a sample pot of paint in his free hand, and the swatch on the side is baby pink.

Like me, he’s six-four, two-fifty, and tanned bronze from working in the sun. Because even when we’re knee-deep in snow, the UVA glare in the mountains is relentless.

He places the small tin of paint in his basket and turns around without a word.

“Not judging,” I tell him gruffly, shaking out my wrists as we reach the next section. I start scanning the bottom shelf, knowing what we’re looking for. “If Harper wants the house painted pink, so be it.”

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