Page 46 of The Way Back Home

“Yes, ma’am,” Josiah says.

Beau nods. “Yes, Miss Anders.”

“Good, then get back to work, and I won’t tell your aunt what little punks you are.”

They back inside, grumbling as they go. Josiah rubs at his ear as he walks. I feel the tiniest pang of guilt, and then I smile to myself because it may have only been a few days, but already those little bastards are growing on me, and I think I just might be growing on them too. August stands in the doorway, and I roll my eyes. “What? You need a good ass kicking today too?”

“Nope. Just wanted to make sure you’re okay out here.”

“Yeah, the boys may be idiots, but they’re harmless idiots.”

“In my experience, teenage boys are never harmless.”

I take several steps towards him. He doesn’t budge, so I give him my best sultry stare and say, “In my experience, all men are harmless if you give them a cookie and a belly rub.”

He laughs. Honest-to-God, belly-shaking laughter that makes me chuckle too, and after a moment of awkward smiles he leans down and whispers, “You already made me the cookies, but I’m still waitin’ on the belly rub.”

Maybe I was wrong about being a hurricane. Maybe I’m nothing more than a soft summer breeze about to get slammed by Tropical Cyclone August.

I give him a snide smile. “Get back to work, Cotton.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He grins and salutes me.

God help me, but I am surrounded by jokers, vandals, and madmen, and it seems I’m the maddest of them all because I’d like nothing more than to give August that belly rub—after letting him make good on his promise to rock my world, that is.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Olivia

ILOCK THE FRONT DOORand wave to Sheriff Webb as she drives away from the shelter with my two favorite perps in tow. Dalton seems like he doesn’t want to leave, and I guess I can understand that. When you suffer from PTSD, keeping your mind occupied is important. Dalton doesn’t have anyone to take his mind off anything. We needed to get him a dog, and fast. I’ve put feelers out with all of my contacts. Jake said we have a possible pup lined up in Fairhope, but another soldier wants him and has signed up for the program. He is wheelchair-bound and, from a physical standpoint, he needs the dog more.

A week on from when Dalton first joins us, we’re nearly done with the renovations. It has been like a pissing contest around here to see who can get a job done first; the boys were in on it too, until August pointed out they were cutting corners with their shoddy workmanship and they realized they had to do everything again.

August packs up the truck. Bett sits in the front seat as her brother grabs my bicycle, preparing to put it in the truck bed, when I stop him by saying, “Actually, I was planning on riding home.”

“Why? We’ll just drive you,” August says, as if it’s a done deal and I have no say in the matter.

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