Page 109 of Vows We Never Made
The military was good for discipline—until it wasn’t.
I came home to take my place much later, with barely a year to learn from Gramps before it was too late.
And what have I gotten for my trouble?
A long list of blunders, shortcomings, defeats, and fucking bad luck.
“All part of the process, son. You don’t get sausage without a lot of grinding,” Gramps used to say.
Smiling, I snort again.
He never let me feel bad about offerings falling through. Not when he considered it part of the learning curve, and the more mistakes I made early on, the better.
And what if thisisan opportunity rather than another bear trap?
Right now, I have Cooper Daley on a self-inflicted guilt trip, eating from the palm of my hand, offering me a no-strings-attached deal. I never saw that coming.
But can I trust it?
I also have a beautiful woman sleeping in my bed.
How can I trust my instincts at all?
It’s not that I don’t trust Hattie when this thing we have is nothing more than an illusion. It’s not going anywhere.
And now Cooper.
If it were up to me, I never would’ve read the damn letter at all. Only, Gramps must have seen something in him once or he wouldn’t have let him get away with swiping that land from under his nose.
For some reason, Gramps trusted him enough to take the job I should’ve had if one cursed summer hadn’t derailed everything.
A little goddamned jealous?
Yes, I am.
I throw myself into a leather chair the color of burned caramel as Ares pads back inside and licks my hand, his thick tail wagging slowly. His nose is wet, his paws damp from the dew.
“I know, boy,” I say, stroking the top of his head.
He lets out a content sigh and sits, leaning against the chair.
Two months ago, I would’ve been annoyed, chasing after this lazy dog while I drag myself through a sham engagement just to fulfill Gramps’ bizarre terms to get what I’m owed.
Now, here I am, sitting up with this old hound in the middle of the night, talking to him like he holds the secrets of the universe.
“But you don’t,” I tell him.
Ares’ ears prick, and he lifts his droopy eyes to mine.
“This is a mess, and I have to figure it out all on my own.”
I still have Cooper’s letter in my hand. I give it one last glance before tossing it on my desk.
Gramps stares out at me from an old photo sitting on the corner. It’s the time he took me fishing off his yacht when I was about eleven and I’d caught a big one.
In the picture, I’m beaming, and he looks so fucking proud of me. Like I’d done something more impressive than just haul that flopping monster back up on the deck with his help.
He grilled that fish for us on the beach that night with potatoes and this otherworldly butter-lemon sauce I can still taste in my dreams.
