Page 129 of Whiskey Chase
“You look like you’re gonna be sick,” he observed.
“I haven’t proposed yet,” I told him. “How can we have an engagement party with no engagement?”
“I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you,” Gibson drawled. Easy for him to say. He had a shiny gold band on his ring finger and a fucking permanent smile on his face these days.
“The girls here, yet?” Jameson asked from the yard.
“Not yet,” Gibson called back. “Be here soon.”
“Wait a second.” I stopped on the deck. “She’s up to something. Isn’t she?” I dared them to lie to my face.
Gibson put his hands on my shoulders and helpfully shoved me in the direction of the stairs. “Scarlett? Up to something?” he asked innocently.
Jameson stuffed his hands in his pockets and whistled tunelessly while avoiding my gaze.
“If you don’t start spilling your guts, I’m canceling poker this week,” I threatened.
“Look. You want to get engaged, don’t you?” Gibson said, pointing me in the direction of the box truck from which a two dozen round tables were being unloaded.
I slapped my thigh. “That little sneak thinks she’s going to propose, doesn’t she?”
Gibson and Jameson shared a long look.
“Damn it. She’s held the fact that she said ‘I love you’ first over my head for four years. Can you imagine what she’ll do if she’s the one who pops the question?”
They nodded stoically, not willing to officially break the Bodine family code of blabbing on each other.
Bowie and Jonah wandered up.
“Why don’t you two take McCallister here for a little walk before he blows his top,” Gibson suggested.
“Did you know about this?” I asked, poking Jonah in the chest.
“OfcourseI knew. My wife can’t keep a secret to save her life.”
“None of them can,” Jameson grinned.
Four phones dinged, chirped, and tinkled simultaneously. The brothers glanced at their screens, four matching grins splitting their faces. God, they were annoying.
“Girls are here,” Jonah said.
I spun back toward the house. There was no way in hell that I was letting Scarlett Bodine propose to me. I was getting this one first.
“Where y’all goin’?” Bowie called after me.
“To ruin Scarlett’s plan!”
“What about the tables?” Gibson yelled.
“Fuck the tables!”
I stormed into the house under a full head of steam and followed the sounds of giggling and squealing in the direction of the upstairs bathroom.
“Wait until Devlin gets a load of you,” I heard Cassidy sing when I tackled the last of the stairs.
“You look attractive,” Cassidy’s sister agreed. “Not at all like your usual mess.”
“Thanks, y’all,” my future wife drawled.
