“You came,” I say.
Her eyes flick to Derby. “I was told wedding planning could be dangerous without supervision.”
Derby lifts a hand. “I said no such thing. I said I wasn’t getting dragged into ribbon decisions unless there was bourbon.”
“You’re here,” I say.
“Under protest.”
“With bourbon nearby.”
“Which is why the protest remains peaceful.”
Legend looks from Derby to Amelia and back again.
He is trying not to look like a brother.
He fails.
He also fails at not looking like a president calculating how many variables Amelia adds to the day. The Fire Pit photo gossip has already started. I know it because two women in town texted Lottie before breakfast, and one of them claimed Amelia and Derby were practically making babies in the alley, which is impressive considering they did not even kiss. Hell has always been a town with more imagination than discretion.
Amelia feels the attention and tenses.
Legend sees that. His jaw tightens, then he does something that makes my heart hurt.
He steps back.
Gives her room.
Learning.
Good.
“You want coffee?” he asks her gruffly.
Amelia blinks. “What?”
“Coffee. Water. Bourbon. Cornbread has something smoking in the kitchen if you’re brave or tired of living.”
Cornbread raises his hand again. “It’s experimental.”
“No one wants experimental Burgoo,” Janie says.
“August would,” Derby says. “Bottomless pit.”
But August ain’t here. He is at Derby’s house with Lottie’s niece and two prospects outside, because Amelia needed one hour in town without her son being the center of every risk calculation. Still, I see the moment she remembers him. The quick glance toward the door. The guilt.
Derby notices too.
“He’s fine,” he says, low enough that only those close hear. “Got Blue Rex, cereal, and two men outside losing an argument to a five-year-old about whether dinosaurs can eat marshmallows.”
Amelia’s mouth curves. “He says they can.”
“He’s wrong.”
“He’s five.”
“He’s confidently wrong. There’s a difference.”