“Good luck.”

“Thanks. I’ll be right back. I’m so excited you’re here!”

“Want to go outside?” Sam asks me.

“Yeah, it’ll be nice to see everyone else.” We go through the kitchen to get to the covered patio out back. “What’s Rory’s husband’s name again?”

“Dean.”

“Right. I remember now. And you all approve?”

“We do. Dean and I were friends before he started dating Rory, actually, which helped.”

“Oh, for sure. So that’s how they met then? Through you?”

“I’ll gladly take credit for arranging things,” he says with a smile as he reaches for the sliding glass door.

“I never took you as a matchmaker,” I laugh. Sam holds the door open for me and I step out. Jacob, Mason, and Dean are sitting at the patio table, and Michael, who I still call Mr. Harris, is standing by the grill. The smell of the steaks makes my mouth water.

“Hey, guys,” I say with a wave.

“Chloe, hey!” Mason says back. “Grab a drink and join us.”

Sam rests his hand on the small of my back, and the heat from his fingers goes right through me. I remember all too well how good those fingers felt, massaging my sore muscles only hours ago. And I know how good those fingers will feel if he—stop it.

“Whatcha drinking?” I ask, looking at a bottle of brown liquid on the table. The label is turned away from me and there are several shot glasses on the table.

“One-hundred-and-thirty-seven-proof rum,” Dean says, reaching for the bottle. “It’s, uh, interesting, that’s for sure.”

“That sounds disgusting,” I laugh. Sam pulls out a chair for me and goes over to a cooler next to the grill, getting two bottles of water before coming back and sitting next to me. “Thanks,” I tell him and twist the cap off the water.

“Want to try some?” Mason asks, picking up an empty shot glass.

“One-hundred-and-thirty-seven proof,” I echo, making a face. “You know what? Why not.” I look at Sam, a smile playing on my lips. “If I try it, you have to try it too.”

Sam mirrors the apprehensive look on my face but grabs a shot glass. Mason fills each of the shot glasses halfway. Sam lifts his in my direction.

“Ready?”

“No,” I laugh and clink my glass with his. I down the rum without gagging but cough as soon as it slides down my throat. “Holy shit,” I say, and everyone laughs. “That is strong.” I trade my shot glass for my water and take a big drink.

“Want more?” Mason asks, giving the bottle a little shake.

“I should say no,” I laugh. “But I’m kind of intrigued.”

“It’s better than the peanut butter whiskey,” Jacob tells me, popping the top off a beer. “Which is shit too.”

“That sounds disgusting.”

“It’s not as bad as it sounds,” Sam tries to convince me.

“Says the guy who ate peanut butter sandwiches every day for lunch for four years in a row.”

He shrugs. “I like peanut butter.”

“To be fair,” Jacob goes on. “You have to try it before you judge it.”

“I have had pumpkin spice whiskey,” I say. “Which was terrible. I don’t even like pumpkin spice coffee.” I take the bottle of rum from Mason and take off the cap, pouring just a tiny bit in my shot glass. I haven’t eaten since Sam and I shared an appetizer at Sunset Tavern, and I know this super strong booze will hit me hard and fast even though I only had half a shot. Farisha made it a point to warn me not to drink, and I have a tendency to overdo it sometimes. I get to feeling good and don’t want that buzz to wear off.

I bring the shot glass to my nose and sniff. “It smells like something I’d clean my bathroom counters with.”

“It’s probably strong enough to disinfect,” Dean jokes.

Mason takes the bottle back and fills up his shot glass, drinking it slowly. “It’ll keep me from getting sick then.”

“It doesn’t work that way,” Sam tells him.

“Damn.”

The sliding glass doors open and shut, and Rory and Mrs. Harris come out onto the patio. “Are the steaks almost ready?” Mrs. Harris asks.

“Just about.” Mr. Harris flips them once more. “Chloe, how do you like your steak?”

“Medium rare,” I reply.

“Good answer,” he says with a wink. “Rory still likes hers well done.”

I gasp. “That ruins a perfectly good steak.”

“That’s what I’ve told her.”

“I don’t like my meat to be bloody. I overcook chicken too,” Rory admits and then looks at Dean, eyes sparkling. “At least he doesn’t mind.”

Dean smiles right back at Rory, and they look so in love it’s adorable. “Hey, if you’re cooking me dinner, who I am to complain.”

“Smart man,” Mrs. Harris says with a wink. It’s nice to see Rory’s husband fit in so well with the rest of the Harris family. I remember Rory complaining about how overprotective her brothers were when she was a kid, and how if there was an off chance she were to get a boyfriend, her brothers would just scare him away.

“Chloe,” Mrs. Harris starts. “Tell us all about being an author. What’s life like in LA? Do you get to go to the set when they’re filming your show?”

Sam nudges my foot with his under the table, giving me an I told you so glance.

“LA is nice,” I start, and Rory grabs a chair and comes over to the table. Sam scoots his chair closer to me, making room for his sister to sit next to Dean. I can feel the heat coming off of him in waves, and my breath hitches in my chest. “The…the weather is the best part.”

“It doesn’t get cold there at all?”

“Not really. The temperatures can drop at night in the winter, but it’s nothing like here.”

“You were smart to go to the west coast,” Rory says, checking the camera to the baby monitor. “But it’s really expensive out there, isn’t it?”

“It is, and adjusting to the prices differences took me a while. A ‘good deal’ on food or something there is expensive here.”

“Do you go out with celebrities all the time?” Mrs. Harris asks.

I shake my head, pushing my hair back over my shoulder. It’s hot out still, and having my thick hair hanging down my neck is a sure way to start sweating. “No. I’m home a lot. Or at the barn with my horse. Though right now he’s recovering from an injury, so I haven’t been able to ride in a few weeks.”

“What happened?” Jacob asks. Right, he’s a vet. Sam brings his arm up to pick up his water bottle and his skin brushes against mine. We were so close to combustion standing together in my kitchen, all it will take is one little spark to start the fire again.

“He slipped on wet grass. We were worried it was a stifle injury, but thankfully it’s not.”

“That’s good. Those can be hard to make full recoveries from.”

I nod and am thankful to talk to Jacob about horses until dinner is ready. We all move inside into the air conditioning.