Page 8 of The Patron Saint of Timber Hollow

"Of course. And I'm sorry about being late. Sam literally just called me; she's in an airport in Ohio, of all places." I chuckle, trying to bring back the lighter mood Ivy had been in.

"Ah, that's okay. George can run bottles while Angel and I mix. We'll manage while you're getting…Sam, right?" I murmur amhmbefore she continues, "From the airport."

"What's Cook's special tonight?"

"Taco Night! Like a street style with a few different options."

I laugh, picturing the little dance I know Ivy probably did in place, knowing the food will be amazing. "Make sure he saves me some."

"Oh, I'm sure he will."

"Well, I've got to get going unless you want me to be super lateandhangry."

"Nope!Goodbye." Ivy laughs, hanging up immediately.

The house is empty; the boys all have gone to their various places of work already, so I have to fend for myself for something within the depths of the fridge. Jay and Dante go to the Forge, And Saint runs off to the Packhouse for a few hours daily. Luckily for me, he also always has a few meals prepped and ready to go in our fridge. Today's options include a salad or something that looks like a soup. The soup is practically green, so I chose the salad.

If I'm going to eat bunny food, I might as well eat it the satisfying way.

Saint's food prep containers are glass, so I can see the salad is absolutely stacked with ingredients without lifting the lid. I can practically hear him listing the items, telling me why they're there as he's at it. The bowl is loaded with fresh greens, cucumbers, sunflower seeds for crunch, juicy tomatoes, feta cheese for tang, onion, pepperoncini for zing, and a pile of freshly shredded rotisserie chicken to one side.

"That'll do, Chef. That'll do." I hum to myself while I choose a vinaigrette dressing to drizzle overtop, digging in without preamble standing at the island. I swear food only tastes this good when Saint makes it.

Another five minutes later, I'm out the door, noting that the film of ice has already been scraped off my windshield. While I wait for the Stingray to warm up, I text Jay again.

Thank you, darling boyfriend, for clearing my windshield.

Wasn't me, Gorgeous. Thank Saint.

I rescind my gratitude, peasant.

I adore you.

Likewise, Big Guy.

My mouth feels stretched to its limit as I type out a different message, chuckling to myself while my Corvette rumbles beneath my butt. I discovered the seat warmers last week in amild stroke of genius. What I had thought was the rear defrost button is actually the control for the tushy warmers. The rear defrost is next to the four ways.

Thanks, Chef, for feeding me even though you weren't home and clearing my windshield.

Anytime, Tiny.

Before I go to the airport, I stop at the store, looking for a poster board and a marker to make a quick sign for Sam. After that, it's just me, the Stingray, and the open road. The airport isn't too far, and the open road is nice.

The forest is no longer colorful, full of beautiful reds and oranges like when I came home. Now, it's just the random flock of evergreen pine between the barren, brown branches. The gorgeous blue sky is the cornerstone of a good day. We haven't gotten any snow coverage that lasted longer than a day or so, melting off in what little heat the sun provides in the middle of the day. Already, green grass is peeking through the melting frost cover.

Pulling into a parking space, I devise theperfectidea for my sign.

The airport is small, considering some of the ones out in California. There are only a few terminals, a handful or so airplanes out on the tarmac; I've arrived with enough time to get bored while waiting for her flight in the baggage claim area, poster board sign eventually leaning against the chair, my asspainfully numb. I've already eaten the peanut butter M&M's I bought at the store with my poster board. When I hear her flight code over the PA system, I stand, stretching my limbs and grabbing my sign.

My handwriting reads "DARLING, GUESS WHO'S BACK FROM JAIL" across it in big, bold, sloppy strokes. She'll be able to read it clearly across the tiny airport.

Even with her new haircut, I easily picked Sam out of the crowd. She stands out in her tight, black, long-sleeved sweater dress that stops around her knees and faux snakeskin cowboy boots on her feet.

Sam always looks hot, but it's criminal to the rest of the world to lookthatgood after a flight.

It's anobscenepleasure to see Sam's face light up with delight, her head rearing back with peals of surprised laughter when she reads what's on my DIY sign. Then she's jogging the rest of the distance with a surprisingly small suitcase in tow, pulling me into a tight hug.

"I missed you!" She hums in my ear, squeezing me only like a snake can. Sam gives the bestplatonichugs. She and Jay are tied, if only because Sam doesn't do the forehead thing Jay does when we're all naked and sweaty together.