Farrah hung up and stared at the ceiling with a ridiculous grin on her face.
“Oh, babe.” Olivia sighed. “You’re a goner.”
Farrah didn’t deny it. They both knew it was true.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The good parts of Blake’s Austin visit: his mom and sister, amazing barbecue, and a hot-as-hell phone sex session with Farrah.
The bad parts: everything else.
The trouble started at Joe Ryan’s fiftieth birthday party, which was standard fare for their small Austin suburb of Cedar Hills: burgers, chips, and sweaty glasses of lemonade piled on their rickety picnic table; guests milling around in short-sleeved polo shirts and shorts, their skin pinking beneath the scorching summer heat while they gossiped about the latest suburban scandal, and live music courtesy of the Ryans’ next-door neighbor’s son, who aspired to be a country-rock star.
After a mind-numbing conversation with the Harpers about the best lawnmower models, Blake escaped to the kitchen, where his mom and sister were whipping up a fresh batch of finger foods. Well, his mom was; Joy was scrolling through her phone and munching on nachos.
Blake arched an eyebrow. “Being useful, I see.”
“Oh, shut up.” Joy stuck her tongue out at him. “You’re not exactly Mr. Helpful either.”
“Mom, do you need help with anything after I refill the chips?” Blake asked with a wide smile. He pushed the bowl of nachos out of Joy’s reach and ignored her indignant cry.
Helen Ryan laughed. “Oh, no thanks, hon. I appreciate the offer, but I remember what happened the last time you tried to help me cook.” She gave him an affectionate pat on the cheek. “You’re very sweet, even if you only offered to help to spite your sister.”
Hey, an offer was an offer.
Besides, how was Blake supposed to know the difference between baking soda and baking powder? He’d been seventeen.
“Ugh, don’t encourage him, Mom.” Joy stretched across the counter to reach the chips; he moved them farther away, earning himself a scowl. “Just because he’s home for the first time in months doesn’t mean you need to spoil him. He’s the worst.”
“You’re the worst.”
“Am not.”
“Are too.”
“Children! Can we not?” Helen scolded. “You’re adults. Act like it.”
“She started it,” Blake said at the same time Joy protested, “He started it.”
Their mother shook her head. “And they say children grow up,” she muttered. “Joy, take more lemonade out. And Blake, take this to your father. It’s his favorite.” She handed him a plate of football-shaped bacon cheese balls.
Blake grimaced. He’d spoken three words to his father since he arrived yesterday: hi, and happy birthday. Joe didn’t seem keen on striking up a conversation with his only son, and the feeling was mutual.
Helen picked up on his reluctance. “It’s his birthday,” she reminded him. “Try, okay?”
“Okay,” he grumbled.
“All right. Love you, sweetie.” She squeezed his free hand. “It’s so nice to have you home.”
Blake softened. “Love you too.”
He really did feel guilty about not coming home more often. Honestly, other than the undercurrent of tension between him and his father, it wasn’t so bad. He’d spent yesterday helping his family tidy up the house and clean out the garage—grunt work, but he found the mindlessness soothing—and binge-watching Too Hot to Handle on Netflix with Joy. The show was so bad it was almost good. Plus, his mother could cook like nobody’s business and had been stuffing him with his favorite foods since he stepped foot in the house.
“You are such a kiss ass,” Joy said as they left the kitchen’s sweet A/C for the sticky heat of their backyard.
“You’re just jealous I’m Mom’s favorite.” Blake popped a cheese ball in his mouth. There were a ton left; his father wouldn’t miss one.
“Please. Everyone knows I’m the most lovable Ryan. Anyway, good luck with dad.” Her voice was sweeter than the pitcher of lemonade she placed on the picnic table.