Terry and Ryder had tucked themselves into a quiet corner of the restaurant, half in the glow of the fairy lights and half in shadow, their long legs stretched out under the table. Condensation dripped down the necks of their longneck bottles, the scent of mesquite and frying cornbread drifting through the air. Across the room, their mother’s laughter floated high and warm, like a bell, as she leaned into Luther’s story. Her hand—delicate, still elegant after years of hard work—rested lightly on Luther’s arm.
Terry tipped his chin toward them. “’Bout time she let herself find love again,” he muttered, voice husky with quiet relief.
Ryder followed his brother’s gaze, the corner of his mouth curling into that slow, knowing grin of his. “You’re right. And Luther—he’s steady, respectful. Man
