Celia looks over at Bo. “Tammy Whitmore texted me and said that Duke started it.”

Bo flushes guiltily. “No, not really,” she says, without confessing exactly what happened.

“I saw him dancing with Lindsey,” Shelby says, knowing that she’s skirting the edges of the truth.

“Was he?” Bo says.

Bo doesn’t seem to have much appetite this morning, sticking only to a mug of coffee and a couple slices of papaya.

I’m piling my plate high with bacon and scrambled eggs, torn between my curiosity at whether Bo is going to admit what actually happened, and my desperate need to eat a ton of food as quickly as possible.

But Bo simply pushes her chair back from the table, saying, “That’s enough for me.”

“You barely ate!” Celia protests.

She turns to me, probably expecting me to make a similar comment, but instead I’ve got both cheeks as full as a chipmunk and I’m still shoveling in more.

Celia can’t help laughing.

“At least we’re having a good influence on you,” she says.

“Yesh,” I mumble, mouth full and belly happy.

Raylan laughs too, loving that he’s managed to sway me over to the joys of breakfast, if nothing else. His laugh is loud and mischievous, the kind that pulls everyone else into mirth. The boys start giggling, and soon Shelby and Grady are, too.

I like this family so much.

They’re warm and welcoming, unpretentious and hardworking. They love animals and the outdoors.

I like them and respect them, as much for our differences as our similarities.

I don’t know why they seem to like me too—maybe they’re just kind to everyone. But I’m grateful all the same.

“What’s your plan today?” Celia says to Raylan and me.

“I’ve gotta run into Knoxville this morning to get some new horse stall mats,” Raylan says to me. “You wanna come with me, before you start working?”

“That’s temping,” I say. “I do love shopping for horse stall mats . . .”

Raylan chuckles. “I thought we could get you some toiletries and clothes,” he says. “I’m aware that horse stall mats aren’t a big draw for you.”

“You don’t know what you’re missing,” Grady says. “A nice, thick flexible mat with that fresh rubber smell . . . they oughta make that into a candle scent.”

“Are you gonna go to the crêperie after?” Bo asks.

“Sure,” Raylan says, easily.

“Then I’m coming.”

“Me too,” Grady says.

We all pile into Raylan’s truck. I’m starting to like the wide, comfy bench seats and the view of the dusty roads from way up in the cab. Unlike with bucket seats, there’s nothing separating Raylan and me. It makes the drive strangely intimate, our free hands just inches apart on the seat.

Grady insists on picking the music, which is all country, and mostly all awful. That doesn’t stop him from singing along to every song, and drumming on the back of the seats. I’d usually find this annoying, but today it just makes me laugh. Maybe it’s all the pleasure chemicals still zipping around in my blood. Or maybe it’s the huge breakfast I just ate. Whatever the cause, I’m in a bizarrely good mood.