Our Chance (Los Rancheros #4) by Brandace Morrow

like to look at you.”
    I sniff indignantly. “Stare.”
    “Fuck yeah, stare. I would have had a tattoo of your pretty face on my arm a long time ago if I didn’t think I would walk in a circle all day just to look at it.”
    A laugh bubbles to the surface and I can’t hold it in. “You’re such a dork.”
    Brody smiles and then it slips as he puts his thumb on my bottom lip. “And you’re a goof.”
    I scoff. “I’m perfect.”
    “Yeah, I perfect mess.”
    I push him playfully and he rocks back an inch, giving it to me, I know. If he didn’t want to move, I couldn’t make him. Then he holds my hands against his chest and I become aware of his heart racing. I look up into his hazel eyes that are swirling greens and golds and feel myself falling into the whirlpool that is J+B. But we haven’t been that, don’t even know how to be that, all of these years later. We aren’t teenagers anymore and need to do this right.
    I pull my hands away, my rough skin scraping on his nice shirt on the way down his chest. I curl my fingers in and make fists, putting them on my hips. I will not think about how Maggie probably has satin skin. “Are you leaving?”
    “Nah,” Brody says as he backs up toward the back door. “I’m going to play with the kids. You coming?”
    I shake my head and gesture over my shoulder. “I need to see about this one now.”
    He lifts his chin and watches me walk to the garage door.
    “He went upstairs, babe.”
    I turn to make sure he can see me when I roll my eyes at him. “I know that. He has my old room.”
    Brody smirks, lines forming next to his eyes in amusement. “And since he’s just like you, he would figure out that the roof is perfect for sneaking out of the window.”
    “How did you know he’s just like me?”
    Brody bites his lip and tosses a tennis ball into the air before catching it. “I’m learning.”
    I have a smile on my face as I open the door and see my boy sitting in the driver’s seat of his dad’s car listening to his iPod. Since the windows are down, I hoist myself up awkwardly and slide in, instead of opening a door.
    “Mom! What the hell? You could have scratched my paint!” he yells, snatching his ear buds out of his ears.
    “Language,” I say lazily.
    “Sorry. But seriously, I know you’re trying to be cool or whatever, but you’re not and that could have put a dent in my car.”
    I eye him and ask sarcastically, “A dent? Really?”
    He lifts a hand as he talks, his eyes wide in his tanned face. “The paint at the very least.”
    I slouch in the leather seat, putting my bare feet up on the dash. “So sorry, sir. I wouldn’t want to be rude, or show you any disrespect.” I look over at him. “I hate rude people. And I hate disrespect even more. Kinda like when a mother’s favorite son storms off in the middle of a meal, especially if there’s a guest. That really sticks it to them, don’t you think?”
    Trigg looks down at his hands, wrapping and rewrapping the cord to his headphones around the iPod. “Yeah, yeah. I’m not your favorite son.”
    “That’s not the point, little dude.”
    “I get your point. I shouldn’t have blown up. I’m sorry.”
    “Why did you?”
    “I’m . . . This place is different.”
    I put my hand on his head and sigh. “I know it’s hard making new friends. But they have to think you’re so cool for having been in Alaska.”
    He give me a look that says he’s not impressed. “Mom, these people are rich. Their parents are like, famous and stuff. Alaska is nothing.”
    I poke him gently in his arm. “Not true, sir. A lot of them are farm kids.”
    “Yeah, I’m not one of those, either.”
    “Okay, so you don’t know the planting seasons, but just wait until harvest. You’re going to be a pro!” I smile over at him, but his eyes are serious and his next question makes my heart split open.
    “Mom? Lots of people have a mom or a dad, and not both. But nobody has one parent who died. What do I