For the first time in my life, I had something to prove.

And staring into Tate’s eyes, I was intent on proving it.

I knew he understood his challenge was accepted when he reached out a hand and rapped his knuckles once on the bar in front of me before he broke eye contact and moved away.

Yes, Tate was sharp.

And Deke had good friends.

I had thought they were coming to be mine. Hell, Lauren wanted me in that photo at the back of the bar.

But I knew then I still had to earn it from all of them.

And I was going to accept that challenge too.

* * * * *

Late that night, Deke opened the door to my house and moved in in front of me.

He had a habit of this, both house and trailer.

It wasn’t ungentlemanly. I knew that by the way he blocked the door so I couldn’t get in and he didn’t shift aside until he’d done a scan of either space with his eyes.

This he did right then before he got out of my way by turning to the alarm control panel and punching in the code.

I closed the door, locked it and was caught by Deke with a hand at my neck.

I looked up at him, mellow, not tipsy, but I had a sweet buzz on that meant our next activities were going to rock.

Sex with Deke with a sweet buzz?

I couldn’t wait.

I must have communicated this to him in some way because his lips quirked and his eyes heated before he muttered, “Gonna turn off the lights. Meet you in the bedroom, yeah?”

I nodded. “Yeah, honey.”

He bent deep and brushed his lips against mine before he let me go.

He moved to the study, which was done, but my furniture and the rest of the stuff that I’d chosen for that room wasn’t going to start getting there until Wednesday.

But still, that room was fab, it was ready and waiting for me to make it into my music room where I could work the laidback way I liked to do that and it was just one more thing Deke had given to me.

These thoughts in mind, I moved through the space that now had a partial floor laid because Deke had finished the study mid-morning Friday, Bubba had been in that day, and Deke didn’t mess around. Bubba didn’t either.

Deke and Max had both told me that, with the added crew starting on Monday, it still would take at least two, maybe three weeks to finish the rest of the house. There was a kitchen to install. Acres of floor. Stairs. Bathrooms. The chimney hood.

And as I wandered to my room, it was the first time I thought I could wait. I could wait to have it all.

And I could do this because getting it in two to three weeks meant it would no longer be just me and Deke.

Then again, as the days got colder and shorter, cuddling with Deke by an inside fire after having eaten some magnificent Crock-Pot recipe I’d made for us wouldn’t suck.

I hit my room, lifted the strap of my bag over my head and went to a nightstand. I twisted the light on but only to a dim glow, moved to the dresser, dropped my purse to it but did this only after I pulled my phone out.

I engaged it, went to my texts and saw Lauren had sent me four versions of our group selfie, only slight nuances of differences in each, in all of them I was surrounded by people that were coming to be my people and smiling.

I had it, it was within my grasp. Hell, I was holding the evidence of it in my hand.

My less that was more.

I was living it and all I had to do was take care of it, nurture it, make it stronger.

Then it always would be mine.

Everything I’d ever wanted.

My place in this universe.

And it felt amazing.

So much so, my thumb started to move over the picture in order to save it to my phone so I could forward it to my dad and do what I always did with Dad. A habit. The habit we both had.

The habit he’d taught me because he’d started it, sitting under stars, on tour buses, in dressing rooms, whenever we had a quiet moment.

And when our lives led us separate ways, we kept at it with texts, sending photos.

Sharing our blessings.

My thumb stopped and I felt a sharp stab of pain pierce clean through my heart.

I lifted my head, turning it to look into the night. All I could see was the faintly filtered silvering of moonlight on pine trees.

My feet took me to the light on the nightstand I’d switched on so I could turn it off.

They then took me to the windows and I stared into the dark.

And for the first time since he passed, having held it back, unable to cope, terrified it would crush me, the full weight of his loss bore down on me as images assailed me.

These images were photos that would never be taken, all of them chasing themselves in quick succession through my mind.

Dad on my deck, the fire pit blazing, a big smile on his face, his feet up on the flagstone, a guitar on his lap, pads of his fingers on the frets, the other hand to the strings.

Dad in the morning—his morning, like mine, that being late morning—slouched over the marble I’d chosen for a countertop for the kitchen island. His hair a mess, his face creased with sleep, the fingers of one hand hooked through the handle of a coffee mug, his other arm wrapped around the hips of Dana, who always stood close to Dad like Deke had that night stood close to me.

Dad in my study, making music with me.

Dad at Bubba’s, telling stories of the road, making everybody laugh.

Dad at my dining room table, shoveling Thanksgiving turkey and stuffing into his mouth, his favorite holiday, his favorite meal.

Dad sitting on one of the couches I’d ordered for the great room, a bottle of beer in his hand, Dana curled into his side, his eyes across the space, a smile on his face.