Cowboy Logic - B.A. Tortuga Page 0,24

anyone could.

Chapter 9

Logic hummed the theme from The Magnificent Seven, loading the stuff to make his lemon curd and berry pavlova. Jericho had invited the whole Whitehead clan over to have country ribs, coleslaw, and potato salad. So he was going to bring dessert.

He wanted to impress, but not be shitty about it, so eggs, lemon, berries, sugar. Easy. Direct.

He’d make a slightly sweeter concoction for the middle for the kids. More like a strawberry lemonade curd.

Or little berry sundaes with meringues pushed in the ice cream…

Oh, that would be great for them. He’d get some vanilla ice cream, rich and creamy.

“Are you really famous?” The guy standing in front of him looked almost familiar in that way of an old someone a person put out of their mind deliberately. High school familiar.

“Pardon me?” He arched one eyebrow, going for coolly polite.

“I hear you’re staying at the Whitehead place. That means no matter what my eyes tell me, you’re her kid brother.”

Shit. What the hell? He’d been pretty careful, and the kids swore they were mum’s the word.

“Do I know you?” He wasn’t answering questions, and he had a decade of dedicated fanbois, slashers, and bot-babies to teach him avoidance.

He got an ugly smile in return. “We’ve met. Quint Bellamy.”

“Ah. Well, I’m sure it’s a pleasure.” He wasn’t a teenager anymore—he was a gym bunny with a black belt, seven figures in the bank, and a lawyer on retainer.

“You never thought so before.” That taunt threatened to take him right back to high school. But only for a second; then he made himself be who the fuck he was.

“Mmm. Well, I assure you, some people think I’m famous, but only the ones who can actually read. You have a good day now.” The asshole was implied.

He moved on, shopping at the same pace as he had been. No hurrying, no stress, no engage the redneck prey drive.

The worst part was the stares and the whispers. Someone had let the cat out of the bag. Honestly, how many of these people knew who the fuck he was? He wasn’t fucking Stephen King.

He supposed he was more famous for being Anderson Whitehead all grown-up, and yeah, obviously out and proud.

Just remember, Logic. You can take care of yourself. You’re not that little kid anymore. You can hold your head high, even here.

He added cookies for him and Bailey, then doubled back to produce to get shit for salads. The fried and smoked Texas diet might get him if he wasn’t careful.

He needed frozen fruit too. Smoothies were a part of his life and… He grabbed his phone and called Sister. “You got a good blender?”

“I have Momma’s old Sunbeam for margaritas, and I have a Magic Bullet.”

“That works. Y’all need anything? I’m running the gauntlet.” Like whoa. “Looks like I’ve been outed.”

“Shit. That sucks, Bubba. Sorry.” She paused, as if she was looking through the kitchen. “Can you get a couple gallons of iced tea? And some chips for lunches.”

“I’m on it.” He needed some chickpeas and quinoa for Buddha bowls too. Jesus, he was acting like he was staying. Was he? Staying for more than another few days? He still hadn’t got him a plane ticket home.

The whole thing with Morrow seemed to have blown over too quickly. That was what really bothered him. Maybe the guy was just that capricious, but he’d been so shitty it seemed hard to believe he’d given up.

He’d gotten a long way by learning to follow his gut, and his instincts told him to stay with Sister and the babies, protect them.

Then there was Jericho… Was Jericho the reason everyone suddenly knew who he was?

The little girl behind the register kept stealing glances at him as she checked him out, and he resisted the urge to make bogeyman noises at her.

Barely.

He bagged his groceries, paid, and headed out to the truck. He could feel eyes on him, but he forced himself to relax, breathe. Let them look.

There was not an ounce of shame in him. Not one.

“Anderson Whitehead?” The voice sounded kind, so he stopped and looked. Holy shit. Mrs. Grange, his AP Chem teacher.

“Yes, ma’am.” He held out one hand. “How have you been, Miz Grange?”

“You remember me!”

“Of course I do. You and your stories about working for DuPont.” He’d loved that—the proof that the sciences weren’t just in books. She’d brought chemistry to life.

“You look amazing, all grown-up.” She lowered her voice. “I’ve read your books.” She took his hand in both of