Surreptitiously, Ranger leans over and pushes one of his homemade granola bars into my hand, carefully wrapped in that reusable beeswax food covering he likes so much, and tied with a dainty pink ribbon. My cheeks turn about that same color as I clutch it to my chest. Church, meanwhile, hands over one of the two white chocolate mochas in his hands, the kind that Merinda only makes for him. I just barely resist the urge to hop up and down. Church can tell, I’m sure, and he smiles in that way only he can—like a smile means everything.
