I cross my arms.
“Where’s your boyfriend?” he asks, voice too casual to be real.
“Going back to his hotel.”
Will nods once, slow. His jaw tics like he’s chewing on something he knows he shouldn’t say.
“Did you have fun?” he asks, still watching me like he’s trying to read between my words, like fun means more than just pancakes and polite conversation.
“Yes,” I answer, lifting my chin. “I did.”
He sits up, arms resting on his knees now, tension bleeding through every line of his body. “You kiss him again?”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
His voice is quiet, but it lands like a gut punch. “I asked if you kissed him.”
I stare at him. “Does it matter?”
“It does to me.”
Before I can reply, his phone starts buzzing on the nightstand.
Missy’s name flashes across the screen.
I don’t even flinch.
“Maybe instead of worrying about me,” I say, nodding toward the phone, “you should take care of your own things.”
Will glances at the screen and curses under his breath, scrambling to silence it. “It’s not what you think.”
I let out a dry laugh and take a slow step toward the bathroom. “Good. Because I’m not thinking about you at all, Will.”
Lies. But I say it like I mean it. His mouth opens like he wants to argue, to explain, to fix something that’s already cracked too deep. I don’t give him the chance.
I pause just before the bathroom door, my back still to him.
“Just stay out of my way for the rest of the trip,” I say, calm and cutting. “And I’ll do the same.”
Then I disappear behind the door, locking it behind me. Because if I don’t put a wall between us now, I’m afraid of what I’ll let him tear down next.
13
Will and I head back to Broken Heart Creek the next day.
Unfortunately, he booked the flight. Which means I’m stuck in a window seat with him right beside me shoulder-to-shoulder for three hours of thin air and unresolved feelings.
I keep my gaze fixed on my laptop, fingers flying over keys as I work on an article about Nash. It’s easier to focus on formatting quotes and cleaning up transitions than it is to acknowledge the man next to me.
We haven’t talked. Not since last night. He’s been quiet. Brooding. Classic Will. And I’ve been pretending like that silence doesn’t suffocate.
At one point, my phone buzzes. I glance at the screen and smile before I can stop myself.
Nash Kimzey
Made it home. Natalie and I are planning a revenge brunch. Pancakes and ignoring the internet.
Hope your flight’s smooth, cowgirl.
