Tense silence fills the air. My lips tremble. I blink hard, then turn toward him. "Don't."
He furrows his eyebrows. "Don't?"
"I don't need your sorries or your shoulda, coulda, wouldas. Not now. Not after seven years," I declare, then swipe at the tear falling down my cheek.
"Willow—"
"Why are you here?" I repeat, but with more strength in my tone.
"It's..." His jaw clenches, and he stares at me like the little boy who used to come to our ranch with bruises on his body and nowhere to go.
It hurts my heart. More than I ever thought it could, it cuts deep, stinging with a lasting bite. I wince, then look away, wishing my tears wouldn't fall.
He puts his callused hand on my thigh, and against my will, I lean closer to him, still looking away but unable to keep the boundary I told myself I wouldn't cross.
Wyatt touching me is a bad idea.
And now I remember why.
My brain tells me to leave, but my body betrays me, molding against him.
He slides his arm around my shoulders, admitting, "I fucked up."
It's the phrase I've wanted to hear for so long. Emotions swell in my chest. I allow myself to glance up, asking, "How?" before my gaze drifts to his lips.
His voice drips with shame. "I lost my agent. My sponsors pulled out. I was supposed to fill in for Kingy Altmonte, but I got kicked off the team, and it's my own damn fault."
I freeze.
He didn't mean he fucked up with me.
He meant he fucked up the precious career he chose over me.
I stare at the floor. Anger and hurt slowly unleash, taking over the quick burst of hope.
What was I thinking?
I rise and spin toward him. "I'm sorry to hear that. I'm sure you'll find another agent and more sponsors. You're a good rider."
He clenches his jaw, eyes wide, as if he's expecting something else from me.
I might have stayed away from him whenever he was here, but I know all about the infamous reputation Wyatt's built. Lots of women. Plenty of partying. Gambling debts and flashy toys.
I can't say he's any different from the other riders. It goes with the territory. So I need to stop thinking he's back for me.
He's not.
He's here for the rodeo.
Reality bites with sharp teeth, right into the wound I can't seem to heal. I turn and move toward the door.
"Willow," he calls out, his voice hollow.
I freeze, then slowly release a breath and turn back. "Yeah?"
"We need to talk."
"About what?" My heart bleeds further.
