“No,” I agree. “Guess you didn’t.”
“Shit. Ruby.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Ruby? No, I’m—”
“I was supposed to go home to her last night. Fuck. I fucked up.”
Ruby.
Figures he’d be out, carousing all night, while a girl waited at home for his sorry ass.
“Hopefully for you, she’s the forgiving type. But I’m kinda hoping she’s not.”
He studies me then, eyes narrowing. “Stormy?”
My spine stiffens.
I haven’t heard that name in years.
“Don’t call me that.”
He tilts his head, studying my face like he’s piecing together a puzzle. “Damn. I barely recognized you. You’re all grown up,” he says, his eyes sliding over me like he’s committing every inch to memory.
“Yep. That tends to happen,” I say coolly. “And it’s Shelby. Or Miss Storm, if you prefer.”
That makes him grin.
A slow, unapologetic grin that says Waylon Ludlow hasn’t learned a damn thing.
“Well, Miss Storm,” he says, voice rough and amused, “you sure know how to wake a man up.”
I cross my arms. “You’re lucky I didn’t call the sheriff.”
“Thank you. Would’ve been awkward, explaining to Walt why I was napping in your hay.”
“More awkward, I imagine, explaining why you smell like a distillery.”
He chuckles again, then winces as he shifts, clearly sore. “You always this mean in the mornings?”
“Only to strangers trespassing on my property.”
That wipes the smile clean off his face.
For a second, there’s something almost … remorseful in his eyes.
“I’m not a stranger,” he says quietly. “We’re old friends.”
“We were never friends, Waylon.”
“Weren’t we?”
I cross my arms over my chest and shake my head. “Not to my recollection. Just neighbors.”
“Okay,” he says. “Fair enough.”
I stand there in the humming barn, staring at my biggest regret, surrounded by horses and old memories I didn’t ask for.
He looks out of place and familiar, all at once—like trouble that never really leaves town, just lies in wait for the right moment to sneak back in and wreak havoc on your life.
