She’d never give up our relationship, not even for her dream, and that’s precisely why I have to hurt us both.
To allow my wife a shot at happiness, I have to push her away. Even if it kills me.
5
TALLY, PRESENT DAY
The smellof coffee stirs me from a bizarre dream. Something about my guitar strings turning into snakes and Rex growing horns as he resurrects the dead drifter from my trunk into a groaning zombie.
I fly up, a single word leaving my lips before my eyes are fully open. “Corpse!” I shriek.
Gravelly laughter rumbles in my ears. “That’s a bit harsh, Trouble. I thought I cleaned up real good.”
My stomach flips. I recognize that voice. It’s a little deeper and rougher than it was, but it’s him. And nobody else ever called me Trouble.
“Rust!” I squeak.
Panicked, I struggle to free myself from a blanket that has wrapped itself around my legs like a clingy kraken. It’s only now that I can properly take in the view of my ex-husband standing in the center of the room, holding two steaming mugs.
No. God no! Absolutely fucking not!
How can I gloat when he looks like… this?
He was supposed to be repulsive. I hopedfor a deranged hillbilly, but I got a Calvin Klein model basking in the golden sunrise streaming through the window.
I wanted him to age like milk, but Rust is fine wine.
How dare he make a mustache look sexy! His chocolate brown eyes crinkle as he grins, slight wrinkles creasing his face. That backward trucker hat on a head of wavy dark hair should turn him into a walking joke, but somehow, he’s rocking it.
And while I’m on the topic of questionable fashion choices, nobody should look good in an open blue flannel with the sleeves torn off! He wears a white tank top underneath, tucked into washed out jeans. His cowboy boots are worn, but the leather is freshly conditioned.
This man is every country girl’s favorite nightmare. It’s a particular brand of lethal charm I should be immune to, but my body didn’t get the memo.
Breathe, Tally. Don’t stare at his broad shoulders and bulging biceps. Lord, ignore those sexy veins popping on his forearms.
As a teen, Rust was already so tall he had to duck to fit through most door frames, but he used to be on the lanky side. Now he looks like he spends a significant amount of time lifting very heavy things. Like semi-truck tires or whole tree trunks.
“Surprised to see me in my own house?” he drawls, tone rife with amusement.
Hishouse.
“Shit, sorry! I must’ve fallen asleep when I was waiting for you,” I mutter.
Slowly, the memories of last night return to me.
Walking into the cozy living room was like traveling back in time. Everything was exactly how I remembered, down to the wallpaper with the pink flowers and the warm, slightly dusty scent of old books on a corner shelf.
Then the sofa serenaded me with the siren song ofcomfortably worn upholstery. Admittedly, I was weak. I turned on the old box TV because the house was too quiet and promised myself a tiny break to put my feet up.
Look where that got me.
“Did you put that blanket on me?” I ask.
“Thought about carryin’ you upstairs to let you have my bed, too, but I didn’t want to freak you out.”
“Well, thank you. And umm, sorry for letting myself in.”
Embarrassed, I fail to tame my frizzy curls with both hands. That’s what I get for falling asleep without my silk bonnet.
