“No, Dove,you don’t. Weneedto talk. I won’t take it back but—”
“I have to go. Just let me go work,” I bite, my voice sounding tinny and distant to my own ears.
I am not brave enough to look at his face. To meet the gaze that tries to pin me in place. I know what will be on that handsome face, shining in those beautiful blue eyes. Patience and a little pain. Frustration at my fight-or-flight response that makes me be the villain in a story I never asked to be cast in.
Rushing off, I sail right past the barn where those stalls supposedly need mucked. I keep going until my lungs ache from lack of air. I end up at the north fence line, where the air is heavier, warmer, thick with the scent of dry earth. I stop long enough to catch my breath, to let his words hit me again.
“Fuck, I love you,” his raspy voice, the truth, in those beautiful words echoes in my head on repeat once I let them play again.
“Fuck is right. I fucking think I love you too,” I curse, kicking at a field post before I begin to pace.
It makes no sense. I’ve known him...three weeks? Just a little less than a month. That is impossible. Irresponsible. It is just what I do. I go all in on the very worst decisions and wreck it all. I leave nothing standing in my wake. I do not even need to take a drink to be a reckless drunk. Because I know I am in love with him, and I know that is absolutely out of the question.
That night at The Barn, I went with the intent of relapsing. Falling off the wagon with a thunderous thump. I was just a sip of bourbon in when Brooks came walking into that bar and into my orbit. I had no idea he would quite literally sweep me off my feet, taking me away from the drink to give me something else to fixate on.
I am just as addicted to him as I was to drink.
Which means I have to quit him the same way I quit drinking. Cold turkey. Dump it all down the drain and watch it swirl away. Cut it all off before it can hurt me again. Before it canmake me feel something or worse, it makes me feel nothing at all. I turn to go back to the main house to find Brooks, but I stop. Because I see a tool right there by the fenceline.
It is cruel but it feels necessary. Caleb is a few yards away, hauling a roll of barbed wire off the back of a flatbed. With an open flannel and a kerchief around his neck, he is the epitome of a hot cowboy. He is younger, new to the ranch, and just naive enough that I know this will work.
“They have you out here doing that all by yourself,” I call as I saunter closer, cocking my head to let my hair spill off one shoulder. Caleb glances up, sees me, then looks all around us as if he might find an escape from me. No such luck, handsome. “That’s a heavy load for one man,” I let my words hang between us, the innuendo clear and cutting.
It’s still early morning, but the other hands have spread out across the grounds to tend to their tasks. I ought to be working as well. I thought I could take a day off with Brooks and spend a few hours away from the work that has kept me sane and sober. But those words, those moments up on that hillside ruined that. And now I want to ruin everything else too.
Caleb is so nervous he drops a bale of the wire. I almost laugh because this is unfair, but I saunter closer. He backs up until he hits the post his is out here to work on, his eyes darting all over. “Always is, Blake. But I manage.”
“I bet you do.” I flash a grin that fits like a mask, tight and hollow. “You handle that wire a lot better than most the other hands. Which tells me you’re very good withyour hands, Caleb,” I hum the words, stepping so close I can feel the warmth of his body. It feels all wrong; it doesn’t feel as solid or safe as Brooks, and he doesn’t smell of fire and leather either.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a familiar silhouette approaching from the stables.Brooks.He stops a few feet away, his body corded with tension. I do not need to look his way tofeel the weight of his gaze. The rage behind his stare. I did not just run off on him again. Now I am twisting the knife in his beautiful heart. It hurts me to do it, but I do not stop. No, I move closer, reaching out towards him even, my fingertips walking along the big buckle on his belt.
Caleb might as well have been burned by my touch. He jumps back about five feet, throwing his hands up. I have to suppress my laugh again. Well, at least they respect women enough here not to take advantage of one making such a fool of herself. Because that is just what I am doing by putting on this show for Brooks who stands watching us.
“Maybe you should show me just how good later,” I purr. “I have this spot just here,” I sigh, turning my back to him, letting my partially unbutton top fall off my shoulder. I am staring at Brooks now as I flirt with a man I do not give a damn about. “It sure could use some strong hands working it out.”
Caleb’s face turns beet red. “I—uh, no? I don’t think I ought to—”
“Stick with that answer, Caleb. Leave that for now, I will handle this,” Brooks’ voice booms, making both of us jump.
Turning, I glare at him before all my bravado drains out of me. The look on his face isn't anger. No, this is much worse than me pissing him off or managing to make him jealous. His blue eyes have darkened, lines showing on his handsome face as he stands watching us with sadness cloaking him.
It is my doing, my fault, my handiwork. I told him from the start this was a bad idea. That I could not give him what he was asking for. I told him all I had to give was a few hours, one single night. He wanted more, he pushed his way into my space and demanded more time, more moments, more of me that I knew was just going to wreck him.
“Dove, you can’t hurt me by acting foolish. You can hurt me by trying to hurt yourself. No need to use anyone else forthat,” he laments, jerking his head towards Calebs fast retreating figure.
Being just as foolish as he is accusing me of, I storm past him towards the bunkhouse. I need distance from him. Space he keeps refusing to give me. I cannot breathe for the space he takes up inside of me. I throw open the door to the small bunkhouse with a thud, collapsing dramatically on the cot.
Before I can even take in a breath of air, the door bangs open behind me. I curse but I can’t bite back the smile that wants to tilt my lips. Fuck, I do love him. I love him and I don’t know how to stop. But I don’t know how to do this. I know how to run, how to wander, how to avoid the things that matter the most to me. I do not know how to stay put and fight.
All I know is flight.
Turning, I stare up at him in defiance. Lord, he is beautiful. Not just his wide shoulders and powerful arms or his tree trunk legs and huge hands. It’s just...the air about him, that same air he walked into The Barn with that very first night. That confidence that makes him magic out in the paddocks with the horses. Brooks moves through life without effort and I admire it and hate it at the same time.
Slamming the door behind him, he stalks towards me with deliberate steps. Slow, cautious. The same way he approaches a horse he wants to tame. I do not to be tamed. Do I? Do I want to be on a ranch, mending fences and training horses, eating Sienna’s amazing flapjacks and homemade maple syrup and not drinking a drop of whiskey because I am drunk on Brooks?
Staring down at me, he is...raw. His eyes are dark, his shoulders blocking out anything that exists beyond him. I hate how safe he makes me feel. He is the first man, the firstperson, to set me at ease in the same space he rattles me to my core. I cannot find a balance, and I think he knows it.
“You want to talk about what you tried back there?” He asks. His voice is dangerously low, vibrating in the small space of the bunkhouse.
