They both nod, even though I’m not sure how truthful I’m being when I say that I’m happy. Seeing Avery last night stirred up a lot of feelings that I thought I’d switched off. Feelings that I haven’t felt in a very long time.
7
AVERY
My feet pound the trail, my heart beating at an erratic rhythm as I follow the running path. It’s cooler under the shadow of the trees, but with it being the middle of summer, the air is almost suffocating. I’m reminded of high school and the runs I’d go on with Grayson and Wyatt after class. They’d race ahead, always trying to outpace each other while I lagged behind, perfectly content admiring Gray’s backside.
I clear away the reminder of him, focusing on the uneven terrain as I near the meadow up ahead. There’s a creek just beyond it that lies on the land between the Wildes and their rivals, the Harts. When we were kids, we’d trek up here during school breaks and get up to all sorts of mischief in the cool water.
We didn’t have any fear back then, and we’d believe just about anything we were told, so when Wyatt came up with a story about a monster in the water, it turned into a game as to who would get caught first.
I break through the tree line, a sea of wildflowers and long grass greeting me. It’s hotter than I expected, and I come to a stop, breathing in the thick, floral-scented air. Lifting my hand, I shield my eyes from the sun and marvel at the beauty.
The starting notes of a song play in my mind, but it’s like I can’t quite grasp them. I watch as the flowers, in every color of the rainbow that are spread out in front of me, move as one, carrying away the teasing notes.
I sigh heavily, taking in the natural beauty before me. There isn’t another soul for as far as the eye can see, and the thought that, for the first time in about six years, I’m actually alone, sends a bolt of elation through me. Back in Nashville, I don’t have the luxury of alone time; there’s always someone either lurking in the shadows or making sure I’m sticking to my strict schedule. Although I’m used to it now, it took a long time for me to adjust to that being my new normal.
Maybe that’s why the music stopped meaning anything to me. It used to pour out of me and onto paper, but now there’s always another product to push, another deadline on a schedule someone else made. I’ve sacrificed so much but have nothing of true value to show for it, outside of being recognized by fans.
Frustrated with myself for letting things get this far, I march around the overgrown meadow. It’s time things changed. That’s why I’ve come home: to figure out what I want to do, what I need from my life, and how I’m going to make it happen. Because I know that I won’t ever find the answers I’m looking for if I remain stuck in an environment that’s stifling my creativity.
When I reach the other side of the pasture, my skin is hot and sticky. It’s harder to breathe, the air thicker than the temperature-controlled gym I’m used to running in back in Nashville.
As I get my breathing under control, I follow the trail back into the woods until I hear the soothing sound of the running creek.
Darting a glance around to make sure I’m alone, I kick off my sneakers and reach for the waistband of my shorts, pushing them down, before I’ve even reached the water’s edge.
Kicking them off, I move to pull my faded favorite indie band T-shirt over my head before dropping it on top of my shorts. My sports bra is next, leaving me in nothing but my purple lace panties.
A little further down the creek, there’s a magnificent view of the Wilde Ranch. Of Grayson’s ranch. And without thinking, I wade into the cool water, heading for the spot that I know will give me the perfect vantage point.
The water is refreshing on my heated skin, instantly cooling me down. It smells of moss but is clean in a way nothing in Nashville ever is. When the water is waist high, I swim to the other side of the creek, resting my arms on the rocks as I stare out at Coldwater. This view could rival the very best hotels in the world, and I should know. I’ve been in enough of them. But there’s something about Montana that feels different, almost soothing.
Wild horses roam free in the distance, their manes blowing in the breeze as they gather speed. I get a sense of calm from watching them, like there aren’t really any worries big enough to wipe away that freedom.
Instinctively, my eyes are drawn to the ranch. The people going about their work in the yard look like ants from this distance. Briefly, I wonder if the Wildes still own all of the land up to the Harts’ border or if they’ve sold it off over time.
I know Grayson has built an empire for his family; that they’re doing well. Mama has been sure to update me on that, but I don’t know the ins and outs of how they operate their business. And if I’m being honest, I don’t need to.
In a pasture not too far from me, I spot a man working. His shirt is off, his jeans are slung low on his hips, and his tanned torso glistens in the morning sun as he works. I swallow down the saliva that pools in my mouth as I watch him, the muscles in his arms straining as he moves the wooden fence posts, driving them into the ground.
My nipples pebble in the cool water, and I rub my thighs together to ease the ache in my core. I watch, my body on high alert as he walks to the four-wheeler and pulls out a rag.
He removes his hat and drags the material across his forehead. A gasp escapes my lips when he reveals his face, and I duck down like I might get caught spying on him.
Well, that explains my body’s reaction.
Only Grayson Wilde has ever elicited a reaction like that. No matter how many times I tried to move on from him, nobody could ever make me feel like my body was stirring to life just at the mere sight of them.
I eye my clothes, contemplating getting out of the water and heading back home before following my instincts and turning back to watch him again. Of course, he has no idea I’m here. He’s too busy working, and I’m too far away for him to spot me. At least that’s what I tell myself, even as a part of me wonders if he knows; if he feels me watching him.
Fascinated, I watch as he carries a new post to a hole and drops it in before picking up the driver and hammering it into the ground.
Before I can think too much about what I’m doing, I cup my breast, cradling the weight of it in my palm. Rolling my nipple between my fingers, I chase a sensation I haven’t felt in years.
The sound of my own moan sends a bolt of guilt through me, and I drop my breast, forcing my focus back to the horses. God, what is wrong with me? Watching him like this… needing him like this. I have no right to feel any of this. If the roles were reversed, and he was the one touching himself as he spied on me, I’d be… annoyed? Angry? Turned on?
Within seconds, my attention shifts back to him, watching the muscles in his body flex and roll as he works. I move on instinct, my body betraying every rational thought.
