Liam waves the request off. “It’s on the house, Whitney Rose.” He lifts his whiskey in a mock salute. “And if you ever make a game again, I’ll be the first to buy it.”
His smile returns, once again charming, cocky, and so infuriating.
“Thank you, Your Highness.” I roll my eyes and leave, followed by the echo of his chuckles.
Back in my room, I pace.
The charge from the confrontation with Liam Rockwood buzzes under my skin, making it impossible to sit still. I walk from the window to the door and circle again, thoughts spiraling.
I’m tired of sitting passively in this stuffily pretty room, wallowing in my grief, waiting for Ryder to forgive me.
If he’s going to be a stubborn, bullheaded cowboy, then I have no choice but to take him by the horns.
But I can’t do it alone. I need inside help.
I grab my phone and call his sister.
30
RYDER
The fence post goes in crooked. I yank it out, reset it, and drive it in again. Still crooked. I wipe my palms on my jeans and start over. My shoulders burn. My back aches. The sun beats down on my neck despite the Bobcats cap pulled low. For the past four days, I’ve been fixing the storm damage like a madman. Everything to keep my hands busy and my mind blank. I’ve been up at dawn and working until my body gives out. All to avoid thinking about her.
Except I think about her. Constantly. Every time my phone buzzes. Every time I draw plans for the cottages’ repairs. Every time Rhys asks when Miss Rose is coming over again.
I slam the post into the hole with too much force. The impact jolts up my arms and rattles my teeth.
“Are you trying to murder that fence, or just maim it?”
Rebecca’s voice cuts through the afternoon heat.
“I’m working,” I grunt.
“Ryder, you’re pushing too hard.” Her boots crunch on the dried grass as she approaches.
I drive the post in again. Harder. “The fence won’t fix itself.”
“Neither will your life.”
I straighten, turning to face her. Rebecca stands with her arms crossed, wearing a flowery shirt and denim shorts, her chestnut hair pulled back in a messy ponytail.
“My life is fine,” I say.
“Really.” She raises an eyebrow. “Because you look like hell, you’re working yourself into the ground, and you’ve been an absolute nightmare to be around.”
“Then leave me alone.”
“Not happening.” She moves closer. “Consider this an official family intervention; you’re coming out with me and Remy tonight.”
I curl my hands into fists. “I’m not.”
“How cute of you to think you have a choice.” Rebecca comes to my side and takes the tools from me. “We’re celebrating the loan extension, and that’s not up for debate.”
I’m still dazed by how that turned out. When I went to the bank on Wednesday and ran into Liam Rockwood walking out of the director’s office, I was sure the game was up. Especially when he waved at me with a smug grin like he already owned my land. I figured I’d walk in, get the bad news, and walk out with nothing left but a pile of debts.
Instead, they gave us an extension. No fuss, no fight. And when I asked about Liam, the director told me he was there to contribute to the tornado relief fund on behalf of the Rockwoods and had asked the bank to prioritize extensions for families hit by the storm.
I half expected the next thing out of his mouth to be that the horses would soon be mucking their own stalls.
