I don’t even want to think about it, but if I stayed and jeopardized my career… then what?
We live happily ever after?
What if I resent myself for giving up my career? This is a huge opportunity. Am I really going to let that go to Gage?
But Saramaria likes me, right? She’s into me.
The question is, will that be enough? Is staying here for an Omega I’m not bonded to the right move?
The alternative, however, feels like worse.
If I take the job in Louisiana, I’m gone for three months. Three months is a lifetime. Things change. People change. She could sell the ranch. She could move on.
She could find someone else.
The thought makes me want to break the bottle in my hand.
I watch her laugh.
I’m going to miss this.
I’m going to miss the chaos. I’m going to miss the fights. I’m going to miss the way she looks at me like she wants to kill me and kiss me at the same time.
I drink the rest of my beer in one long swallow.
Boone racks his pool balls. “You going to play?”
“Not tonight,” I say. “I’m just going to watch.”
I stay there for the rest of the night. I watch her from the shadows. I watch her dance with Dot. I watch her congratulate Clara for winning the raffle—a gift basket from Hattie’s filled with baked goods. I watch her hug Willa goodbye.
Every time she smiles, my chest aches.
I’m torn between leaving, just so I can get paid and secure a future for myself, or staying and fighting for a future for both of us.
I can’t be the man who loves her if I’m three states away.
If I decide to go to Louisiana, then I have to let her go. That’s the only choice that will be fair to her.
So I’ll take the memory of that kiss in the truck. I’ll take the taste of her skin and the sound of her voice telling me not to stop.
And I’ll hope it’s enough to get me through the lonely nights on the road.
Saramaria
The world is tilting. I’m hit by a violent, sickening lurch that makes me grip the handle above the passenger window until my knuckles turn white. Outside, the darkness is broken by the passing of occasional street lamps as we leave the town limits, but they do little to steady the spinning in my head.
“I think that was the fifth shot,” I mumble, trying to focus on the road ahead, but the white lines are blurring together.
“That was the seventh,” Josie corrects me from the driver’s seat. She sounds entirely too sober as she navigates the truck, her grip loose on the wheel. “Dot has a heavy hand. And Willa didn’t say no once.”
I turn my head to look at the back seat. Willa’s slumped against the door, her seatbelt straining across her chest. Her mouth is slightly open, and she’s breathing in a deep, rhythmic cadence. She looks peaceful. She looks like a woman who hasn’t had a panic attack in three days.
“She needed this,” I say, the words feeling thick on my tongue. “We both did.”
“You needed it,” Josie agrees. “You were a knot of stress when you walked in. You’re much more fun now. You’re... wobbly.”
I laugh, and the sound bubbles up, unbidden and slightly hysterical. “I’m not wobbly. I’m relaxed.”
