Chapter 4
Jett
Dustswirlsintheair as I watch Wren’s taillights fade down the gravel drive. My chest still burns, like I swallowed a shot of whiskey too fast, and it scorched its way down. Anger pumps through my veins because it seems to be the only emotion I can tolerate when it comes to her.
But it’s not the anger that eats at me.
It’s the way her body flinched when I touched her.
I’ve seen plenty of people react to me like that. In Afghanistan, in training, in bars where some asshole thought I was looking at his girl for too long. But not Wren. Not the girl who used to reach for my hand in the middle of the night, slipping her fingers between mine like she was made to fit there. Not the girl who used to kiss me like she could burn the whole world down if I let her.
There’s no way in hell my touch would make her recoil. No matter what happened between us. No matter how much we ruined each other.
Which means someone else hurt her.
My fists clench so tight I can feel the pulse beating in my palms. Fury, I don’t know where to put, surges, but before I can even form the thought, my grandma’s voice cuts across the driveway.
“Jett Samuel Riggsby. Inside.”
Still, at twenty-eight years old, she’s one of two women who make me want to shrink in my boots at my full name.
Grandpa chuckles from the tractor seat, shaking his head like he’s seen this show a thousand times before. “Boy, you’ve done it now.”
“Not helping,” I mutter, jaw tight.
“Don’t look at him for help.” Grandma’s voice carries from the porch, her back already to me as she disappears into the house. She doesn’t even turn around. I swear the women in my family have eyes in the backs of their heads.
With Storm at my heels, I stalk across the gravel, up the steps, and through the screen door. The smell of warm, buttery cornbread hits me first. My stomach growls on instinct, though my head is still back in the driveway with Wren, with the way her eyes looked like broken glass under the April sun.
The farmhouse hasn’t changed since the day I was born. Hell, probably longer than that. Log walls stained an orangey brown, heavy furniture, and a cross hanging by the kitchen. A home that feels both like a sanctuary and a prison.
Grandma’s bent over the Crockpot, stirring.
“Chili?” I ask, trying to be neutral.
She doesn't look up. “Vegetable soup.”
Even better. My favorite. I lean down, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek, heading for the sink to wash up.
“Oh, no. Don’t you butter me up, mister.”
A low chuckle escapes me, though there’s no humor in it. “I wouldn’t dare.”
She sets the spoon down, then turns, hand on her hip, every inch the matriarch of this house. “You need to have a conversation with that poor girl.”
I stop mid-motion, water dripping from my hands into the sink. The words cut deeper than she knows. My back stiffens. I grab the towel, drag it roughly across my palms, and finally meet her eyes.
“Not happening.”
Her gaze softens, and for a second, I think she might let it drop. But Lydia Riggsby has never let anything go in her life.
We fall into the routine anyway. She ladles the soup, and I carry bowls to the table, the silence between us heavy as a thundercloud. She pulls a skillet of cornbread from the oven, sets it on a trivet, and slices it. The smell fills the whole kitchen, and for a moment, it almost feels like I’m sixteen again, sweaty and sunburned after a day of moving cattle, Wren barefoot on the porch swing, laughing at something I said.
Almost.
Grandpa ambles in, washes his hands, and sits at the table. “Smells good, Lydia.”
“‘Course it does. Now sit down and eat.”
