“Shit!” I roll over and come face-to-face with a ball of red-and-white fluff. “Storm?”
The old girl nuzzles closer to me, sniffing my face before licking my cheek. My nose wrinkles at her slobbery good morning before jolting into a sitting position. I groan at the movement, gripping my stomach and rubbing the side of my head as I blink away the haze.
Greenish-gray panels line the walls, with dark walnut furniture outlining the room. I shake my head at the deer mount hanging in the corner before my eyes land on a beautiful drawing of a barn. I’d recognize the Riggsby Cattle headquartersanywhere. I’m surprised Jett has this photo tucked away in his bedroom and not hanging in his living room.
“Oh, God,” I groan again as my mind brings up Jett.
This is clearly his house. But how did I get here?
More flashes of last night flicker through my mind. Staring at a mountain of a man, taking his pool stick and hitting a ball into the corner pocket. Pirouetting toward the bar and nearly falling on my ass. A hand rubbing my back, vibrant cornflower-blue eyes, the navy outline darker as he looked at me with concern.Blue eyes.Why do blue eyes stand out so much?Blue eyes.
“She would’ve had your eyes.”
I gasp as bile rises up my throat. Flinging the covers off my body, I barely notice my bare legs as I race to the bathroom, luckily attached to the bedroom. Flinging the lid open, I drop to my knees and dry heave, begging the alcohol to leave my system.
Retching with nothing leaving my stomach, I give up and wipe the slobber with the back of my hand. Standing at the sink, I refuse to look at myself in the mirror. My tongue feels like it’s covered in fuzz as I search for a new toothbrush, hitting the jackpot in one of the drawers. Once my mouth feels fresh and my face rinsed with cold water, I follow the smell of bacon.
Storm is hot on my heels as I step into the hallway. The stairs creak beneath my feet as I take in the older home. The original woodwork is in remarkable condition. Newer brown plank flooring complements the trim almost like they were meant to be. Photos hang on the wall mixed with more artwork, each one delicately drawn in charcoal, and I wonder who the incredible artist is, because there’s no way these are mass-produced. A large TV hangs above a fireplace, with framed photos lining the wood-beam mantle.
I want to snoop. Every cell in my body wants to go over his home inch by inch as I open drawers, peek at the books scattered in piles, and look at the photos he deemed important enough to frame. I want to learn about the man he is today, no longerthe boy from my childhood. But I refrain. Cars driving by and clattering from the kitchen draw my attention.
It’s hard to imagine Jett living in town. He spent so much time on his farm, either at his grandparents’ house or his childhood home. He loved being outside, sitting in the rocking chairs, being near the animals and playing fetch with Storm. Town felt like a cage to him. At least it used to.
Now, this is where his home is, when I always pictured him building a cabin on his family’s land. Getting up at dawn, drinking his coffee as he watched the sun rise. Coming home after a long day of pouring his blood and sweat back into the land that made him a home, a meal cooked by his wife as his kids greet him with open arms. Once dinner was finished, he’d take the kids out to the tree swing where he’d push them as their giggles filled the country air, his wife watching from her rocking chair.
Jett Riggsby wasn't made to be trapped inside the city limits of Silo Bay. He was born for country air and no boundaries.
Stepping through the doorway, I come to a halt as my lips part. Standing at the stove, flipping bacon, is Jett. Only, it’s not the Jett from the past. No, this man looks like he should be in a Marvel superhero movie. Chris Hemsworth who?
At six-four, Jett isn't a small man. Corded muscles trail across his broad, sun-kissed skin as if he was chiseled from stone. I bite my bottom lip as I trail my eyes over the intricate ink designs to his tapered waist. A black band hugs his hips, peeking out from the low-hung gray sweatpants showcasing his round ass. The man is delicious.
Pulling my gaze from where I’m gawking, I take in his kitchen. It’s quaint, but it suits him. Charcoal-gray cabinets and butcher-block counters contrast against the cream wall color. A four-person farmhouse table sits in the middle of the room. My eyes land on the to-go cups from Shoreline Sips and my stomach growls.
Jett’s head turns over his shoulder. I startle at how his vibrant eyes are shadowed in darkness. I’m the reason for his pain, and it kills me.
“Hi—hi,” I stammer, wringing my hands together in front of me.
His jaw clenches, and I worry about his dental bill. His head tips toward one of the cardboard cups.
“You didn’t have to get drinks…” Although, I’m grateful for the caffeine. My head feels like a jackhammer is destroying a concrete pad the size of Texas.
“It’s fine.” He flips the bacon. “There’s a matcha latte—”
“How’d you know?” I interrupt, shocked he knew my latte order.
His back stiffens. “I didn’t. I asked Julia for your usual and she handed me some green drink. When I told her it was a vanilla latte, she corrected me and said you order this every day. I figured, what the hell do I know, and got you both. Drink whichever.”
My heart cracks at the roughness in his voice.
“Thank you,” I whisper, moving around the table and grabbing both. “Did you get yourself one?”
He nods, sliding over until I can see the Shoreline Sips logo on the cup. An awkward silence falls over the room. I turn my attention to Storm, who’s eating her kibble in the corner by a door. Pulling out a chair, I sit. The cool wood against my bare thigh reminds me I’m not wearing any pants.
“Where’s my dress?” My question comes out harshly.
Sinewy muscles cord up his forearms as he grips the counter. “It reeked of whiskey. Figured you didn’t want to sleep in it. I washed it, and it’s hanging in the laundry room.” He points toward a doorway.
“Thank you,” I say quietly. “You didn’t have to wash it.”
