Chapter 3 #2
“Don’t be. I’m sorry you’re hurting.” His response surprises me, shaking me out of my shame spiral.
I am hurting, and not just because I drunkenly climbed over rocks barefoot and fell off a horse.
The pain I feel inside is ten times worse.
Ten years of my life swallowed up, spent with someone who broke my trust and shattered the vision I had for my future.
What do I have to show for it? A lot of weepy playlists and night rages. And bruises.
We’re silent for the rest of the ride back. When we reach the barn, Shayne hops down smoothly. He offers me his hand to help me down, and I’m so grateful I could cry. My sore muscles have tightened up so much I don’t think I could tie my shoes, let alone leap down from a hell horse.
Shayne reaches up and wraps his hands around my hips and lifts me like I’m made of candy floss.
With both feet on the ground, I have to tilt my head up to look him in the eye, a rarity in my life as a 5’-10” individual.
The blood rushes back into my face as I take him in under the harsh stable lights.
His face is all angles and shadows still with the hat and the lights shining from above, but one thing is very clear: He’s gorgeous.
Earth shatteringly gorgeous. I couldn’t have dreamed up a better specimen.
My eyes don’t know where to focus; his cheekbones are sharp, his jaw defined, his mouth could easily inspire poetry.
This gorgeous, gorgeous man has seen me naked and crazed. Where’s that black hole when you need it?
“Think you can stand on your own?” he asks, a concerned look in his dark eyes.
Are they black or the most incredible shade of navy I’ve ever seen?
I know he’s asked me a question, but it’s impossible to answer when his alluringly rugged face is inches away from mine.
I feel like a cat must when it comes across the perfect scratching post and I want to experience what it feels like to rub myself over every single inch of this face.
That’s when I realize the look in his eyes has turned the corner into slightly scared territory. Probably because I’ve been silently staring into his maybe-black-maybe-blue eyes like a twitterpated cartoon bunny.
“Oh yeah, of course. I can stand.” To prove it, I step back too quickly and stumble.
Smooth move, Paige. He keeps his hands on my waist to steady me then bends down to look into my eyes, squinting.
“Are you sure you’re okay? Maybe you hit your head harder than you thought when you fell.
” He’s pushed his hat higher up on his forehead again.
Twenty minutes ago, that same movement was infuriating, but now I find it adorably irresistible.
If only I could figure out a way to superglue his hands to my waist…
“Paige!” I hear Jo yell seconds before she skids around the side of the barn. Shayne releases me and quickly backs up to give her access. She wraps her arms around me, and I’m tempted to go boneless.
“You are such a dumbass, but maybe I’m the bigger dumbass for letting you go out so late. Do you need to go to the ER?” Jo grabs me by the shoulders, giving me a once over.
“No, no. I’m just really sore.”
“Okay, let’s get you inside and into that bath.” She tucks me against her side, and I lean into her, grateful for the support. Jo in mom-mode can sometimes be annoying, but right now, it’s the balm I need.
“Thank you for finding her, Shayne. I have two hearts that live outside of my body, and this lady right here is one of them.”
“Don’t mention it. Happy to help.” He tips his hat at us and then turns to lead his giant horse back into the stable. His retreating form sends a rush of longing through me.
Jo leads me gently up the hill, a steady—albeit loving—stream of admonishments pouring from her lips. I take it in while visions of Shayne riding shirtless through fields of wildflowers dance through my head.
“You’re being awfully quiet. Are you sure you didn’t hit your head? What’s your middle name?” Jo asks, breaking me out of my trance.
“I didn’t hit my head. I may have popped a butt cheek though,” I reply, huffing up the last of the incline to Jo’s porch.
Jo ushers me through the house, down the hall to their guest bedroom, which really should be considered my room, given the hundreds of nights I’ve spent here over the years.
She insists on staying with me while I soak in the tub to make sure I don’t pass out and drown, so I take the opportunity recount my humiliation in full detail.
“You cat-cowed…into…his crotch,” Jo barely manages to get the words out, wiping tears from her eyes. “This is the second time you’ve made me cry-laugh in one day. Ugh, my abs hurt.”
“You failed to mention earlier that you hired the World’s Most Beautiful Man to tend to your four-legged babies,” I say, flicking bath water at her.
“Hey, not my fault if the rancher who recommended him didn’t provide a head shot. He’s here to help during foaling, and then maybe for a few months after. I think he’s from Idaho. You down to pound?”
“Jo, a blind person would be down to pound. He’s like a red wood tree with Brad Pitt’s face.”
Jo sits back on her heels, laughing. “I mean I guess—if you grew up salivating over the Brawny paper towel guy.” I send another splash of water her way, and she squeals, dodging semi-successfully.
“Lies. That man is everyone’s type, and he knows it,” I say, indignantly.
“I’ve always been more of an Ed Norton type rather than Brad Pitt. You can have him.”
“Thanks, I’m sure Andy will appreciate your generosity. I can guarantee there will be a long line of Silvercreek’s finest at your gate once word gets out that you are harboring a hottie. Besides, there’s no way I can ever talk to Shayne again. He’s seen too much.”
“I don’t know, Paige, I’ve seen your cat-cow. It’s pretty killer.” Jo reaches into the bath and sends a huge splash into my face, then dances out of the bathroom as I sputter.
“Goodnight, babe,” she calls over her shoulder.
I stay in the bath until the water turns tepid.
Toweling off, I notice a bruise the size of Texas and the color of spilled red wine forming on my right butt cheek.
I’ll be walking gingerly for a few weeks, but it doesn’t escape me how lucky I am that I’m able to walk away from a fall with just a few bruises.
It could have been a million times worse.
I dress in a pair of Jo’s pajamas that she left on the bed, and crawl in between the soft flannel sheets.
This is the second night in a row I’ve gone to bed with wet hair, and a bruised and battered body.
I’m down two cat lives and my gas tank is running on fumes.
Sleep washes over me before I can come up with any more sad euphemisms.