Chapter Twenty-Four
The sound is relentless.
Sharp. Loud. Piercing through the dark like a fire alarm.
I groan and bury my face deeper into the pillow, swiping blindly at the empty air beside the bed.
“Shut up,” I mumble hoarsely.
My hand smacks the mattress, then the sheet, then nothing at all.
Where the hell is my nightstand?
The alarm keeps screaming.
I frown, still half asleep, batting around again. My fingers sweep across cool sheets and then open space where the little table beside my bed should be.
Except it isn’t there.
I crack one eye open.
The ceiling above me is wrong.
Too high. Wood beams instead of the white drywall in my room at the ranch house.
For a second, I just blink at it, my brain sluggish and foggy.
Then I turn my head.
The small cabin slowly comes into focus—the narrow window with pale morning light just starting to bleed through the glass, the rustic wood walls, the little woodstove across the room.
And suddenly, it hits me.
Oh. Right.
The instructor’s cabin.
Memory rushes back all at once.
The party. The bar. Porter.
Porter.
Heat floods my body at the memory of what we did last night.
I roll onto my side.
He’s stretched out beside me, still dead asleep. One arm is flung over his head, chest bare, and the sheet twisted around his waist. His dark hair is a mess, and there’s a faint shadow of stubble covering his jaw.
He looks … well fucked.
And dangerously handsome.
The alarm blares again.
I groan and shove the pillow over my head. “Oh my God.”
The sound is coming from somewhere near the foot of the bed.
With a growl, I crawl down the mattress, tangled in the sheet, squinting through the dim light while the alarm continues its relentless shrieking.
“Where the hell are you?” I mutter.
The mattress shifts behind me.
“Harleigh?” Porter’s voice is rough with sleep.
I freeze halfway down the bed, hair hanging in my face.
The alarm shrieks again.
“Make it stop,” I groan.
He lets out a sleepy chuckle and pushes himself upright. The bed creaks softly as he rubs a hand over his face.
The pale glow of early morning spills through the window now, painting the room in soft gold.
Porter glances around, still waking up. “Hang on.”
He leans over the side of the bed and grabs his jeans from the floor. The denim is rumpled and half inside out from last night.
Fishing into the pocket, he pulls out his phone.
The alarm wails again just as he taps the screen.
Sweet, blessed silence.
“Oh, thank God,” I sigh.
I collapse backward onto the pillows, stretching my legs.
My eyes close immediately.
The bed shifts again as Porter swings his legs over the side. The floor creaking under his weight.
I squint at the ceiling. “What time is it?”
“Six thirty.”
My eyes snap open. “Six thirty?” I croak.
He’s already standing, pulling his jeans up his hips.
“We didn’t even leave the bar until one o’clock,” I remind him, my voice thick with disbelief.
He laughs softly under his breath. “I know.”
I push up on one elbow, watching him.
His back is to me as he reaches for his shirt. The muscles in his shoulders flex as he slides his arms into the sleeves.
I narrow my eyes at him. “Why in God’s name is your alarm set for six thirty on a Saturday?”
He starts buttoning his shirt, glancing over his shoulder at me. “My parents are coming in from Cheyenne.”
I blink. “Oh?”
“Yeah,” he says, fastening another button. “I’m supposed to meet them for breakfast.”
“You could have done brunch?”
“I didn’t exactly know I’d be up all night when we made the plans,” he says as he tucks his shirt in.
I prop my chin in my hand, watching him move around the small cabin.
Last night, he looked all loose and relaxed.
This morning, he’s back to stiff and composed.
Mr. Garrison.
The thought makes something in my chest tighten.
He grabs his wallet from the dresser and slides it into his back pocket before checking his phone again.
Then he turns back toward the bed.
I’m still sprawled across it in nothing but a thin sheet.
His gaze lingers for a second, and his expression softens.
Then he steps closer.
“You should go back to sleep,” he says quietly.
He reaches down and pulls the quilt up over my shoulder, tucking it snugly around me.
I smile lazily up at him. “Yes, sir.”
He chuckles.
Then he leans down and presses a gentle kiss to my forehead.
“I’ll see you at work Monday,” he murmurs.
I wrinkle my nose. “I actually have Monday off this week.”
His brows lift slightly. “Do you?”
“Yep. I put in a lot of overtime with the two conventions last week.”
He nods. “Then Tuesday.”
“Tuesday,” I confirm.
For a few minutes, neither of us moves.
The cabin is quiet, except for the faint rustle of trees outside and the distant sound of one of Grandpa’s roosters crowing.
Last night feels like a dream already.
He straightens. “I’ve got to go. Do you need anything before I leave?”
“I think I’m good.”
He nods and heads for the door.
Cool morning air drifts inside for a second before he slips out and pulls the door closed. The latch clicking behind him.
The cabin falls completely silent.
I stare at the ceiling briefly as memories of last night flood my mind.
Then I slowly roll over onto his side of the bed.
The pillow he was using is still warm.
I pull it into my arms and hug it to my chest, burying my face against it.
It smells like him.
My chest tightens again.
No more just Harleigh and just Porter.
We’re already back to Mr. Garrison and Miss Storm.
I sigh softly into the pillow.
A little ping of sadness tries to creep in, but I shove it away before it can settle in.
Because if I’m being honest …
Just Harleigh had one hell of a good night.
And judging by the ache in my muscles, I’d say just Porter did too.
With that comforting thought, I snuggle deeper under the quilt.
And drift back to sleep.
I gather up the scattered pieces of clothing from the floor—my pants, my bustier, and jacket.
I get dressed quickly and strip the sheets from the bed, bundling them together, along with the towels from the tiny bathroom.
I slip my boots back on and step outside.
The ranch is quiet.
The early afternoon sun sits low over the pastures.
I make my way toward the ranch house.
Daddy’s truck isn’t in the driveway.
Good.
That means he and my grandparents have already left for church.
I hurry across the yard with my bundle of laundry and slip through the front door.
I step through the mudroom and spot Charli and Shelby standing in the kitchen. I keep moving down the hallway toward the laundry room.
Charli’s eyes catch me.
“Morning, sunshine,” she calls after me.
I keep walking. “Morning.”
“You hungry?” she shouts down the hall.
I shove the sheets into the washer and reach for the detergent.
“I’m making fried bologna sandwiches!”
My stomach growls.
“Yes,” I yell back. “Very.”
The washer starts with a loud slosh of water as I close the lid.
I jog upstairs and duck into my bedroom.
I strip out of my walk-of-shame clothes and toss them into the hamper before pulling on black leggings and an oversize University of Wyoming sweatshirt.
Much better.
I drag a brush through my hair, twist it into a messy bun, and head back downstairs.
The smell of fried bologna and toasted bread makes my mouth water.
Charli is carrying two plates, and I follow her to the dining room, where Shelby is seated biting into a sandwich.
I take the seat beside her, a pot of coffee already waiting. I pour myself a cup and take a long sip.
And both of them smile.
Not normal smiles.
Predatory ones.
Charli sits across from me and slides one of the plates in front of me.
“Thanks,” I say immediately.
She smiles. “Judging by your housekeeping this morning …” she begins. “You must’ve had a real good night.”
“It was fine,” I say.
Shelby snorts. “Fine?”
I rub my face with both hands. “We had a good time.”
Both of them lean closer, like bloodhounds catching a scent.
“We’re gonna need details,” Charli says.
I shake my head. “Nuh-uh.”
They both groan loudly.
“Oh, come on,” Shelby says.
“Spare us the modesty act,” Charli says. “We tell you everything. So, talk.”
I sigh and pick up my sandwich. “We stayed in one of the new cabins,” I say, then cut my eyes to Charli. “Thank you for that suggestion, by the way.”
“You’re welcome,” she chirps.
“And?” Shelby prompts me to continue.
“And … things got pretty heated.”
Charli stares at me. “Harleigh Storm.”
“What?”
“Heated?” she repeats. “What does that mean?”
Shelby snorts. “She showed up with an armful of crumpled sheets. I think we can guess what heated means.”
I sigh again. “Okay, yes. We had sex. Dirty, sweaty sex.”
They both squeal.
But I quickly raise a hand. “However …”
That shuts them up.
I shrug casually. “That’s all there is to it.”
Charli tilts her head. “What do you mean?”
“One fun night,” I say. “That’s it.”
Shelby frowns slightly. “What makes you think that?”
I take another bite of my sandwich before answering, “Because he made that pretty clear this morning.”
Charli frowns. “What did he say exactly?”
“He said he’d see me at work.”
They both blink.
I shrug again. “He woke up, turned right back into boss mode, got dressed, and left to meet his parents for breakfast.”
Shelby raises an eyebrow. “Did he really though?”
I pause. “Well … yeah.”
She shrugs. “Sounds like he was just in a hurry.”
Charli taps her finger on the table. “Let me get this straight.”
Uh-oh.
“What exactly did he say?”
I sigh. “He said he’d see me at work on Monday.”
“And?”
“And I told him I actually have Monday off.”
“And?”
“He said Tuesday, then.”
Both of them stare at me.
I spread my hands. “That’s it.”
Charli leans back slowly. “So, he didn’t say he’d call?”
“Nope.”
“Text?”
I shake my head.
“Nothing?”
“Nothing.”
Shelby and Charli exchange a look.
The kind sisters share when they’re thinking something they’re not saying out loud.
“It’s fine,” I say quickly.
They both look back at me.
“I’m a big girl,” I continue. “I’ve had one-night stands before.”
Charli raises an eyebrow. “You have?”
“Not a lot,” I admit. “But, yes, I have.” I pick up my sandwich again. “It’ll be like nothing happened when I see him on Tuesday.”
Shelby nods slowly. “Sure.”
Charli nods too. “Absolutely.”
But then they glance at each other again.
That same look.
“What?” I demand.
Charli takes a sip of coffee before answering, “You may think that. But the way Porter Garrison was looking at you last night?” She shakes her head. “I doubt it.”
I roll my eyes. “You were imagining things.”
Shelby laughs. “Harleigh.”
“What?”
“That man looked at you like you were a steak and he hadn’t eaten in days.”
Charli nods. “And that was before the shots.”
I feel warmth creep up my neck. “He’s a man. And wasn’t exactly being subtle.”
“Maybe,” Charli says. “But I’m telling you.” She leans forward, resting her elbows on the table. “He did not look like a man who was just looking to get laid.”
The memory of the way Porter looked at me in that cabin this morning slips into my mind.
Soft.
Gentle.
Like leaving was the last thing he really wanted to do.
I shove the thought away quickly.
“It was one night,” I say firmly.
Charli throws her hands up. “Okay, if you say so.”
And for some reason …
I’m not nearly as confident about that as I want to be.