Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Brynn
The next morning, the cool air clings to my skin as I walk down the dirt path back to my dad’s house.
The sun hasn’t fully risen yet, but the faint streaks of orange and pink in the sky tell me it won’t be long.
My boots crunch against the gravel, the sound steady and rhythmic, but my thoughts are anything but.
Not doing the morning checks is weird, it was nice to sleep in a bit, though.
How did I let him kiss me again?
Why do I turn into a pile of goo when that man looks me in the eye or touches me?
It’s been a full day, and I can still feel his mouth on mine, the heat of him pressing against me, the way his hands gripped my waist like he couldn’t bear to let go. My fingers twitch at the memory, and I curl them into fists, trying to ground myself.
What the hell was that?
I’ve been kissed before—plenty of times—but not like that. Not like he was staking a claim like he was daring me to push him away even though he knew I wouldn’t.
Grrrr, I want to turn around and go right back in there and slap him across the face.
But I also want to go right back in there and grab another hot kiss. I want him to finish what he started.
I feel a pang of fear hit me as the screen door to the bunkhouse swings in the wind. I close my eyes and am transported back in time.
Clay was traveling with an amateur bull-riding show, and I had gone to visit him for the weekend. I stepped out of his camper, the screen door slamming behind me as I stepped out. I looked around, and one of the other riders waved at me.
“Were you just checking that guy out?” Clay growled in my ear.
“No, he let me cut in line at the concession stand earlier,” I mumbled, flinching as his fingers dug into my arm.
“You shouldn’t be talking to other guys when I’m not around.”
“I wasn’t.”
I tried to rip my arm away, but instead, he gripped it so hard I thought the bones were going to break.
“You’re hurting me,” I say in a quiet breath as if he didn’t know what he was doing.
“You little slut. I won’t have you coming here talking to other guys and trying to fuck whoever you want.”
Tears stung my eyes as I shook my head. That possessiveness that I once thought was cute and sweet was rearing its ugly head again.
“I can’t do this, Clay. I…I need to go.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” he hissed in my ear.
“Clay!” Josiah, one of the other bull riders, called. “We’ve got a meeting.”
“I’ll be right there,” Clay called out. His green eyes flashed back to me. “Get back in the camper; we’ll finish this later.”
I nodded, scurried right back into the camper, and when I was certain he was gone, I hurriedly threw my things into my duffel bag, raced to my car, and tore out of that place without hesitation.
I was home free.
Except that I wasn’t.
I shake my head and come back to the present. My hand goes to my right arm as if I can still feel his fingers digging into it.
I can feel the anxiety clawing at my chest.
Clay is the only man I’ve ever been in a relationship with. And things…things started out just like this with him and…he…
Tears prick at my eyes as the memory of the abuse that I withstood from my ex-boyfriend plays on a loop in my head.
I have to get Jack out of my head. I have to stay away from him.
The problem is that I didn’t want Jack to stop kissing me. I was fully prepared for him to fill me right there, with no remorse, no logic, no…intuition telling me to run for the hills. That’s what’s messing with my head the most. I didn’t want him to stop.
I shake my head, trying to clear it as the house comes into view.
The old wooden structure stands sturdy and familiar, and the porch light is still on from the night before.
It’s comforting and grounding. This is my routine.
I come here every morning to cook breakfast for Dad, Liv, and the crew.
It’s my way of keeping things normal, of taking care of the people who matter most.
Jack isn’t one of those people. He’s a cocky, insufferable cowboy who thinks he can tell me what to do just because he’s got a strong jawline and a smirk that could melt butter.
I don’t want any part of that. I don’t care how good he looks in that damn hat or how his voice gets all low and gravelly when he’s trying to get under my skin. He’s off-limits. Period.
I push open the door and step inside, the familiar creak of the hinges welcoming me home. The house is quiet, the kind of stillness that only exists in the early hours of the morning. I shrug off my flannel and hang it on the hook by the door before heading to the kitchen.
The smell of coffee hits me as soon as I walk in, and I pause, surprised.
The pot is half-full, steam still rising from the spout.
Jack must’ve made it before heading out to the barn.
I grab a mug from the cabinet and pour myself a cup, trying not to think about how thoughtful it was of him to make it.
He didn’t do it for you, Brynn. Get that out of your head. He was making it for Dad.
“Don’t read into it,” I mutter to myself, taking a sip. The bitter warmth settles in my chest, and I set the mug down, rolling up my sleeves. Time to get to work.
I pull out the cast-iron skillet and set it on the stove, grabbing eggs, bacon, and bread from the fridge.
My hands move on autopilot, cracking eggs into a bowl and whisking them with a splash of milk.
But my mind keeps drifting back to Jack.
The way he looked at me right before he kissed me was like he was daring me to say no. Like he knew I wouldn’t.
“He’s an asshole,” I mutter under my breath, tossing a handful of bacon into the skillet. The grease sizzles, the sound filling the kitchen as the smell of cooking meat starts to spread. “Thinks he can just waltz in here with that stupid grin and…” I trail off, shaking my head. “Not happening.”
The smells surround me, and I try to push the thoughts of Jack away, replacing them with the thousands of times I’d walked into this very kitchen in the wee hours of the morning, jumped up on the stool by the island, and watched as my mom floated around the kitchen, humming hymns and pouring so much love and care into the meals that she cooked.
She took so much pride in cooking three meals a day for everyone.
I’m so lost in my thoughts that I don’t hear Dad come in at first. It’s the shuffle of his slippers against the hardwood floor that pulls me out of my daze. I turn, a smile already forming on my face.
“Morning, Dad,” I say, but the words catch in my throat when I see the look on his face. He’s standing in the doorway, his brow furrowed, eyes darting around the kitchen like he doesn’t recognize it. Like he doesn’t recognize me.
Confusion hits me first but then fear. My body knows something is off before the rest of me catches up to it.
“Who are you?” he asks, his voice shaky. “What are you doing in my house?”
The spatula in my hand clatters to the counter as my heart drops into my stomach.
“Dad, it’s me,” I say softly, taking a step toward him. “It’s Brynn.”
He shakes his head, his confusion deepening. “No, no, you’re not…” He trails off, his gaze drifting to the skillet on the stove. “Where’s my wife? She’s supposed to be making breakfast.”
A lump forms in my throat, and I swallow hard, forcing myself to stay calm.
“Mom’s not here, Dad,” I say gently. “It’s just me. I’m making breakfast for you.”
He looks at me again, his eyes searching my face like he’s trying to piece together a puzzle that doesn’t make sense.
“Brynn?” he says finally, his voice barely above a whisper.
I nod, blinking back the sting of tears. “Yeah, Dad. It’s me.”
His shoulders sag, and he rubs a hand over his face, looking exhausted. “I…I’m sorry, sweetheart. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“It’s okay,” I say quickly, crossing the room to stand in front of him. “You’re okay. It happens sometimes.”
I reach out to touch his arm, and he lets out a shaky breath, nodding.
“You’re a good girl, Brynn,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “Always taking care of me.”
I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from crying.
“Why don’t you sit down?” I say, guiding him to the kitchen table. “Breakfast is almost ready.”
He nods again, sinking into a chair. I turn back to the stove, blinking rapidly to clear my vision as I flip the bacon and pour the scrambled eggs into the skillet. The familiar routine helps steady me, gives me something to focus on other than the ache in my chest.
The sound of the front door opening pulls me out of my thoughts, and a moment later, Olivia’s voice fills the house.
“Smells good in here!” she calls, her boots thudding against the floor as she makes her way to the kitchen. She stops in the doorway, her smile fading when she sees my face.
“Everything okay?” she asks, her gaze flicking to Dad, who’s staring down at the table like he’s trying to remember something important.
“Yeah,” I say quickly, forcing a smile. “Just a rough morning.”
She doesn’t look convinced, but she doesn’t push. Instead, she crosses the room and gives me a quick hug before doing the same to her grandpa.
I continue cooking breakfast, making the finishing touches as I fill plates for Dad and Olivia. The ranch hands will be in soon, and my stomach tightens at the thought of seeing Jack again, of him being so close to me soon.
His face flashes in my mind again, and my heart skips a beat. Grateful or not, I can’t afford to get distracted. Not by him, and not by the way he makes me feel. I’ve got enough to deal with already.