Denver
I slide my ass into Austin’s passenger seat, avoiding the look he’s giving me, and reach for the seat belt with a wince. Concussion and a broken collarbone. Could’ve been a lot worse, honestly. Maybe Aus should focus on the fact that I didn’t die before he starts his parental-type speech.
“I don’t want to hear it,” I groan, leaning my head against the cool windowpane and shutting my eyes.
I held it together pretty well around Blair, still hopped up on adrenaline and probably a hint of shock—both from the fall and seeing her. Admittedly, I was unable to stop smiling because she finally came home like I prayed she would for years. Not that she noticed how happy I was to see her again, because she actively avoided interacting with me.
And the instant I watched her drive away, it all came crashing down.
“You good?” Austin asks as the truck lurches backward out of the parking stall.
The painkillers for my collarbone do nothing to ease the ice pick lobotomy going on in my skull—a seething halo of pain making it hard to focus. Even in the late afternoon, the cloudy skies are too bright and the truck engine is too loud. Plus, the carefully constructed wall around my heart’s already threatening to crumble over the girl who was the reason for building it in the first place.
But aside from all that, yeah, I’m good.
“Yeah. You should see the other guy.” Not opening my eyes, I hold my good arm up to shoot a finger gun in his direction.
I hear his hand scrub across his beard. “You’re an idiot.”
“You love me.” This time I do open one eye, just enough so I can see to give him a little love tap on the upper arm.
“Know what I love more? Not wasting half my day to come pick your ass up from the hospital.”
“Thanks, big bro. I love ya, too.” I slouch down in the seat, tilting my head so the truck pillar blocks the sun. “It’s like old times with you and Blair coming to my rescue. Didn’t know she was back in town until she was suddenly doctoring me up right there in the arena.”
She’d appeared like a fucking angel, cloaked in sunlight and staring at me wide-eyed when I came to. Of course, I saw her before that—it’s why I fell off the horse in the first place. But having her so close, talking to me, face awash with concern, was unparalleled. She looked nothing like she used to, in fancy clothes that didn’t suit a rodeo, hair neatly tied up, and more makeup than she even wore to prom. Nothing like the small-town girl I knew. Still, she’s as stunning now as she was then.
“You didn’t know? She’s been at the ranch with Cassidy damn near every day.”
Migraine be damned, I open my eyes and turn to look at Austin. She has? How am I the last to know about this?
“Huh. Must’ve missed the memo.”
“Would you have cared anyway?” He raises a brow.
Maybe? Yes? I blink down at the floorboards. “Nah, you’re the biosecurity guy. I don’t give a shit who comes and goes on the ranch.”
“ Right. ” He reaches for the dented travel mug in the cup holder and takes a long gulp. “So are you finally done rodeoing?”
Ah, time for the lecture.
I pull a face. “It’s a concussion and broken collarbone. I’ll be back out there in like a week…two, tops .”
“Until you hurt yourself again. And we’re down a cowboy again . Luckily this happened today, not a few weeks from now when we’re really busy. You’d be paying out of your own pocket for a day worker to replace you.”
“Pump me full of ibuprofen and whiskey, and I’m basically invincible. If anything, it’ll make me stronger than I usually am. I can work perfectly fine.”
He sucks his teeth. “, quit being an idiot. You’ll go home and sleep it off, like the doctor told you to.”
—
It’s been a full week since the rodeo, and either Blair has managed to completely avoid me at the ranch, or Austin was exaggerating about how often she’s been coming here. Granted, for the first two days after the fall, I mostly stayed in bed. Then, against the judgment of the mother hens—also known as Beryl, Kate, and Cecily—I went back to work. So I suppose it’s possible she’s been here and I’ve missed it.
I’m not about to ask anybody and make it seem like I care that she was here. I can’t let myself care that she’s back, despite my concussed brain telling me to shoot my shot right there in the ambulance. My entire world collapsed when she left almost fourteen years ago. The thought of having her, and losing her all over again, scares the absolute shit out ofme.
Did I break things off with Peyton on a whim because Blair’s back in town? Sure. Was I thinking straight? No. But our casual situation was drawing to a close regardless. I never date women for more than a month or two—much longer and they start getting attached, and it becomes harder for me to break things off without seeming like a total piece of shit. Over text wasn’t my finest work, admittedly. Especially because now she’s mad, and real close to going full Carrie Underwood on my ass.
“I’m in desperate need of a brewski.” Colt claps his hands together as we stroll across the parking lot of the local dive bar, the Horseshoe.
“Fuckin’ eh.” With my good arm, I reach for the metal door handle—shaped like a horseshoe, of course—and yank it open. Turning the corner, I collide with something…or rather, someone . “Shit, my bad.”
On instinct I grab the arm of the person I crashed into. And then it hits me like a fully loaded freight train.
“Shit, Blair. Sorry.” I drop her arm, but make no move to step back despite being practically on top of her. Just shy of six-foot herself, she’s face-to-face with me. Close enough to kiss. And fuck me, do I consider going in for the kill. “We’ve gotta stop meeting like this.”
“Meeting like what? This is nothing like—” Her eyes flit to my loose arm, and she lets out an irritated sigh. “Why aren’t you wearing your sling?”
“I’m totally fine now.” I show off by lifting my arm to about ninety degrees. Scorching heat radiates out from my injury, but I grit my teeth, smiling as though there’s no discomfort.
“Besides, he can’t double-fist drinks with one arm,” Colt chides, brushing past us.
I raise an eyebrow at him. “Well, now…that sounds like a challenge.”
“.” Blair stresses the fact that my name has two syllables. She tilts her head with a huff, giving me a look that elicits a mocking chorus out of the ranch hands, who then quickly shuffle away before getting swept up in her wrath.
With a smile, I say her name back in a horrific attempt at a valley girl accent. “Blair.”
If I thought she looked too preppy and polished for the rodeo, she’s really pushing the boundaries here. Her black long-sleeve is so modest there’s nary a sliver of wrist or neck exposed, yet so tight it accentuates every gentle curve in her willowy, athletic build. High-waisted tan trousers. And heels . Blair Hart doesn’t— didn’t —wear heels. Not even to prom. She doesn’t fit this town anymore, and there’s a jogged memory flitting by of her teenage wardrobe: jeans, faded T-shirts, and a collection of Stetsons every cowboy in town was envious of. Then she grew up and moved away and changed. And, despite the passing of a decade, it turns out I’m still as affected by her as the day she left me for good.
“It’s been a week. You should be wearing a sling. At the very least, try to keep your collarbone stable when you sit down—no double-fisting drinks. Got it?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I give her a salute, hoping to induce a smile.
Nothing.
“So, what are you doing here?” I ask.
A small crease forms between her eyebrows and she gestures to the small black server pouch tied around her waist. “What does it look like I’m doing? Helping Dave out because he hasn’t found a replacement for Cass yet.”
She starts sounding real similar to an adult in a Peanuts cartoon as my tunnel vision narrows at a dizzying rate.
A fucking ring.
She’s wearing a ring. My Blair is wearing a fucking massive rock on her goddamn left fucking hand. It’s too big for her slender fingers. Too showy for her personality. Too impractical for a nurse practitioner who probably wears latex gloves a lot of the time. But maybe the reason I feel every bruising beat of my heart is because at sixteen she promised that part of herself to me.
A fucking ring.
I scrunch my nose to calm the stinging sensation, and work to pull in a steadying breath.
None the wiser, she tucks her hands into the pockets of her fancy pants and turns to walk away. “Go sit down. I’ll bring over beer in a minute.”
I watch her go, telling myself I shouldn’t. It was stupid to think she hadn’t moved on after a decade away from this town. She’s perfect in every way—naturally, she found a wealthy man in the city to make all her dreams come true. To be the man I could never be.
“Come dance with me.” A rasping voice in my ear raises the hair on the back of my neck. Pointed fingernails drag up the goosebumped skin until Peyton’s plucking the hat from my head and placing it on hers. Evidently, that text meant fuck all.
“Can’t use my arm.” My focus remains entirely unbroken from the sight of Blair’s ass as she bends to clear a table.
She’s taken.
Just because there’s a goalie doesn’t mean you can’t score….
No. She’s not that type.
“You know what? Fuck it.” I turn to Peyton, eyeing up her skimpy, shimmery halter top. Even her cleavage is glittery. “Let’s dance.”
I let her guide me to the dance floor, wrapping my good arm around her waist as Randy Travis croons over the speaker. And I probably should’ve worn the sling, because by the end of that first half-assed two-step, my entire upper body is throbbing.
Peyton suddenly grows by about two inches, raising up on the balls of her feet, presumably for a kiss. But as much as I’m willing to dance with her, I have no interest in bringing her home tonight, no matter what the cowboy hat on her head implies. So I take a large step back, dropping my touch from her waist.
“I need a drink,” I mouth over the loud music, nodding my head toward the back wall where all the ranch hands are drinking around a large wood table. After so many years of spending every Friday night here, it’s become our designated spot. No reservation placard required.
To my dismay, Peyton’s hot on my heels. And she plunks herself into my lap when I sit down, sending sharp jolts of pain from my armpit to my fingertips. A few weeks of casual dating and a breakup text later, here I am with a stage-five clinger.
And I could look past the fiery ache in my collarbone, or my annoyance at Peyton’s bony ass on my thigh, if either thing ignited a single spark in Blair’s eyes. But the full glass of beer clunks down in front of me, sloshing over the rim, and she carries on. No hint of jealousy or questioning, no eye contact filled with longing. It turns out seeing me with another girl has zero effect on her. Meanwhile, that ring on her finger—even without knowing anything about the guy—has me silently apologizing to my liver for the oblivion I’m about to drink it into.
“Hart.” I catch a fleeting moment of her attention. “Bring over a tray of shots. Whiskey.”