Blair
I spin in circles on the old wooden bar stool, listening to Cassidy give her dad a list of instructions a million miles long. You’d think we were leaving the baby with him for a week, not a few hours…and we’ll be less than five kilometers up the road. But Dave nods along, doing a great job of at least acting like he intends to listen to her rules. I’ve seen my parents with Jonas enough to know grandparents never follow the rules.
“We ready to go?” I ask Cass as Dave turns, diaper bag slung over his shoulder, to head for his attached apartment. Years ago, he learned to shut the bar down when Wells Canyon has a rodeo—it’s not worth paying to keep the lights on when everyone in town is drinking in a makeshift space in a parking lot, built with livestock panels and a utility-shed-turned-bar.
“Just waiting for Shelb.”
I check my phone for the text message to let us know she’s on her way. “Hey, so…we’ve awkwardly skirted around the topic before, but I need to know. Is it going to be problematic for Shelby, Denver, and I to all be in the same place?”
Cass looks up at the shelves of liquor behind the bar with pursed lips. “Why would that be an issue?”
“Well…he and I dated. They hooked up at the rodeo last year…maybe even continuously after that?”
“Mmm. As far as I know, they didn’t hook up continuously. And I thought you were okay with it?”
Of course she thinks that, because I insisted I was fine approximately two hundred times after I found out and asked her to confirm the rumor. Not her fault she couldn’t tell there were tears in my eyes and my voice was squeaky through text messages.
“I am.” My nails drum on the bar top. “I just…I guess I wanted to know what I’m walking into.”
“You’re walking into nothing. I wouldn’t let you come if I thought there was even a chance you’d have to watch them flirt. Promise.” She crosses her heart. “And anyway, I can only think of one reason why you suddenly care so much about this a year later. Are you two…?” She gives me the look.
“We are not. Forget I asked.”
“I get being mad at Shelby. I would be pissed if one of my best friends made out with my ex, too.”
“It’s not that. Her and I hardly even talk anymore, except when you’re asking us both to hang out, so she can do whatever she wants.”
It has nothing to do with Shelby, and everything to do with the way Denver kept looking at me last night.
“All I know for sure is that I saw them make out a full year ago. Shelby has since moved on with God knows how many people. And I can only assume the same is true for Denny. I’ve seen them in the same vicinity multiple times since then, and there was zero funny business. Not even a flirty comment or sideways glance.” She grabs my hand on top of the wooden bar and looks into my eyes. “Happy with that?”
My phone buzzes, and I immediately stand to leave. “Yeah, I’m good with that.”
—
Rum and Coke in hand, I settle onto the bench next to Cassidy and stare out at the dusty, sunbaked rodeo arena. As Shelby leans forward to clink her plastic cup against mine, her rhinestone cowboy hat catches the evening’s sunrays and cascades a scattered rainbow across our laps. “, I’m so happy you moved back. We missed you.”
“I missed you guys, too.”
“The troublesome trio is back in action.” Shelby grins, raising her cup to her lips.
I don’t even remember exactly how Shelby ended up becoming friends with me and Cassidy. One day, shortly after she moved to town in high school, she sat down with us at lunch and the rest was history. Our duo became a trio without warning. While I’d still call her a friend, I’ll admit I haven’t put as much effort into staying close with Shelby like I have Cass over the years. In fact, aside from the occasional girls’ night when I was in town visiting my family, and the rare trio FaceTime, we stopped talking almost entirely after I moved away almost fourteen years ago.
“Back in action for approximately…three hours.” Cass flips her wrist to look at her watch. “Once the boobs start hurting, I’m out of here.”
“I’m out of here right alongside you,” I say before taking a long gulp, letting the strong drink burn its way down my throat.
“You guys suck.” Shelby scrunches her nose in disappointment.
Cass shakes her head with a small laugh. “I give it an hour before you’ve ditched us for a guy, anyway.”
“Fair point. Have you seen Wyatt lately? Damn. He moved back from college a whole-ass man .”
“He’s like twenty-two. Basically a baby.” Cass flashes me a look that says can you believe this girl? And I smack my palm against my forehead because, yes, I absolutely can believe Shelby is into a guy a full decade younger than her.
“Whatever. Man enough.” Shelby takes a long swig as the rodeo announcer begins his introductions.
Considering the size of Wells Canyon, the rodeo crowds never cease to amaze me. Hosted semiregularly from April through October, you’d think people would get bored. But, with nothing else to do in town, everyone within an hour radius comes here.
I down the rest of my drink the moment women’s barrel racing starts. Eyes fixated on the riders, nitpicking their movements with Lucy’s voice filling my brain. I want so badly to look away before any tears fall, but I can’t, and I fucking hate it. Thankful for my large, dark sunglasses, I reach up and pretend to itch the side of my nose, dabbing at the dampness with the pad of my finger.
I knew from the moment I submitted my application for nursing school in Vancouver that I’d be giving up horseback riding. And I told myself it would be fine, because I’d visit the ranch on holidays and during summer break. School was temporary. When I was done, Denver and I would buy a house with enough property for our horses. Maybe we’d even live on Wells Ranch—build a house and have a family of our own.
I’m still staring at the closed alley gate following the last run of the evening when Shelby’s fingers rap against my thigh, stinging my skin even through the Wranglers.
“Told you he’s man enough.” She points toward the chutes where a kid is climbing on the back of a horse. It’s hard to tell what she sees in him from this distance, but I give her an approving nod.
Cassidy starts talking about how much hotter her baby daddy is—comical considering mere months ago she was denying having any interest in him. With my gaze darting from cowboy hat to cowboy hat, the thought train running through my brain derails entirely.
Denver’s sitting on the fence rail, laughing with the cowboy getting ready to ride. His hat’s low over his forehead, and he pats the guy firmly on the back before turning to talk to Red.
I stare for so long, I start to worry he can feel my eyes boring into him, though he never looks in our direction. The gate opens, and Denver disappears. Ride after ride, I scan each chute with the eye of a sniper, keen for another glimpse. Refusing to spend any time dwelling on why I want to see him so desperately.
Just like last night, when I sat in my darkened living room—away from the window, so he couldn’t see me—and watched him sit in his truck for far too long before driving away. For a moment, I thought he might get out and come back to the house. For a moment, I thought I might run out to the truck and ask him to stay.
Denver finally pops up at chute number four, adjusting his hat as he climbs inside. His gaze cuts to where we’re sitting, as if he’s known exactly where we were all along. Staring into my soul, he presses his hand to his lips, then swings like he’s lobbing a softball toward the grandstands. The discreet motion hits me like a gut punch, and I swipe my clammy palms against my thighs.
I shouldn’t have come here.
I moved back to town with the intention of staying well away from Denver Wells. When we broke up as kids, the only thing that kept me from hauling ass back to Wells Canyon, and throwing myself down on my knees in front of him, was the physical inability to leave my dorm. Then I got antidepressants, my emotions became callused, and I knew I couldn’t love him the way he wanted anymore.
Now he’s blowing me a kiss from the bucking chute before his ride, as if we’re back to being sixteen and in love.
I won’t survive losing my person again.
The gate opens, and Denver’s on the back of a reckless, bucking horse doing everything in its power to toss him into the thick blanket of dirt below. Without taking my eyes off him, I set my empty cup down and rest my hand on my shaky knee. He’s well seated, his movement fluid, and the seconds are ticking by. I move my tongue around inside my excruciatingly dry mouth, counting each second in my head. In backseat-driver fashion, my feet flex instinctively each time his legs kick up toward the horse’s shoulders. Time’s dragging, and I’m not breathing. Not even sure if my heart is beating.
When the buzzer loudly sounds, he’s quick to release his grip, lunging to grab on to the pickup man next to him. And when his boots safely hit the ground, the pent-up breath I’d held for the full eight seconds comes out in the form of a whooping cheer.
—
Fresh drinks in hand, the three of us girls plop down at an empty table. With the rodeo about to end, a wave of people will be flooding into this space any moment, grabbing drinks from the bar and milling about until the sun sets and the local country band starts to play. But for now, it’s quiet and the evening air around our shaded table is refreshing.
Cass checks her phone for approximately the three hundredth time since we dropped Hazel off with Dave, and a smile lights her face. “Wait, have you ever seen something cuter?”
She holds the phone toward us, and I lean closer to Shelby to see the screen. She’s right—I don’t think I’ve seen anything cuter than my niece, swaddled up in a buffalo plaid blanket, sleeping peacefully.
“What are we looking at?” A man’s voice breaks our focus on the screen, and I blink up to see Red slowly rubbing Cassidy’s shoulders.
“The most perfect baby in the world, that’s all.” Cass shows him the photo just as Denver approaches, setting an armload of red plastic cups down in the center of the table.
“Tequila shots for the ladies,” he says with a grin, pushing one of the cups toward me.
Cassidy shakes her head. “None for me.”
“Thanks, Denny.” Shelby picks up a cup and swallows it before standing. “I have a cowboy I need to track down now. Bye, girlies!”
“Well, Hart.” Denver sits down, the bench flexing under his weight, and places his cowboy hat upside down on the table. Running a hand through his hair, his knee knocks into mine, fanning the sparks ignited under my skin. “Looks like you and I are getting drunk tonight.”
“No way. One shot. That’s it.” With a shiver, the fiery liquid burns through me, and I reach frantically for my rum and Coke to chase the foul taste.
“I don’t think two would hurt.”
“’s alcohol tolerance isn’t any better now than it was in high school. Two shots will knock her on her ass.” Cass laughs, cozying up to Red.
“Good thing I have a lot of practice carrying her drunk ass home,” Denver says, cracking a beer can open. “Didn’t even drop her the time she puked down my back when I tossed her over my shoulder.”
I bury my face in my hands, a hot flush building in my cheeks. “Okay, let’s not relive those times. I’m an adult now. I can handle my liquor.”
The mostly empty plastic cup clunks against the wooden tabletop with a hollow sound. “Prove it, Hart.”
A hypocrite at heart, I don’t care that a mature, rational adult would turn down the challenge. And Denver’s taking full advantage of my competitive nature, egging me on with a waggling eyebrow and a nudge of the cup. The tequila’s gone in seconds and I hold my lips firmly together, not letting any disgusted reaction show on my face.
“Can take the girl out of the country, but can’t take the country out of the girl, eh?” He smirks, and my entire body warms at the way his eyes rake over my body. “Country looks better on you, anyway.”
For an indeterminate amount of time, I nurse my mixed drink and pretend my skull isn’t filled with TV static. Letting them know that the Earth is rotating at an alarmingly fast pace isn’t going to help my “I can handle my liquor” argument. So I rest my chin in my hand, pretending to be engaged in the boys’ conversation about the ranch, and fight to keep my mind from wandering to the way Denver’s leg is constantly bumping into mine, even though every graze makes my heart flutter.
In my periphery, he swallows his beer, the short stubble along his jaw catching my eye in the golden light of dusk. So much of him is the same—strong shoulders, slender body, dusty brown hair. But there’s a few permanent creases on his rugged face. New scars on his deeply tanned, veiny forearms. Maybe even a gray hair or two, though it’s hard to tell in this lighting. Stupid men and their ability to age like fine wine in spite of their crappy diets, too much sun, and lack of a skin care regime.
Cass turns to Red, crinkling her nose in the way she always does before she asks a question she’s anxious about. She leans in closer, whispering something. He whispers back. At least…I think they’re whispering. I certainly can’t make out what they’re talking about over the drum solo on stage behind us.
Denver’s hand falls to my thigh, and I practically jump out of my skin—instantly sobered. When my startled stare meets his molasses-brown eyes, he silently mouths, “You good?”
I give a curt nod, turning back to where Cassidy and Red are simultaneously sliding off the picnic bench.
“We’re heading out—you coming?” Cass asks me.
I should go home and sleep off both the alcohol and the weird feelings rattling around in my head. Continue avoiding Denver as much as possible. I came back to Wells Canyon to take care of my dying mother and help my best friend with her baby, not to get wrapped up in local cowboys. Especially not the one creating pulsating heat between my legs just from touching his knee to mine.
“Nah, I’m gonna stay awhile longer. I think I want to dance.” My traitorous mouth speaks without warning. Cass looks me up and down—without a doubt, she’s going to give me hell for this later.
“Okay, don’t get into too much trouble.”
“Yes, Mom.” I bat my eyes at her.
God, I really am drunk.
“Love you guys,” Denver adds as Cass gives me one final side-eye before turning to leave, Red’s arm wrapped snugly around her waist.
Denver hardly gives our friends time to get out of earshot before he turns to me. “You’re hammered, aren’t ya?”
I purse my lips at him, glaring, not appreciating being called out like this. “Am not.”
With a cocky eyebrow raise, he snickers. “Still awful at hiding it, I see. I kept hitting your knee to check if you were okay. I know you tend to hurl after too many drinks.”
Good to know I wasn’t imagining the knee knocks. But my stomach drops unexpectedly at the realization that he was only doing it to slyly get my attention to check whether I’m about to vomit or not. Not because he wanted to touch me.
Fuck, . Get it together.
“I’m actually super sober,” I say. “I could go for poutine, though.”
“I can’t wait for you to ruin poutine for me when you throw that up everywhere later.” He looks at me with a smile, dimples so prominent I would happily do another shot of tequila right out of them. “Maybe we dance first, eat poutine after. Slightly decreases the chance of spewage.”
“Zero chance, because a couple shots of tequila is nothin’.”
He snorts in disbelief. For good reason, arguably.
I’m pleasantly surprised to find that I’m capable of standing—albeit with a slight sway. Nothing some fries smothered in cheese and gravy won’t fix. Denver’s immediately beside me, fingers tightening around my elbow while we navigate through the crowd.
“If you must know, I actually can’t remember the last time I threw up.” Or drank tequila…but that’s beside the point.
“Too grown up to drink to excess now? I guess in the city you probably sip on twelve-dollar cocktails and talk about the stock market instead.”
“The cocktails taste better and get you drunk faster than the water you call beer.”
“Damn, shots fired.” He pretends to be taken aback for half a second, then holds out his hand to pull me onto the dance floor.
His fingers graze mine, stealing my breath. And when he pulls me into him, I almost throw up from the whiplash of memories—dancing together in his childhood bedroom, making love on a picnic blanket, holding him tight after losing his mom. He’s broader in the shoulders than he once was, but familiar enough to make my heart ache.
Falling into sync like no time has passed, we traverse the dance space, two-stepping and twirling. We take it easy for the first song, sticking to the most basic moves, keeping space between our bodies. But by the third round, our hips fit together like puzzle pieces, and there’s a fire when he looks into my eyes. His hand spreads across my lower back, letting me lean back so the ends of my hair kiss the concrete, before yanking me in tight. Close enough his cologne floods my senses, and his breath blows hot on my cheek.
With a flick, he has me unraveling across the dance floor until our arms are outstretched, and a laugh bubbles up from my chest at the boyish grin on his face. Connected only by our fingers, I’m dying to be back in his embrace. Skin stinging at the loss of his touch.
When I come back in, our mouths nearly collide out of habit. It feels right to kiss somebody when you’re lost in each other on the dance floor, and the thought of kissing him in particular feels like kismet. But I roll my lips together and push on, refusing to let the way he cradles my body against his be enough to break down my resolve.
Denver dips me again. This time, while I’m entranced by the blurry street lamps outside the rodeo grounds, he grabs me by the belt buckle to whip my body upright. I’m so fucking close to him my breasts collide with his chest during every gasping breath. He keeps his hold on my buckle for longer than necessary, eyes locked on mine. Tucked under the waistband of my jeans, his fingertips are softly grazing my bare lower stomach. Inches from where I’m suddenly wet and throbbing with need. My hips roll instinctively toward his touch, forcing it a tiny bit lower, and I nearly forget all the reasons why I shouldn’t kiss him right now.
Heartache on the dance floor is damn right.
My name leaves his lips and I stare at the smooth, pink skin, wondering for a split second if he’s about to kiss me.
Breathlessly, I mutter, “We should go get our poutine before the food trucks close.”
“Right… right. We should.”
He lets go of my body, and it takes every ounce of my quickly fading self-control not to tangle my hands in his hair and kiss him with years’ worth of pent-up longing. But instead I settle for letting him take my hand to lead me out of the crowd, toward the scent of French fries.
“It’s been way too long since I danced like that,” I say, catching my breath and dropping his hand, hit by a blast of cool night air outside the swath of people.
“No country bars in the big city?”
“Can’t say I actually looked into whether there are or not.” I shrug, as if the thought never crossed my mind. To tell the truth, I didn’t go looking for country bars because the idea of country swing dancing or two-stepping with anyone else sounded like a surefire route to lying in bed in a depression coma for two days straight.
Stepping up to the food truck’s window, Denver orders a large poutine. I try three times to pay for it, but he shuts me out—blocking me from getting to the window, gently pushing my hand away when I thrust a wad of cash at the food truck employee, and shushing me when I start to insist.
I give up with a dramatic sigh, and the moment Denver has our heaping order in his hands, I’m grabbing a too-hot fry and nibbling it carefully. “You know, I have money. If anything, it would just be paying you back for all the times you bought me food when we were kids.”
“Then technically you owe my mom. She was the one slipping me a secret allowance for you every week.”
“ Great. ” I lick a dollop of gravy off my fingertip and scrunch my nose. “Now I feel bad about the disgusting amount of sour key candies I consumed growing up—knowing Lucy was paying for it.”
“I see how it is,” he says with a smile that reaches his eyes, picking up a fry and tapping it against mine. “You were fine with bleeding my wallet dry all summer, but feel bad when you find out my mom was bankrolling your candy addiction?”
“Absolutely.”
“Are you shitting me?” Denver buries his face in his hands.
Suddenly regretting my snarky response, I tilt my head to try and get a glimpse of his face. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“No, sorry, not you,” he interrupts. “You’re all good. Real quick—can you do me a favor?”
I raise an eyebrow, bringing a French fry to my lips. “Let’s hear it.”
“Well, there’s this girl…fucking obsessed with me.”
I cut him off, holding a finger up between us, stopping him from digging a deeper hole. “Immediately no. I’ve heard enough.”
“.”
“Denver.”
“The girl you saw me with at the rodeo—”
“And the bar.”
“So you did notice Peyton refusing to leave me alone at the bar.”
I chew on a cheese curd, pretending to be unfazed by the thought of him with another woman. “You seemed pretty content.”
He definitely wasn’t shoving her away. Not that he had to. He doesn’t owe me anything after all these years, especially when my actions broke us up in the first place. It’s a good thing he moved on, even if it kills me. Actually, the nagging pain of rejection I’m currently feeling deep in my chest is tolerable. Much better than what might happen if I let myself get attached and end up hurt again.
“I had an injury and was trapped, but I didn’t want her there. I wasn’t lying to you when I said I broke things off in the ambulance. Besides, we were never serious, and I made that very clear from the start. But she’s having some trouble understanding that, and now she’s a bit of a stage-five clinger.”
“Sounds like you need to communicate better.”
Shaking his head as he swallows a mouthful of beer, Denver sets his drink down and digs into the front pocket of his jeans. Then he holds his phone out to me, wiggling it slightly to encourage me to grab it. “I don’t know how much more clear I can be.”
His fingertips brush over my hand when I reach for the phone, and I’m totally unaffected by it. “I feel like this is a bad idea. I don’t want to accidentally see or read anything that’ll traumatize me forever.”
Or that will make me completely unravel at the seams.
He laughs. “You won’t.”
“Nothing I won’t be able to unsee? You’re sure?” I look tentatively at the phone in my hand.
“Nothing you haven’t seen before.”
Thinking about him sending pictures of himself to somebody…My sinuses burn and an uneven breath rattles in my lungs.
“Denver. If this is an elaborate prank to get me to see a dick pic…” I thrust the phone in his direction, needing the pictures, and God knows what else, as far away from me as possible.
“It’s a joke. I’m trying to get her to leave me alone, not have her begging for more. No pictures, I swear.”
Sighing, I glance up at him through my lashes. “What’s the password?”
“Zero, nine, sixteen.”
My birthday. His lock code is my birthday.
There’s simply no way that’s a coincidence. Not with Denver, who used to sneak into my bedroom and decorate my room for my birthday every year. Even if he hated me—even if he moved on—he wouldn’t have forgotten that date.
Clearing my throat, I quickly look away from him and tap the four digits.
Hit with a barrage of incoming texts from Peyton the moment I unlock the phone, my eyes widen. Invites to go on a date, asking what he’s up to incessantly, and getting increasingly persistent because he hasn’t answered her.
Looking up from the phone, I grimace in his direction. “Well, she’s certainly… passionate .”
“Hear me out. Can you just…pretend like you’re here with me?” His eyes cut to where the girl is presumably standing, then back to me. “Nothing weird. You can be quiet if she comes over here but let me pretend we’re together together.”
A pawn. That’s what I am now.
“Why should I help you get yourself out of this hole you dug? You toy with people’s feelings and you’re bound to end up in messy situations like this.”
Before he can answer, a cutesy voice breaks through the noisy rodeo after-party. “Denny! I was looking for you after your ride.” Her eyes narrow upon seeing me, and I slowly pull my hand away from the paper plate loaded with poutine. I imagine this is what it feels like to be a prey animal. “Oh, you’re the new waitress from the Horseshoe.”
“Actually,” Denver pipes up immediately, “she’s a nurse practitioner.”
I nod. “. I’m helping Dave out at the bar from time to time.”
“Peyton.” She thrusts her hand toward me, and I look her up and down as I reach out to shake it. She seems nice enough. And I can’t blame her for having a crush on Denver—Lord knows I haven’t been able to shake mine since I first noticed how cute he was at thirteen. “How do you know my Denny?”
My Denny plays on repeat until the words don’t sound real anymore and, genuinely, I think I might throw up. Not to be dramatic. Cheese curds, gravy, and tequila are coagulating in my stomach, churning and threatening to ruin this lovely conversation.
Would it be uncalled for to turn a little to the right so I puke all over her cute outfit?
I swallow, looking from Denver to Peyton and back again. “Oh, uh. We were childhood friends.”
“We were a lot more than friends.” Denver smiles, grabbing my hand on top of the table. To my surprise, I don’t pull back. In fact, I let the warmth of his hand fill me with hopeful elation. Or maybe it’s the hot gravy raising my internal body temperature. “Now she’s moved back home, and we’re picking things back up where we left off.”
Is that what’s happening?
No. No, he’s only saying that to scare this poor girl off.
His callused fingertip languidly draws hearts on my palm, and all the arguments about why I won’t pretend to be with him melt away. Sign me the fuck up for future heartbreak, if it means having a few minutes of pretending to be his.
God, I’m pathetic.
“Absolutely.” I squeeze gently around his fingers and smile over at him. “Making up for lost time.”