Chapter Thirty-One
I wake up, wrapped in a warm, thick navy comforter and someone else’s scent.
For half a second, I don’t know where I am. The ceiling above me is honey-colored wood instead of white, crossed with thick beams. The pillow smells like soap and spice and man. My cheek is pressed into a mattress that feels way too expensive and way too big to be mine.
Then I realize what’s wrong.
This is Waylon’s bed.
My eyes fly open, and panic punches me square in the stomach.
No. No, no, no.
I twist in the bed, sheets tangling around my legs. The space where he was is empty and cold now. My heart starts hammering.
What time is it? Where is my dress? My phone? Did he already leave?
I bolt upright, and the room swims for a second.
Okay, Shelby. Breathe.
I take in my surroundings. I’m in a king-size bed with a thick log frame and matching headboard, rustic and heavy, like it was carved straight from a tree trunk outside. A rumpled navy comforter is lying over my waist.
Two dark wood nightstands flank the bed.
A matching chest of drawers sits against the far wall.
There’s a leather chair tucked in the corner near the closet, a wool-lined denim jacket slung over one arm.
A massive picture window takes up almost an entire wall, looking out into a forest of tall pine trees.
Sunlight is slipping between them.
It’s morning.
My stomach flips.
I spot the alarm clock on the nightstand across the bed from me and lean over the mattress to read it—9:02.
Nine.
Oh my God, nine.
I suck in a breath so sharp that it almost hurts. I’ve surely been missed at home by now.
Oh no. I left the festival last night without even telling anyone I was going.
I drop my head into my hands.
What was I thinking?
You weren’t thinking. Not with your head anyway.
I throw the covers off and swing my legs over the side of the bed just as the bathroom door opens.
Waylon steps out.
He’s freshly showered, his hair still damp and curling slightly at the ends, beads of water clinging to his chest. My eyes skate down his torso to where the towel hangs around his waist.
Damn.
“Morning,” he says, voice warm and low. He pulls the towel loose and scrubs it over his head and face.
Oh my. I sit here in complete silence as he casually dresses. Boxer briefs. Jeans. Gray thermal. Black socks. He looks … relaxed. Like this is just an ordinary morning for him.
Before I can react, he leans down and presses a soft kiss to my mouth.
I freeze.
Not because I don’t want to kiss him, but because the second his lips touch mine, everything comes rushing back.
His hands.
His mouth.
The way he said my name and called me beautiful.
Heat flares across my skin. My stomach flips again, this time for a very different reason. I stay perfectly still, eyes wide, heart pounding, as he pulls back with a small smile, like he doesn’t realize I’m having a full-blown panic attack.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I croak, which is a complete lie.
He glances at the clock. “I’ve gotta get to the ranch. Didn’t mean to sleep in so long.” He nods toward the window. “I forgot to set the alarm last night, and the sun was already coming up when I finally woke.”
My brain is still struggling to catch up. “It’s … it’s nine.”
“Yeah. You were out cold.” He smiles a little, like he finds that cute. “I didn’t want to wake you.”
I do not find it cute.
“I should be home,” I blurt. “Like, hours ago.”
He nods, completely calm. “I can take you. We’ll swing by your place on the way.”
The mental image of Waylon pulling up in front of the Storm ranch house, my sisters and cousins gawking from every window, my grandmother absolutely watching, but pretending not to—it plays in slow motion, like a black-and-white horror film.
I shake my head so fast that I get dizzy. “No. No, that’s okay. I’ll—I’ll get someone to pick me up.”
His eyebrows lift, but he doesn’t push. “You sure?”
“Yes. Very sure.”
“Okay.” He grabs his phone and keys off the chest of drawers. “Coffee is in the pot on the counter. Mugs in the cabinet above it. I’ll call you later.”
“Yeah,” I say, still barely breathing.
He gives me a quick wink, then heads out the door like this is the most normal thing in the world.
The door clicks shut behind him.
I sit there for a second, staring at the wood grain on the doorframe, trying to get my heart to slow down. My skin still feels warm where he touched me. The room still smells like his soap.
Okay. Get it together, Shelby.
I slide out of bed and pad down the hall to the living room. My dress, hat, and boots are laid out neatly on the small table beside the front door. My phone is right there too.
He must have fetched them for me.
I pick it up.
The screen lights up with what looks like a hundred notifications.
Missed calls.
Texts.
Voicemails.
From Charli.
From Harleigh.
From Matty.
From Cabe.
From Grandma.
Oh shit.
I don’t even open them. I can’t. I know exactly what they say.
Where are you?
Are you okay?
Did something happen?
You’d better be alive.
I tap straight into Cabe’s contact and hit Call.
He picks up on the second ring.
“Shelby,” he says, relief flooding his voice. “Where the hell have you been?”
“I’m fine,” I say quickly. “I just—can you come get me?”
A pause.
“Where are you?”
I close my eyes. “At Waylon’s.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
“Oh,” he says slowly. “Well, that explains a lot.”
“Please don’t tell anyone,” I beg.
“I’m not making any promises,” he says, but I hear the smile in his voice. “Where am I headed?”
I give him directions and click off the line, leaning back against the door, phone pressed to my chest.
I take a deep breath, then dress swiftly, my brain already spiraling ahead to the fallout.
Last night was—what was last night?
I have no idea, but I’d better figure it out quickly because as soon as I walk into Wildhaven Storm, the questions are coming for me.
I slide off the rocker sitting next to the door on Waylon’s porch as soon as I hear the crunch of Cabe’s tires coming down the gravel road. My dress is wrinkled, my hair is a knotty mess, and I reek of sex and mortification as I do the walk of shame to the end of the drive.
I don’t even get the luxury of pretending I was drunk and stupid.
I was stone-cold sober.
Cabe’s truck slows and stops at the curb, and I climb in. He’s leaning against the steering wheel, arms folded, mouth tipped into a grin that says he has no intention of being mature about this.
“Oh, shut up,” I tell him as I slam the door a little harder than necessary even though he hasn’t said a single word.
That just makes him laugh out loud, a full, warm, obnoxious laugh that causes me to growl under my breath.
“Morning to you too, Shell,” he says, still grinning as he throws the truck in gear.
“So,” he says, dragging the word out, “rough night?”
I glare at him. “If you say one more word, I will open this door and roll into the street.”
“I didn’t say anything,” he protests innocently.
The drive from Waylon’s cabin to Wildhaven Storm is short, but it feels like it takes forever.
I stare out the window at the familiar sweep of pastures, the early morning light turning the fields gold, trying not to think about the way Waylon’s hands felt on my body last night or the way he kissed me like it was so natural this morning.
I fail spectacularly.
Cabe keeps glancing over at me like he’s waiting for me to snap.
Finally, I do. “What?”
“Nothing,” he says way too cheerfully. “Just nice to see you … having some fun.”
“I hate you.”
“Love you too.”
When we pull up in front of the house, I don’t get out right away. The big old farmhouse looms in front of me, full of sisters who will absolutely rip me to shreds.
Cabe kills the engine and looks over. “You goin’ in?”
I make a face. “I’m bracing myself for the third degree.”
He frowns. “From who?”
“Matty, Charli, and Harleigh. Obviously.” I tug at the hem of my dress, which is doing me no favors. “They’re going to take one look at me and know.”
Cabe snorts. “They already left.”
I blink. “What?”
“Yeah. They said something about brunch. French toast. Mimosas.” He shrugs. “Sounded real important.”
“Oh crap,” I groan. “Our brunch plans.”
I completely forgot. Of course I did. Because, apparently, my brain completely shut down somewhere between the fairgrounds and Waylon’s bedroom.
Relief and panic crash into each other in my mind.
On one hand, thank God. At least I’ll have a chance to shower and change before I face them.
On the other, that means I have no buffer.
Just me and Grandma, if she’s home, and I am not emotionally prepared for Evelyn Storm to look at me with those sharp, knowing eyes right now.
I shove the door open. “I’m going. If Grandma asks, I’m dead.”
“She’s at church,” Cabe calls after me.
I freeze halfway out of the truck. “She is?”
“Yep. Grandpa and Uncle Albert too.”
Thank God.
“Thanks for the ride, Cabe. I really appreciate you coming to get me,” I say, then bolt for the front door.
I don’t even look back. I just hear Cabe’s laughter follow me all the way inside.
The house is quiet, blessedly so. Sunlight slants across the entryway, everything peaceful and normal. I instantly settle.
This isn’t so bad. I’m an adult. Adults are allowed to spend the night anywhere they please. I don’t owe any explanations.
Except I do.
I didn’t call to let anyone know I wasn’t coming home. And that means they worried.
I tiptoe up the stairs, even though there is absolutely no one to hear me, then head straight for the bathroom. I peel off my dress, wincing at my lack of underwear, which I couldn’t find this morning, and drop it in a heap on the floor. My reflection in the mirror makes me groan.
Mascara smudged. Hair tangled. Lips just a little swollen.
I turn on the shower and step under the spray, letting the hot water pound against my skin. I scrub harder than necessary, my mind replaying the night in vivid, unwanted flashes.
The way he said my name. The way he looked at me like I was something precious.
I lean my forehead against the cool tiles, water streaming down my face. Of all the men in the world, why did it have to be him? Why not Dixon? Or literally any other man in Wildhaven?
By the time I finish in the shower, my skin is pink, and my nerves have calmed.
I hurry and dry off, grab clean clothes, and get dressed like I’m racing a clock. Jeans. A soft sweater. Boots. I braid my hair quickly and throw on my boots.
When I head back downstairs, I almost make it to the kitchen before a familiar voice stops me cold.
“Well,” Grandma says, standing by the kitchen door with a cup of coffee, “good to see you’re alive.”
I freeze.
Of course she is home. Of course she is.
“Morning,” I say weakly.
Her sharp eyes flick over me. My hair. My clothes. My face.
“You look … fresh as a daisy.”
“Shower,” I say too quickly. “Hot water.”
“Mmhmm.” She takes a sip of her coffee.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call, Grandma.”
She shrugs. “That’s okay. I sat with Imma Jean at church this morning, and she said she thought she saw you leaving the festival.”
“She did?”
Her eyebrow arches just a fraction. “She did.”
I nearly swallow my tongue.
“I—what?”
I open my mouth, then close it. There is no point. Evelyn Storm did not get to be Evelyn Storm by missing anything.
“It was nothing.”
“Well,” she says gently, “I hope that’s not true. And I was just relieved to know you were safe and sound.”
I stare at the floor, my cheeks burning. “I was.”
She smiles, small and knowing. “Good.”
That’s it. No lecture. No disapproval. Just that.
It almost makes me cry.
I grab a to-go mug from the cabinet and pour myself coffee with shaking hands. “I’m going to meet the girls at Ryse & Shine. You wanna come?”
“No, you go ahead. I’m gonna make your grandfather and Albert some lunch.”
I kiss her cheek, trying to act like my entire world hasn’t tilted on its axis.
Because what happened last night wasn’t nothing.
And deep down, I know it.