Chapter 5 Tally, Present Day
TALLY, PRESENT DAY
The smell of coffee stirs me from a bizarre dream. Something about my guitar strings turning into snakes and Rex growing horns as he resurrects the dead drifter from my trunk into a groaning zombie.
I fly up, a single word leaving my lips before my eyes are fully open. “Corpse!” I shriek.
Gravelly laughter rumbles in my ears. “That’s a bit harsh, Trouble. I thought I cleaned up real good.”
My stomach flips. I recognize that voice. It’s a little deeper and rougher than it was, but it’s him. And nobody else ever called me Trouble.
“Rust!” I squeak.
Panicked, I struggle to free myself from a blanket that has wrapped itself around my legs like a clingy kraken. It’s only now that I can properly take in the view of my ex-husband standing in the center of the room, holding two steaming mugs.
No. God no! Absolutely fucking not!
How can I gloat when he looks like… this?
He was supposed to be repulsive. I hoped for a deranged hillbilly, but I got a Calvin Klein model basking in the golden sunrise streaming through the window.
I wanted him to age like milk, but Rust is fine wine.
How dare he make a mustache look sexy! His chocolate brown eyes crinkle as he grins, slight wrinkles creasing his face. That backward trucker hat on a head of wavy dark hair should turn him into a walking joke, but somehow, he’s rocking it.
And while I’m on the topic of questionable fashion choices, nobody should look good in an open blue flannel with the sleeves torn off! He wears a white tank top underneath, tucked into washed out jeans. His cowboy boots are worn, but the leather is freshly conditioned.
This man is every country girl’s favorite nightmare. It’s a particular brand of lethal charm I should be immune to, but my body didn’t get the memo.
Breathe, Tally. Don’t stare at his broad shoulders and bulging biceps. Lord, ignore those sexy veins popping on his forearms.
As a teen, Rust was already so tall he had to duck to fit through most door frames, but he used to be on the lanky side. Now he looks like he spends a significant amount of time lifting very heavy things. Like semi-truck tires or whole tree trunks.
“Surprised to see me in my own house?” he drawls, tone rife with amusement.
His house.
“Shit, sorry! I must’ve fallen asleep when I was waiting for you,” I mutter.
Slowly, the memories of last night return to me.
Walking into the cozy living room was like traveling back in time. Everything was exactly how I remembered, down to the wallpaper with the pink flowers and the warm, slightly dusty scent of old books on a corner shelf.
Then the sofa serenaded me with the siren song of comfortably worn upholstery. Admittedly, I was weak. I turned on the old box TV because the house was too quiet and promised myself a tiny break to put my feet up.
Look where that got me.
“Did you put that blanket on me?” I ask.
“Thought about carryin’ you upstairs to let you have my bed, too, but I didn’t want to freak you out.”
“Well, thank you. And umm, sorry for letting myself in.”
Embarrassed, I fail to tame my frizzy curls with both hands. That’s what I get for falling asleep without my silk bonnet.
He lifts one shoulder. “That’s alright. I left the spare key with Honky-Tonk for a reason.”
My stomach lurches. That almost sounds like he kept it there for me, thinking I’d return one day. How fucking absurd!
Rust approaches, putting one cup on the coffee table and offering the other to me. It’s a nice gesture, but I can only notice the golden wedding band wrapped around his left ring finger.
Unexpected jealousy rips through me like a primal instinct.
“Is your wife okay with you serving coffee to another woman?” I hiss.
Fuck, I shouldn’t’ve said that! What’s gotten into me?
Rust laughs dryly. He crouches in front of me and reaches out. I’m a deer in the headlights, letting him uncurl my clenched fist.
Holy fucking shit his hands are huge.
My stupid heart takes a tumble as he presses the warm mug against my palm and his calloused fingers guide mine around it. With every shallow breath, I smell the coffee… and him.
Pine with a faint smokiness like a night of wild camping under the stars.
“I forgot how small your hands are…” he mumbles as if talking to himself, stroking the backs of my fingers. With a start, he releases my hand like it burned him. He clears his throat. “Well, you tell me if my wife minds cause I don’t see no other women here.”
Confused, I watch as he twists the ring off his finger and shows it to me. When I read the engraving on the inside, I almost spill my coffee on the rug.
The two words strike me like a physical blow.
Kentucky Skies.
“You’re wearing our wedding ring?” I blurt.
Rust shrugs sheepishly, a ruddy tint appearing on his cheeks.
“Are you mocking me? Do you think this is funny?” I spit.
“Funny? No. I said the vows and promised ‘til death do us part, Trouble. And from what I can tell, neither of us is rottin’ in the cold, damp soil just yet. As far as I’m concerned, that ring belongs on my hand until it’s nothing but bone.”
Exasperated, I scoff. I can’t fucking believe this! The sheer audacity to—
“Do I have to remind you that we’re divorced and you are the one who filed?” I get out through clenched teeth. “In fact, we’ve been divorced for longer than our record-length marriage of less than twenty-four fucking hours!”
He smirks and it annoys me how cute he looks. “Technically, I think that’s called an annulment.”
“Technically I think that’s called shut the fuck up, Rust.”
His grin widens. “Make me.”
I opt for silent glaring. Especially since the only way of shutting him up I can think of is sealing his lips with mine.
“You’re not worried about putting off potential girlfriends?” I ask instead.
He puffs out a breath, slipping the ring back on his finger as he stands up. “Naw. You were my only real relationship. At the start I tried to numb myself with anonymous hookups, but it’s been years. My hand does the job just fine.”
I stutter, nearly melting into the space between the crochet sofa cushions. Frustration coils tight in my belly.
None of this makes any fucking sense! He left me to live a life of self-imposed celibacy?! What is he, a monk?
Rust taps my mug. “Enough about my masturbation habits for now. Drink your coffee before it gets cold and then tell me why you’re here.” He lifts his cup from the table and takes a sip. “Last I heard, you wouldn’t be caught dead in Redbird Creek.”
I bite my tongue. He’s got a point. I didn’t come to drag the past from its shallow grave and I need to get on his good side. After all, I’m about to ask a damn big favor. A dead-body-sized favor.
I nod. “Coffee first, corpse second.”
His head jerks. “Whoa, hold your horses right quick. You were serious?”
I hide my awkwardness in big gulps of hot coffee. Delicious, perfectly brewed coffee. He still remembers how I liked it. An extra dark roast, black, no sugar.
Our eyes meet over the ceramic rim and though he’s silent, I read every emotion in his gaze. Worry. Hesitant joy. Confusion mirroring my own. And endless warmth.
My chest hurts.
Despite basically breaking in and crashing on his couch, he’s made me feel welcome. I expected scorched earth. Ground zero. But Rust being so sweet and gentle, just like he used to be before he broke my heart—it makes everything harder.
Harder to breathe. Harder to keep up my guard. Harder to stop myself from thinking about those strong arms holding me while he tells me everything is gonna be okay.
But I know one thing with certainty:
I was right to come home.