Chapter 7
PARKER
Was it embarrassing that I still had his number saved? Probably. Yet, when I’d nodded, he didn’t seem surprised—and I had to believe it was because he still had mine, too.
Maybe I shouldn’t have said yes to staying at his house.
I should’ve grabbed my luggage and driven to some other town.
Finding a place to rent would be difficult with my low budget, but it wasn’t impossible.
It was probably easier than facing these feelings slamming into us like a freight train with no control of its brakes.
Nearly ten years clearly wasn’t enough for us to move on—did either of us even want that?
The only reason we’d parted ways was because our goals were leading us on different paths.
Perhaps fate meant for us to find each other again, if only to see whether now that we’d gotten our fix out of the way—we might discover we never truly wanted this to end.
Whatever this was. I didn’t even know if he had a girlfriend, and I… I was a complicated case. Pregnant. Single. No place to call home. No job.
The list could go on and on.
Once I found out I was pregnant, I decided making money off social media wasn’t enough.
Sure, it paid whatever bills I had at the time, but it wasn’t always stable.
I could make thousands of dollars one month, and the next only a few hundred.
It fluctuated too much, and I didn’t want to put a child through that instability.
I’d stopped posting two months into my pregnancy.
I could’ve kept it going as a side gig, but I had no new videos or photos of me riding my horse and exploring new ranches, and once the content I had prepped ran out, people were bound to get mad I wasn’t making more.
That was the hard part about putting your life online—once you started withholding things for privacy or other reasons, people felt entitled to know why. It almost made them hungry for more.
But I didn’t want my baby online, and I didn’t want all those strangers knowing I was pregnant, either.
Being a social media influencer, people gave their opinions on everything, from the clothes I wore to the length I cut my hair.
It got to the point where I couldn’t even have a sunburn without everyone hounding me with information on what I should do and what I was doing wrong.
I could only imagine how they’d react if they found out I was pregnant, and that I wasn’t with the father.
They’d stalk me until they found him while simultaneously giving me advice on everything.
I’d had my privacy stripped from me for far too long, and the last thing I wanted was to put a newborn through that.
All of those haunting thoughts flitted through my head as I stared up at the rusty metal sign for North State Auto.
The thought of working here hadn’t crossed my mind until Beckham mentioned the place, but Wyatt had always been nice to me growing up, so I figured it was worth a shot.
He’d watched my back, same as the Bronson brothers, and for a while, he was part of the family, too.
I could only hope he still held that sentiment. I walked through the door, the bell dinging with my entrance, and hoped he wouldn’t mind offering me a job. Even if it meant filing paperwork all day, I’d take it.
The door swung shut behind me as I took in the small space. I scanned the four gray chairs leading to the oak desk, and the man sitting behind it. Two computer monitors took up a majority of the tabletop, and a very thirsty plant was nearly falling off the chipped corner.
Wyatt spun around in his chair with a corded phone pressed to his ear. He held up a single finger to gesture for me to wait, then he froze, eyes bulging as he realized who was standing in the lobby of his shop.
“I gotta go,” Wyatt said into the phone, not giving the person on the other end of the line the chance to object. He set the phone in the base and shook his head, disbelief coating his features.
“Parker Summerhill.”
I smiled. “Wyatt Walters.”
He stood, rounding the desk to pull me in for a tight hug. I returned it, forcing myself to ignore the emotion building in my throat. He smelled like oil and grease with a hint of citrus hidden somewhere under all that.
“Where have you been?” he asked as he let me go. He took a small step backward, studying me like he couldn’t believe I was standing here. I couldn’t, either.
I shrugged. “Around.”
“If that ain’t the vaguest answer.” He flashed his teeth with a grin before his gaze focused on my belly. “I didn’t know you and Beck were—”
“No.” I waved my hands awkwardly. “We aren’t—”
He quirked a brow. “Really?”
I shook my head, at a loss for words. He really thought I was pregnant with Beckham’s child?
It was as if, to this day, the thought of me being with someone else wasn’t an option for anyone.
For the longest time, it wasn’t. Until Daniel.
But even then, we’d barely been sleeping together for a month before I cut things off.
A couple weeks later, I found out I was pregnant.
“I’m looking for a job,” I blurted, needing to change the subject.
Explaining much of anything was futile right now.
If I knew anything about the Wyatt I grew up with, it was that he’d want details on where I’d been and who I’d been with.
If he assumed the baby was Beckham’s, he’d ask when I was in Bell Buckle for that to have happened.
And, well, right now, it almost felt easier for him to assume that than to ask where the baby daddy really was, and when he could slam his fist into his nose.
Beckham and Wyatt were similar in that they were both good at fighting out their problems.
I craned my neck, peering through the small window to the shop. “Is Beckham here?”
Wyatt shook his head, leaning his ass against the lip of the desk.
“He told me he couldn’t come by today. Said he had something to do.
Which is fine, really. He’s balancing a lot right now, so most days, he’s just been stopping by to help when he can.
That’s what he’s doin’ at the ranch, too.
He’s just kind of…” Wyatt’s gaze fell to his boots.
“Kind of what?” I pushed.
He grabbed a rag off the desk, fiddling with it. “Trying to figure shit out. He’s been weird the past couple of months.” He nodded at my belly. “Guess that might be why.”
My brows furrowed. Beckham didn’t know about my pregnancy until the other day, so that couldn’t be possible.
Whatever Beckham was going through likely had nothing to do with me, but I didn’t offer that information to Wyatt.
If Beckham wasn’t opening up to him about whatever it was, I wasn’t going to be the one to stir up drama.
“Right. So, about that job,” I went on.
That nervous look in his eyes fell away. “You can’t really lift heavy stuff, Parker.”
“I don’t know how to work on cars, so that’s not a problem. I thought maybe I could do the desk stuff?”
The corner of his mouth crooked up, playfulness lighting his face. “Desk stuff, huh?”
I nodded. “Paperwork, phone calls. I don’t know. I just need a job, Wy.”
He sighed, tossing the rag on the desk before rounding it and plopping back down in his worn swivel chair. “Sage just quit the bakery. Maybe they have a job opening for you there.”
I shook my head, approaching the desk. “I’d rather work for you.”
If I had to work with pastries and coffee, I would, but a bakery seemed like the exact opposite of the type of space I’d enjoy. The delicateness that came with pastries was not my forte. Surprisingly, I felt more comfortable in a mechanic shop.
Wyatt’s mouth pressed into a thin line before he sighed again. “I don’t have much work for you—”
“Is that a yes?” I sounded too eager, but I didn’t care. I was hopeful.
With a subtle shake of his head, he said, “Yes.”
I smiled bigger than I had in months and rushed around the desk to wrap his shoulders in a hug. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
He patted my back somewhat awkwardly, like he couldn’t understand how I was ecstatic over a desk job. “Yeah, yeah. You’re welcome. But no redecorating my office.”
I pulled away, a grin still plastered to my face as I scanned the room. “This colorful place?” I ran a finger under a leaf on the drooping plant. “I could never. It’s perfect.”
He frowned. “You can start Monday.”
“Monday’s perfect. I’ll bring my paints.”
His frown deepened. “If you start drawing flowers on the walls—”
I waved him off, heading for the door. “No flowers. Got it.”
“Or rainbows,” he added. “Nothing girly.”
I snorted. “Girly isn’t in my vocabulary, Wyatt.”
“You’re wearing a dress.”
I shrugged. “It’s cute.” I set a hand on the door, shoving it open with the ding of the bell before I glanced back at him over my shoulder. “See you Monday!”
He ran a hand down his face, mumbling something to himself.
The door swung shut behind me, and as I stopped at my truck to fish the keys out of my purse, I felt my phone buzzing.
Pulling it out along with the keys, I scanned my notifications.
Guilt hit me straight in the chest. I scrolled and scrolled for at least two minutes, scanning the countless comments on my last post—one that was posted months ago—of people asking numerous questions.
Where are you?
Are you okay?
Are you ever coming back?
Did you get in a horse accident?
What if someone kidnapped her?
What if she rode off a cliff?
Then came the hate.
She’s dumb enough that she probably would ride off a fucking cliff.
Thank God, I was tired of seeing her on my feed.
She’s not even pretty.
Her horse looks sick.
The influx of concern and disgust usually meant some other influencer or decent-sized account had posted about me, and naturally, people flocked to investigate.
I’d turned my notifications off for a while after deciding to quit posting, but when the questions finally slowed, I’d turned them back on because I kept missing when old friends from my travels would message me. Every now and then, this would happen.
I’d debated deleting the app, but some small part of me still felt attached to the Parker I was when I found joy in social media.
But with more popularity came more criticism, and I had to think about how all of that affected me and my baby.
The stress of it all, keeping up with comments and messages, was too much.
Unable to help myself, I’d scrolled nearly to the bottom when my eyes snagged on a particularly weird comment.
You’re so cute on such a big animal. Where do you ride those things?
I clicked the notification, curious if it belonged to some perverted man, or maybe a woman with a weird sense of complimenting people.
But rather than my latest post popping up, it was one from two years ago—me sitting on Tex in a pond.
I was wearing a light blue bikini top and denim shorts, my hair loose around my shoulders with my straw cowboy hat blocking out the sun.
I remembered that summer like it was yesterday, and how I’d stood in the center of that pond, remembering all the times Beckham had been with me in the one on his parents’ property.
It’d been a sick, painful rush of déjà vu.
But when my friend had turned the camera on me, I’d smiled.
Even in the photo, it was obvious that it didn’t really reach my eyes.
I didn’t think it had in years.
The nostalgia of the photo had me locking my phone and shoving it back in my purse.
Then I unlocked my truck and slid in behind the wheel.
I straightened my dark blue dress that flowed down to my ankles, right above my low black cowgirl boots.
I shimmied out of my sherpa-lined denim jacket and set it on the passenger seat.
Despite the chill in the air, I felt clammy.
Being back in Bell Buckle was a lot. Maybe too much.
But I knew one thing for certain.
Seeing people from my past lifted a weight off my shoulders. The community of Bell Buckle was always close-knit and willing to help one another, and the job opportunity at Wyatt’s was proof that the town still held that charm.
And for the first time since I found out the news, I felt like I had a strong chance of being the best mom I could be.