Chapter 12
12
Whit Bowman
S hooter stuffs a fry in his mouth, eyebrows raised, causing his forehead to crease. “Damn, I honestly cannot believe you agreed to that.”
“Yeah, me neither,” I mumble, staring down at the way my fingers are picking at the irritated skin around my thumbnail.
Shooter and I are at Lou’s Diner, a restaurant in town that we come to a lot. We try to meet up for lunch at least once a week when he’s home from the circuit. Shooter is a professional bronc rider, and about four or five months out of the year, he’s on the road traveling to different arenas to compete in, along with several of our other friends.
“Does Reggie know yet?”
I grab my glass of water off the table, bringing it up to my mouth. I take a drink as I avoid Shooter’s gaze. “No,” I reply plainly once I’m finished.
“You’re not telling him?”
“Uh, well…we broke up, actually.”
Shooter chokes out a laugh, his eyes going wide. “Shut the fuck up. When did that happen? Who broke up with who?”
“With whom,” I correct, earning me a dramatic eye roll. “And I broke up with him about a week ago.”
“Wait a minute.” Holding up a hand, he asks, “Before or after Conrad asked you to be his pretend husband?”
“Before.”
“Does Conrad know you aren’t with Reggie anymore?”
“No.”
“Are you going to tell him?”
“What is this, twenty questions?” I snap, suddenly regretting telling Shooter any of this, but I needed to tell somebody, and my therapist isn’t an option. That poor woman probably thinks I’m a lost cause after our last session. I can’t make it worse by admitting to her that I’m going to pretend to be my ex-husband’s husband for the sake of his nana. Trust me, I’m aware of how insane the entire thing is, yet I can’t not do it.
“You’re not going to tell him, are you?” He smirks, popping another fry in his mouth. “Why not?”
“Because I didn’t break up with Reggie because of Conrad.” There’s so much conviction in my tone, I almost believe myself.
Wagging his brows at me, Shooter asks, “You sure about that?”
I heave a sigh, sitting back in the booth. “You’re a child. I’m never telling you anything ever again.”
“Oh, yes, you are.” He chuckles. “I want to know everything that happens while you’re staying there.”
“Absolutely not.”
“What do you think sleeping beside him is going to be like? Think you guys will fuck?”
“No, Shooter!” I blow out a breath. “We are not having sex.”
“Oh, come on, Whit. Where’s the fun in that?”
“It’s not supposed to be fun.”
“Real talk, though,” he murmurs as his eyes narrow in on me. “Why aren’t you telling Conrad that you and Reggie broke up?”
Underneath the sarcasm and snark, Shooter is a truly caring friend. I know it’s impossible to see from the outside because he’s constantly joking around or being a dick, but he’s one of my closest friends for a reason. We’ve known each other for a really long time, and despite all of our vast differences, we have a few very important things in common that help me feel connected to him.
Like our dad’s, for example.
Our “daddy issues,” as Shooter calls them, are different, but they affect us similarly. Clay Graham is a retired world champion bronc rider, and he had big shoes to fill and high expectations of his son. The pressure to be the best was hard on Shooter. So hard, in fact, that he ended up taking almost an entire season off because he couldn’t handle it anymore. He went to therapy, which I was proud of him for, and he’s working on mending his relationship with his dad, but it really strained his bond with him, and probably always will.
And I can relate.
Like Shooter, I followed in my father’s footsteps career wise, but that’s not where my issues stem from. Whittaker Bowman Senior is old-fashioned in many ways, and when his sixteen-year-old son came out to him as gay, he had a hard time accepting that. Eventually, he came around to the idea, but it wasn’t until many years later, and the damage was already done. Our relationship has always been difficult because of that. The memory of my father—my hero at the time, the man who I looked up to the most in life—kicking me out at sixteen, is something that will be burned in my mind for the rest of my life, no matter how much I wish I could move past it.
I truly think it’s our trauma with our dads that brought Shooter and I as close as we are because, on paper, we’re nothing alike. On paper, we shouldn’t be friends. But regardless of his teasing and his obnoxious behavior half the time, I trust Shooter inexplicably, and I know at the end of the day, he’ll never judge me. Even if I can’t stop judging myself. Which is why I find myself letting my walls down a bit, to be honest with him.
“Because Reggie feels like a safety net, I think,” I murmur, knowing it makes no sense. “Being around Conrad makes me nervous. As much as I’m over him and what we went through, I can’t help but wonder what would happen behind closed doors if I didn’t have a safety net. If I don’t admit to him that Reggie and I broke up, then it’s like I can be assured nothing will happen.”
That logic is flawed in so many ways. Namely, the fact that when I really was still with Reggie, it didn’t matter. Conrad and I hooked up anyway. None of my reasoning makes sense, but I’m desperately clinging to it, regardless. My delusional logic is all I have, and it’s the only thing making what’s to come seem even minutely manageable.
All traces of humor are gone from Shooter, and while I appreciate it, I know that it must mean that he can see how badly I’m flailing. “Are you still in love with him?” he asks.
“No, of course not,” I reply too quickly. And I’m not. I’m not in love with Conrad. That ship has sailed. Whatever it is that I’m feeling has everything to do with my stress and nothing to do with my feelings for Conrad.
“You know, it would be okay if you were,” he nudges, tone almost gentle. “He was a huge part of your life for so many years.”
“I know that, but I’m not in love with Conrad. I’m doing this as a favor to him, and for his nana. That’s it.” Shoving my plate forward because I’ve lost my appetite, I ask, “Can we talk about something else now, please?”
Shooter holds up his hands innocently. “Okay, okay, but just know, jokes aside, I’m always here if you need to talk.”
My chest tightens at his sincerity. “I know. Thank you.”
It’s not long after that, Sterling shows up and joins us. After we finish at the diner, we head over to the theater on the other side of town. A new superhero movie is out, and we’ve been talking about seeing it for a while. Some overpriced popcorn, candy, and a dark theater with a couple of my friends turns out to be exactly what I needed.
By the time I get home, I feel lighter. After I change into a pair of pajamas, I make myself some lavender tea, taking it onto the back porch as I watch the sun set in the distance. It’s relaxing out here. I love it. Thinking back to when I still lived at the ranch, all the time I spent on the porch swing overlooking the yard. Early mornings when the rest of the world was still waking up. Late at night after work, when I needed to decompress.
That porch swing is still there, and if there’s one thing to look forward to about my upcoming stay, it’s that I’ll get to relax in that swing again. And the cooking. Conrad always has been an amazing cook. And his shower. It has the perfect water pressure, and I swear I haven’t taken as good of a shower as I did back then since I moved out. So, maybe instead of stressing about all the bad that could go wrong, maybe I’ll allow myself to soak in the good things that could come from it, because it won’t be all bad.
The swing, yes, but also seeing Conrad’s nana. I’ve always loved her, felt close with her from the very first time I met her, even if she can be a bit much at times. Being around her is incredible. She’s got a laugh that’s infectious and a way of making everybody feel the warmth of her love. She’s one of the best women I’ve ever met.
I’ve still got a few weeks until she gets to town, and I think if I focus on the good, I’ll be okay. Yes, this experience is bound to be awkward and uncomfortable, but it doesn’t have to be horrible if I don’t let it. I can do this.
And besides, it’s only temporary.
I’m going to be sick.
Taking a right onto the long, windy, gravel road that leads to Grazing Acres Ranch, I swallow against the lump in my throat, knowing that the time has come. This morning, I move—temporarily—back into the home that houses so many of my memories, both good and bad. I will be sleeping in the very bed I used to share with my husband once upon a time. Eating at the dinner table across from him like we’ve done hundreds of days in the past.
It’s taking everything in my power to not turn my car around and say fuck it to the whole idea. But I gave Conrad my word, and I can’t go back on that. It’s not who I am.
I can do this.
It’s only for a few weeks.
And it’s not like we’ll be all alone. His nana will be here. Well, she won’t be here for another couple of days, but after that, she’ll be here. She’ll be our buffer. Nothing is going to happen. It’s going to be fine.
Totally fine.
Why do those feel like famous last words?
It’s late Saturday morning, so I’m not at all surprised to see Conrad stroll out of the barn, baseball cap pulled down over his broody, dark eyes, red plaid shirt rolled up his forearms, as I park out front. He spots me, tipping his chin at me as he walks over.
“Hey,” he grunts, grabbing my suitcase from the back.
“You don’t have to do that,” I murmur. “I can take my own stuff.”
He ignores me as he takes another bag in his other hand.
“Good talk,” I mumble, shutting the door to my truck before following him inside. Upon entering, I’m hit with the scent of him. It makes me dizzy, and it doesn’t help the churning in my gut. The last time I was here, I stayed on the porch where it’s safe. Meaning, the last time I was inside this house was the night I let things go way too far.
The night I’ve tried my damndest to push out of my mind. An effort that has been futile.
Conrad’s long legs and heavy feet carry him across the hardwood floor, down the hall toward the guestroom I’ll be occupying before his nana takes my place. Somehow it doesn’t hit me until I walk through the threshold that this room is the room. And, of course, it is. Why wouldn’t it be? This house has only three bedrooms, and the other spare room is essentially a storage dump. I know this, yet completely failed to put two and two together.
So, not only am I going to have to sleep next to my ex-husband in the bed we used to share for a few weeks, but in the meantime, I’m going to be sleeping in here…the last place Conrad and I were naked together. Where we touched. And kissed. And did a hell of a lot more than that.
Cool.
It’s fine.
Totally fine.
Conrad clears his throat, setting my suitcase on the floor and my bag on the bed. “I washed the sheets a couple days ago, so everything is fresh and clean.” I can’t look at him, but I know we’re thinking the same thing. “There’re washcloths and towels in the hall closet, and the bathroom is stocked with stuff you’ll need.”
“Oh, you didn’t have to do that,” I say quietly. “I brought stuff from home.”
“It’s no big deal.” Taking two long strides toward the door, Conrad glances back over at me. “I’ve got some work to do outside, but I figured you’d like the peace and quiet to get settled. I cleared some drawers for you in my dresser and made space for you in the closet to hang your clothes. I’ll be back inside in a couple of hours, so I’ll make us some lunch then.”
My chest aches with how uncomfortable this feels. How polite and tense. There’s no way he’s not remembering the last time we were in this room, just like I am. There’s no way he’s not remembering the way he kissed me like his life depended on it, or the way he utterly and completely man-handled me in the very best way. There’s no way he’s not remembering the way I fell asleep in his arms immediately after, sleeping harder than I have in who knows how long.
There’s no way he’s not.
Because it’s all I can think about. The memory is palpable as it surrounds us, bouncing off these four walls like a ping-pong ball.
Realizing he’s still watching me, and I haven’t said a single word, I nod, clearing my throat. “Okay, thank you.”
Once he’s disappeared down the hall, I let out a breath before sitting on the edge of the bed. I need to unpack—I want to unpack—but I’m going to need a minute to calm my nerves before I can talk myself into going into Conrad’s bedroom to do just that. That room has more memories than anywhere on this property combined. My heart is in my throat, and I honestly couldn’t say how long I sit here on the edge of this bed before I work up the courage to get started.
Conrad’s room is just as I remember it. It’s simple. A king-size bed, two dark oak nightstands that he built himself, and a dresser on the far wall that he also built.
Notes of amber fill the air, mixed in with a scent I can only describe as ranch life. It’s a scent that is wholly Conrad, and the nostalgia it brings wraps around me like a heated blanket. The bed is made—not well, but it is made. A blue, white, and black plaid comforter overtop what looks to be navy blue sheets. It’s a poster, sturdy, dark wood bedframe that he’s had since before we got married. My eyes land on the small nick on one of the posts, and I smile, remembering how it got there.
When we got married, he moved into the loft above the barn with me, and he insisted on bringing his bed and getting rid of the small double I had up there. He and his dad struggled maneuvering the frame up the stairs and ended up whacking it on the entryway to the loft. He was so pissed off, he was practically steaming from his ears. I couldn’t hide the chuckle that came out of me, seeing him so frustrated. I remember the way he glanced up, catching me laughing, and his shoulders visibly relaxed, like the sight of me alone made him feel better. He came over and kissed me, and then later that night, we made love on this very bed with the moonlight spilling in from the curtains.
Heat rolls down my spine, my throat tight as I shake off the memory and the way being with him that night felt.
Lifting the suitcase onto the bed, I unzip it and get to work. First, hanging all my shirts and scrubs in the closet. Conrad left me a decent amount of space next to his plethora of various plaid shirts. Once I get everything else folded and set in the dresser, I move on to the bathroom. All in all, it doesn’t take me long to get unpacked, and once I’m finished and I stow my bags away in the closet, I feel a little better. More settled.
I can do this.
This is going to be fine. Or it will be if my heart slows its beat.