Chapter 3
Willow
"Goodnight," I tell my parents, trying to ignore Wyatt's sneaky yet clinging stare. It digs at the same feelings I reserved for him years ago and still can't seem to shake.
Our love might have burned as strong as a wildfire—reckless, scorching with hunger, and molten with secrets—but I'm no longer the girl who adores him. I'm a woman who sifted through all the ashes he left in his wake.
I survived.
I'm not looking for a repeat, I remind myself.
I refuse to do it again. I'm stronger now and no longer naive. So, no matter how many times he gives me his puppy-dog look, I'm not falling for it. Even if the wound he left me aches with or without him, I won't be a fool twice. I'll take the pain alone, where it's safer.
My determination doesn't get easier when he steps closer. He's just like a bull breathing heavily in the chute. His scorched-leather and storm-soaked dirt scent blends with hints of whiskey and beer, all raw and untamed, screaming of desire and obscene pleasure.
Goose bumps pop out on my skin and my knees shake. Everything is too familiar, yet it sits inside a shallow grave.
Does he remember the parts of me he used to love?
Get away from him and stop thinking these thoughts.
"I'm going to turn in soon too," he declares.
Panic, longing, and the memories of all the times we did this song and dance, only to sneak away once we were supposed to be sleeping, haunt me. I avoid glancing at him. I perfected it years ago, but that was so I didn't give anyone any suspicions about us. Now, it's to send him a cold message.
He's not getting in my pants ever again.
My mom steps forward and hugs me. "Merry Christmas, sweetie."
"You too, Mom," I reply, hugging her back, then cursing myself for not stopping myself from acknowledging Wyatt's stare. And once I do, his lips curve, all lazy and lethal, as if all he has to do is ask me to return to how we were, and I would.
And it scares me. I stayed far away from him out of hurt but also fear.
I don't know what he's doing in town. I don't know how long he's staying.
My only hope is that he leaves soon because those looks have haunted me for the last seven years.
They've appeared in my mind, and I've desperately held on to them as much as I've wanted to erase them.
My heart stammers. It takes Mom retreating to cut our gaze.
My cheeks heat. I quickly hug Dad, then jog up the staircase, needing to breathe normally.
It's pointless. His scent hangs around me, as if stuck in my hair or woven into my clothes. So I pull off my sweater and jeans, jump in the shower, and try to wash him away.
When I'm done, I wrap a towel around my head and another one around my body, staring into the mirror, needing answers to all my questions.
It's not fair. Wyatt had no right to interrupt my Christmas or get into a fight with my riders. All was awesome until he appeared on the scene.
Why is he here?
The anger, years of heartache, and questions I want answers to win out over my need to keep my distance from him. I grab my knee-length red silk robe, tighten the belt, and storm out of the bathroom, running right into Wyatt.
"Just who I wanted to see," he drawls, his gaze drifting lower and setting my thighs on fire.
I cross my arms. "Why are you up here?"
"I'm staying the night." He steps closer, lowering his voice. "Actually, I might stay awhile," he taunts, sinking his warning deep under my skin.
My heart skips a beat, and I curse it. "Why aren't you staying at Jagger's?"
His lips twitch. "He's got overnight company already."
I roll my eyes.
So that's why my brother only had two beers all day.
"That's what I missed," Wyatt declares, his grin growing.
"What?"
He points at me. "What you just did."
"I didn't do anything."
He nods, insisting, "Yes, sugar, you did."
I press my thighs together, glaring at him. I glance past his shoulder and whisper, "Don't call me sugar."
His arrogant expression stays plastered on his face.
Suddenly, I want to drag his lips between my teeth just to watch his eyes darken with heat. Then, I'll be the one to leave him in pain.
I'm such a liar.
Stay focused.
I blurt out, "Why are you here?"
His smile grows. He claims, "We didn't finish our last conversation."
I tilt my head, trying to figure out what he's saying.
He leans closer, and the scent I scrubbed off in the shower penetrates me deeper. His breath hits my ear, and he murmurs, "When you figure something out, your face twitches."
I turn toward him, inches from his mouth, denying, "No, it doesn't."
"It does. You just figured something out about Jagger. Admit it."
I bite my lip.
His face falls, and so does his voice. He sternly orders, "Let's go into your room and talk, Willow."
A buzz flutters in my stomach, weightless with need and heavy with anticipation. My voice cracks. "No."
"Then let's go to mine," he says, then slides his arm around my waist and moves me down the hall.
"Wy—"
He puts his hand over my mouth. Then his lips brush against my ear. "We have to talk, sugar. Now, decide if you want your family to know about us or not."
Us?
I glare daggers at him, the blades sharper than before, while an entire sky of butterflies breaks open inside me.
He waits a moment, breathing hard and pinning me with a challenging stare, as if I'm a hand of poker there's no doubt he'll win.
Me.
My body.
My entire goddamn soul.
The longer he studies me, the bigger the urge to slap him and then kiss him until morning grows.
He finally lowers his hand, steers me past several more rooms, then opens the door to the bedroom adjacent to mine.
I step inside and turn to face him. He shuts the door, planting his body against it and flicking the lock.
"What are you doing?" I fret. I try to maintain that I'm in control, but I'm nothing of the sort. I've never been the one with the power when it comes to him. Wyatt's always had it and still does.
He steps toward me, and I back up until my knees hit the mattress, and I plop on the bed. He sits next to me and grabs my hand.
I yank it back, warning, "Don't touch me."
Something flashes in his eyes.
It takes me a minute to realize it's guilt. My insides quiver, and I close my eyes, begging, "Please. Whatever you want to say, get it over with so I can go."
"I shouldn't have made the choices I made."
Tense silence fills the air. My lips tremble. I blink hard, then turn toward him. "Don't."
He furrows his eyebrows. "Don't?"
"I don't need your sorries or your shoulda, coulda, wouldas. Not now. Not after seven years," I declare, then swipe at the tear falling down my cheek.
"Willow—"
"Why are you here?" I repeat, but with more strength in my tone.
"It's..." His jaw clenches, and he stares at me like the little boy who used to come to our ranch with bruises on his body and nowhere to go.
It hurts my heart. More than I ever thought it could, it cuts deep, stinging with a lasting bite. I wince, then look away, wishing my tears wouldn't fall.
He puts his callused hand on my thigh, and against my will, I lean closer to him, still looking away but unable to keep the boundary I told myself I wouldn't cross.
Wyatt touching me is a bad idea.
And now I remember why.
My brain tells me to leave, but my body betrays me, molding against him.
He slides his arm around my shoulders, admitting, "I fucked up."
It's the phrase I've wanted to hear for so long. Emotions swell in my chest. I allow myself to glance up, asking, "How?" before my gaze drifts to his lips.
His voice drips with shame. "I lost my agent. My sponsors pulled out. I was supposed to fill in for Kingy Altmonte, but I got kicked off the team, and it's my own damn fault."
I freeze.
He didn't mean he fucked up with me.
He meant he fucked up the precious career he chose over me.
I stare at the floor. Anger and hurt slowly unleash, taking over the quick burst of hope.
What was I thinking?
I rise and spin toward him. "I'm sorry to hear that. I'm sure you'll find another agent and more sponsors. You're a good rider."
He clenches his jaw, eyes wide, as if he's expecting something else from me.
I might have stayed away from him whenever he was here, but I know all about the infamous reputation Wyatt's built. Lots of women. Plenty of partying. Gambling debts and flashy toys.
I can't say he's any different from the other riders. It goes with the territory. So I need to stop thinking he's back for me.
He's not.
He's here for the rodeo.
Reality bites with sharp teeth, right into the wound I can't seem to heal. I turn and move toward the door.
"Willow," he calls out, his voice hollow.
I freeze, then slowly release a breath and turn back. "Yeah?"
"We need to talk."
"About what?" My heart bleeds further.
He swallows hard. "Everything."
Too many minutes pass. Wyatt's gaze locks on mine. Holy. Dark. Spinning with the past that's no longer ours.
"Too much time has passed," I claim, with my insides screaming it's not true.
His face falls. "So that's it? We're not going to discuss anything?"
A soft, sarcastic laugh flies out of my mouth. "What did you expect? You'd come here, and I'd run back into your arms?"
"No. Nothing of the sort," he claims.
"Really? Because I think you did. I think you remember the girl I used to be, and you know nothing about the woman I am now," I assert.
"You're right. So let me get to know you," he softly replies without hesitation.
But I don't consider his proposal. "Why? So you can run away when it gets tough? Then pick the next girl who's shinier than me?" Tears fill my eyes again.
"Willow—"
"Don't you sit there all denim and drawl like you own the sunset, then deny it. You no longer know me, but I know you. So let's be honest. The only reason you're here right now is because it's convenient for you," I accuse.
His head jerks backward.
Another tear falls down my cheek, and I scoff. "Go on. Admit it. I'll respect you more for your honesty."
He stares at me with dangerous, coiled-up hunger.