22 #2
Sick of everyone saying that, I snap the rose in half, ignoring the prick of a thorn. I drop it and the note into the gutter.
Tripp’s smile fades. “Something I said?”
“Fuck this place.” I eye the paper sack in his hand. “You have beer in there?”
“You know it.” Tripp follows my gaze. “You want a ride and a drink?”
“Yeah.” I exhale. “I do.”
After a long drive out to the Dead Fred’s Curve, I’m dropped back at my cottage. Glumly, I wheel my walker up the ramp. Tripp, a big grin on his face, waves from his truck. I wince, wave back, then open the front door.
The scent of burgers hits me, and my stomach growls.
I’m still in a sour mood, pissed off by my aching body, my father’s cold shoulder, and that stupid fucking rose. Even the small beer buzz I have going isn’t enough to take the edge off.
The feet of my walker squeak as I enter the kitchen. When I see Wyatt at the counter on his phone, I close my eyes. Maybe he’ll disappear and leave me to my misery.
His head snaps up at my approach. No such luck.
“Where the hell have you been?” he demands, taking a step toward me.
Even furious, he’s handsome as hell.
“Great, you’re mad at me, too.” Guilt flares to life inside of me when I see the cold burgers on the stove, the place settings on the table.
Fuck. I’m late.
It’s not late, only eight, the sun still high in the sky, but it’s later than I said I would be. Not to mention, I turned off my phone.
Wyatt shoves a hand through his hair, his wild eyes raking over me as if taking inventory. “Oh, I’m more than mad, Fallon.”
“Welcome to my fucking life.” I don’t want to fight with him. I’m so tired, all I want to do is collapse on my bed and let it swallow me whole.
“Dakota called.” He’s pacing now. His eyes so full of worry it only makes me want to fight him more. Because I don’t deserve it. “No one could get ahold of you. Where the hell were you?”
“I was with Tripp,” I say, and Wyatt stiffens.
His annoyance vanishes. Turns to something else—jealousy.
It robs me of breath. Trips my pulse.
I wait for him to say he’s jealous, but he doesn’t.
A strange intensity crackles in his eyes.
Our trademark push-pull. We seethe inside, say nothing on the surface.
Even married, we can’t call it like it is.
Would it matter if he claimed me? Would it change everything between us?
Would I forgive him for what he said, forget my petty grudge?
“Relax,” I say. “We just drove around town. Talked.”
I thought the drive would clear my head, but it only made it worse. Tripp didn’t fix a thing. Too bright, too happy, too much trying to fix it instead of just listening.
“Talked,” Wyatt grits out.
I dare a glance at his handsome face. “What do you care?”
His eyes meet mine then fall to my lips. “You should have called me,” he growls, taking a step toward me. “If you need something, someone, you call me .”
My breath hitches. His tone is jagged, raw. Like he’s fighting with himself over what to say, but I squash the urge to delve deeper, to probe that emotion. I’m scared of what I’ll unlock. In him. In myself.
I throw him a mocking smile. “I’ll call whoever I damn well please.”
A muscle jerks in his jaw. “Well, while you were talkin’ with Tripp, you missed your meds.” He tosses me my pills from the counter.
I hold his gaze, burning inside. “I don’t want them.”
“Fallon.” He glares at me. “Take your fuckin’ pills.”
It all wells up. Every little cut from today. Rage explodes inside of me.
I hurl the bottle at him. It hits the wall and explodes. Little white pills fly everywhere.
“Fuck this place!” I shout, and Wyatt’s eyes widen.
My heart’s racing—a thunderous gallop. “Fuck these fucking pills. Fuck my body that doesn’t work.
I hate this house, and I hate that I can’t ride.
I hate myself for being so stupid. With everything.
With bulls, with Aiden, and with—” I blink and shake my head.
Wyatt’s still staring.
My chest heaves. “I hate it all. I want to burn everything to the ground.”
His nostrils flare. But he doesn’t say a word. Instead, he crouches and begins to pick the pills up one by one.
It makes tears spring to my eyes. It’s what always softens me, slices at me. The utter kindness of Wyatt Montgomery. That he’s a cowboy who’s true. Who helps. Who always has been there when I’ve needed him.
And what do I do? I treat him like shit. I’m a coward, an asshole, and so undeserving of him I hate myself.
Unable to bear it, I cover my face in my hands and breathe out. “Fuck.” Lowering my hands, I take a step toward him.
“Don’t,” Wyatt orders at my lame attempt to crouch. “I got ’em.”
“I’m sorry.” I collapse into a chair. “I had a shitty day.”
“What happened?” Still in a crouch, he presses a hand onto my knee, turns into me.
A long beat of silence stretches between us.
Tears sting my eyes. “My dad’s still upset. Not quite the silent treatment, but that’s the gist. He’s disappointed in me. I fucked up.”
Wyatt’s face grows dark. “I can talk to him.”
My stomach twists into knots. “No. It’s not your job.”
His bottomless, light-blue eyes stare up at me. His nearness makes me lightheaded. “It is my job. We’re in this together, Fallon.”
“Because you’re my husband.”
“Wow, you actually said those words without an eyeroll.”
I laugh then just as quickly sober. “And Dakota,” I say in frustration. “She wants to talk.”
“About?”
“About everything.”
Wyatt says gently, “Maybe you should.”
Ignoring that, I go on. “And I have a long road with PT. My leg isn’t healing as well as they’d hoped.” I bite my lip. “I fell today and called my therapist a fuckface.”
He swears. “I shoulda gone with you.”
“No. You’ve done enough.” I give him a small smile. “Looks like you’re stuck with me for ten more weeks.”
“Ain’t so bad,” he says roughly. “Even if you do snore.”
I scoff. “You’re such a goddamn liar it’s embarrassing.”
His throat works. “Call me next time, okay?” His voice is so serious, so stern, I have to fight like hell to keep tears from falling. “Don’t make me worry about you, Trouble. I can’t do it again.”
I bite my lip to keep in the emotion. “Sure. Okay.”
In slow motion, Wyatt removes his hand from my knee, and then he does that thing I’ve come to expect, okay, a thing I kind of love. He places his big palm on my cheek, testing my temperature.
More please , I think and instantly hate myself.
A cocky, lopsided grin. “All good.”
“I could have told you that,” I sniff.
He withdraws his hand then gives me half of a pain pill. Dutifully, as if I can make up for my tantrum, I swallow it contritely.
“You’re not stupid.” His voice is a rasp, his blue eyes locked on my face.
“What?”
“What you just said about being so stupid. It’s not your fault, you know. Your leg. The bulls.” His throat works, pain in his eyes. “Aiden.”
His words are a caress. Healing, heating, some hard spot inside of me. I don’t know if I can accept it. Not yet. Rage, rawness, still burns bright, but for a brief second, it helps. I believe him. This arrogant, good cowboy.
He drops his hand onto my arm, whisks a callused thumb over the inside of my wrist. “You scared me when you left,” he says, his voice so guttural my stomach bottoms out.
I tilt my head back to take in his tallness. His muscle-bound chest and bright-blue eyes. “Today?”
“Not today. Nine months ago.” A soft grin tugs at his lips. A laugh shakes out of him. “Hell, you’re a nightmare of a woman, but I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Never have, and I never will.”
I want to ask why, why didn’t he come for me then, but I don’t. The letter’s in the past. I’m learning to leave it at that.
Slowly, his fingers drag down the inside of my wrist until they’re in my palm. I lift my fingertips, touch his. His body tenses as he drags in a breath. Then Wyatt leans toward me, and I find myself leaning forward, angling my head, aching. Waiting.
Ready to break all my rules for just one cowboy.
But then he’s pulling back, clearing his throat. “C’mon. I have somethin’ that will cheer you up.”
I blink. “What about dinner?”
“Dinner can wait.” I watch as he stands, turning away from me to adjust himself. He grabs his Stetson from the counter, sets it on his head, then extends a hand. I take it, and he helps me up, holds on to me.
“Where are we going?”
He grins. “To burn everything down.”