Chapter 7 Annie
ANNIE
Morning starts gray and slow, like the sky doesn’t feel like trying. Samesies.
Every muscle in my body complains when I crawl out of bed. I don’t even bother with makeup—just twist my hair up, shove on my scrubs, and drive toward the tent before the coffee shop opens.
When I get there, Jaden’s already inside, singing off-key while unpacking supplies. He grins when he sees me. “Morning, sunshine.”
“Stop talking,” I say, dragging myself toward the coffee pot in the corner.
“Bad night?”
“Bad choices,” I mutter.
He tilts his head. “Reno?”
“Worse.” I pour coffee that tastes like burned air and swallow it anyway. “Me.”
“Ah.” He waits, expecting details. I give him none. “You’re gonna tell me eventually.”
“Unlikely.” I sip again and glance toward the flap as the first light cuts across the grass. The fairground’s waking up. People shouting. Trucks backing in. I can already hear the bulls shifting in the pens. I close my eyes for a second, steadying my breathing.
“Okay,” Jaden says, watching me carefully. “You’re officially scaring me.”
“Yeah, me too,” I say, just as the tent flap rustles.
Reno stands there, sunlight behind him like a halo he doesn’t deserve.
Jeans, a faded rodeo T-shirt, that stupid swagger that looks less dangerous now and more exhausting.
His limp’s pronounced this morning, and he doesn’t bother hiding it.
“Doc,” he says, holding a paper bag aloft. “Brought breakfast.”
“I didn’t order delivery.”
“Didn’t ask.” He steps inside, the scent of powdered sugar following him. “You still like donuts?”
“Not from you.”
“Harsh.” He smiles anyway, that crooked grin that used to make me forgive everything. “Figured I’d stop by, make sure you weren’t killing anyone.”
Jaden looks from him to me and wisely slips out the back.
“Cute assistant,” Reno says.
“Don’t,” I warn. “Not today. He’s a nurse, not my assistant, and I won’t tolerate you or anyone else disrespecting him.”
He chuckles and sets the bag down on the counter. “You’re still mad.”
“Why would I be mad? You only spent six months drinking through physical therapy and blaming me for every bad thing that ever happened to you.”
His smile falters. “You always did have a mean streak.”
“And you always had a knack for self-destruction, which is why we aren’t together anymore, so I don’t understand why you’re here right now.”
The air goes taut. For a heartbeat, we’re right back where we used to be—standing in the wreckage of almost. He shifts his weight, winces, tries to cover it with a grin. “Still got that bite.”
“Bitier, now.”
That makes him laugh, real and raw, and for a second I remember the version of him before the accident, before the bitterness. I hate that memory more than I hate him. It’s too kind. “See you around, Annie,” he says finally. “Try not to miss me too much.”
“Not in any danger,” I mutter, but he’s already gone.
When the flap falls shut behind him, I breathe out hard and press my palms against the counter until my shoulders stop shaking.
Jaden pokes his head back in. “Still worth the paycheck?”
“Probably not, but the money’s too good to quit all the same.”
He gives me a sympathetic nod. “I’ll run inventory.”
Once he’s gone, I dig into the bag out of spite and eat a chocolate donut that tastes like old love and regret. The sweetness coats my tongue, bitter underneath. Ten minutes later, I get a stomachache. Figures.
By midday, the heat turns thick and unkind. The crowd swells, the music blares, and the smell of horses and sunscreen burns into my brain. My phone buzzes in my pocket just as I’m stepping out of the tent for some fresh air.
You look like you could use some sunshine.
I glance toward the pens, and there he is. Brick Wyatt, hat tilted back, shirt clinging to his shoulders, phone in hand, smirking like he invented it. He really is as handsome as the announcer makes him sound, there’s no denying that. The bastard knows what he’s doing.
I type back, It’s already ninety degrees. I’ve had plenty of sunshine.
Some moonshine, then? Got a bottle in my trailer, he replies.
My stomach flips. I can practically hear his voice—lazy, teasing, low enough to make every nerve sit up and listen.
I send, You should be working.
I am. Multitasking.
You’re impossible.
And yet, here you are texting me.
He’s infuriating. He’s also right. I glance toward the bulls, but he’s still looking my way. The grin’s gone sly, like he’s already winning.
Distracting the medic seems risky, I write.
Distracting’s what I do best.
I shouldn’t smile. I do anyway. I drop the phone into my pocket and try to focus on charting, but it buzzes again within seconds.
Smile more, Doc. It looks good on you.
I roll my eyes so hard they almost stick. You need better hobbies.
You could be one, he writes back.
I press my lips together, fighting a laugh. You flirt like it’s your job.
Technically, it’s my side gig.
And what’s your main one?
Trying not to fall off large animals.
Sounds thrilling.
Pays the bills.
You’re ridiculous.
And you’re still smiling, so I win again.
I shove the phone away, but the grin won’t die. The next hour passes in a haze of mild injuries—an older cowboy with a sprained wrist, a kid with heat exhaustion—but my head’s somewhere else entirely. Every time my phone buzzes, my pulse spikes like it’s been waiting for an excuse.
The Silver Fox has a dirty mind.
By the time lunch rolls around, I’m outside the tent at the picnic table, nursing a bottle of water and pretending my turkey sandwich isn’t made of cardboard. The fairground hums all around me, bright and loud and alive. I can feel him somewhere out there without even looking.
The text hits right on cue. You eat yet?
Trying, I type back.
Try harder.
You eating lunch, cowboy?
Only if you’re on the menu.
I choke on my water, coughing into my arm until a passerby gives me a worried look. I glare at my phone. You’re incorrigible.
Big word. I like it.
You’re impossible.
That’s two times today. Must be true.
Stop making me laugh.
Never.
He sends a selfie—sweat-slick hair, sun catching on his jaw, that grin that makes my knees remember what they’re for. The caption: Miss me yet? Send me a pic to show me.
I roll my eyes, take a quick picture of my half-eaten sandwich, and send it back with the caption: This is my current relationship status.
He answers, Jealous of the bread.
I can’t even. You’re the worst.
And yet, I appear to be your favorite.
I want to tell him he’s not. I don’t. The truth is, he’s been living rent-free in my head since the second I texted him by accident. And now he’s across the damn field, smiling like he knows it.
The afternoon stretches long and hot. When I’m not tending to the injured, I’m replaying our conversation. Each message has me warmer, lighter, a little more reckless. When the events finally end and the fairground begins to quiet, my phone buzzes again.
Still alive?
Barely, I reply. I think the sun tried to kill me.
I could help you cool down.
That’s a bold claim.
I keep my word.
I laugh into my palm. You’re incorrigible.
Nah, you used that one already. One more and there’s a penalty.
What kind of penalty?
I get to surprise you.
You’re infuriating.
And yet…
I toss the phone onto the cot and start packing up supplies. The laughter sits behind my ribs, though, warm and persistent.
Later, when the sun drops low and Jaden waves goodbye, I take the long route back to my apartment. I need to clear my head. My phone buzzes again before I can turn around and lock my front door.
You never answered my question.
What question?
The one about the picture.
You’re unbelievable.
I prefer relentless. Show me that you miss me, doc. Something scandalous.
I pause at the edge of the midway, thumb hovering over the keyboard. He can’t be serious. He’s totally serious. My pulse thrums, half nerves, half something I shouldn’t name. I type back, You don’t quit, do you?
Never learned how.
You barely know me.
That’s why we’re talking.
You shouldn’t be this distracting.
You should see me in person.
I already did, I send. That’s the problem.
Then consider me flattered.
I stare at his last message until my reflection fades from the glass.
The thought hits me hard and fast—how long it’s been since anyone made me feel wanted, not in some abstract way but right now, right here.
It’s stupid, reckless, exactly the kind of mistake I promised myself I wouldn’t make again.
And yet.
I shower when I get back to my room, let the water pound the sweat and dust from my skin. The mirror fogs over, and for a minute I just stand there, staring at the blur of myself. My phone sits on the counter, screen lighting up once. Twice.
Still thinking about that scandalous picture I never got, he writes.
I laugh under my breath. You’re incorrigible.
That’s three strikes, Doc. You owe me.
What do you want, Wyatt?
You already know. But I’ll settle for that picture. For now.
I dry my hands, grab the phone, sit on the bed with my hair dripping down my back.
I shouldn’t. But I scroll to the camera anyway.
The image that stares back at me isn’t scandalous—it’s quiet.
The curve of my shoulder, the slope of my spine, my hair falling like a curtain.
A trace of skin and nothing more. Enough to say what words won’t.
I send it before I can overthink. For your imagination only.
The reply takes all of twenty seconds.
Hell, Doc. You trying to kill me?
I laugh, tension unraveling like thread. Too much?
Not enough.
I shake my head, smiling at the phone. You’re trouble.
You like trouble.
Go to sleep, Wyatt.
Can’t. Too wired.
That’s your problem.
He takes a moment. You should know something, Doc.
What’s that?
You’ve been the best part of my day.
My chest tightens as I gulp. You should get some sleep. Big day tomorrow.
I will. Just thinking about you first.
Goodnight, Brick.
Sweet dreams, Annie.
I set the phone down, turn off the lamp, and lie there in the half-dark. My pulse won’t settle. My thoughts keep looping back to his grin, his words, the way he makes me laugh when I’m trying not to.
It’s foolish. It’s reckless. And it’s the first thing that’s made me feel alive in a long time.
I slide into my sheets, thinking about Brick.
His rough hands on my hips. His mouth on my throat.
Before I can consider it, my hand slides beneath my underwear.
I’m slick and hot, and all I can think about is him.
Those steel-blue eyes. The silver hair, glistening in the sun. The weight of him on me.
In me.
Me, clinging to his broad shoulders as he pumps into me. My body arching in time with him, meeting his every movement. The feel of him holding me down and taking what he wants, because he knows I want it too. The swell of him inside of me as he erupts…
Fuck. This is such a bad idea, and I don’t think I can stop. I’m right there on that edge with him, ready to jump. Ready to come.
I groan his name as my orgasm rides through me, and I doze off with him on my lips.