Chapter 9 Annie
ANNIE
The smell of coffee wakes me before the sun does.
Not the cheap kind they brew in the concession stands, but the good stuff—dark roast with a little chocolate at the edge.
For a second I think I’m dreaming, but then the tent flap lifts and Mac walks in, holding two cups and wearing the smuggest grin on earth.
“Morning, doctor of the year,” she says, sliding a cup across my desk. “I figured you earned caffeine that doesn’t taste like gasoline.”
“You’re an angel,” I groan, reaching for it. The first sip burns just right. “How are you even functional this early?”
“Trade secret. I also never went to bed.”
“Of course you didn’t.” I laugh, then lean back in my chair, eyeing her camera strap looped across her shoulder. “You filming already?”
“Sunrise shots.” She shrugs. “There’s something cinematic about cowboys in the mist.”
“If you ignore the smell.”
She grins. “Admit it, you love it here.”
“I tolerate it here,” I say, lifting the cup in salute. “Because caffeine exists.”
She drops into the chair opposite mine, still smiling. “You look better today. Less murder-y.”
“Thanks.”
“Long night?”
“You could say that.” I fiddle with the edge of my cup, avoiding her eyes.
Mac tilts her head, reading me like the open book I wish I wasn’t. “You’re thinking about someone.”
“I’m thinking about quitting.”
“Liar.” She props her chin on her hand. “Come on, Annie. I’ve known you since forever. You only look that guilty when there’s a man involved.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s not what you think.”
“Oh, it’s exactly what I think.” Her grin widens. “You’re into someone.”
I pretend to check my clipboard. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Uh-huh.” She takes a slow sip of coffee, studying me. “Fine, I won’t pry. I’ll just tell you something embarrassing about me instead.”
“That’s new.”
“Don’t get used to it.” She leans back, smirking. “I have a crush.”
That gets my attention. “You? On who?”
She looks almost shy, which is terrifying. “A rider.”
I blink. “A cowboy?”
Her cheeks flush pink. “I know, it’s ridiculous.”
“Which one?”
“I’m not saying.” She laughs. “But they’re way too young for me. And way too charming. I’m disgusted with myself.”
“You’re never into that type. Your last boyfriend was a librarian.”
“Exactly. This is character growth.”
“Or regression.”
“Either way, it’s something new,” she says. “And I’ve needed that for a while now.”
“Sounds like a mess.”
“Completely.” She looks at me over the rim of her cup. “What about you? Anyone caught your eye?”
“Nope.”
“That was a quick lie.”
“It’s the truth.”
She grins. “You forget I know you, Annie.”
“I forget nothing.”
Mac hums, unconvinced, but lets it go. She starts talking about camera angles and lighting, her new editing software, all the little details that fill her brain. I nod along, grateful for the distraction, but my mind drifts anyway—right back to Brick Wyatt.
I can’t stop thinking about him.
It’s infuriating. He’s older, cocky, and completely off-limits. My ex-boyfriend’s father. That should be the end of it. But every time I remember the sound of his voice, the way he said my name like he was tasting it, something in me trips a wire I didn’t know was still connected.
Mac catches me zoning out. “You’re not listening.”
“I am,” I lie.
“You’re not.”
“I was thinking about work.”
“Work. Right.” She stands and stretches. “I’ve got to go set up near the arena. Don’t melt, okay?”
“Not promising anything.”
When she’s gone, I stare at my reflection in the stainless steel of the supply cabinet. I look tired and a little flushed, the way people look when they’ve been running toward something they shouldn’t.
Or maybe that’s just me.
It’s wrong. It’s completely, absolutely wrong. He’s Reno’s father. That alone should be enough to scare me straight. But nothing about Brick feels like danger. He’s steady. He’s grounded. He talks like the world is something you can still fix if you try hard enough.
Maybe that’s what I’m looking for. Someone to stand with in the chaos.
“You’re losing it,” I tell myself. “Get it together.”
The morning blurs into heat and noise. Riders in, riders out, minor injuries, dislocated fingers, bruised egos.
I move on instinct, autopilot, caffeine, anything that doesn’t involve thinking about the way his hand brushed mine when I patched him up yesterday.
Anything that doesn’t sound like his laugh.
Anything that doesn’t make me think about when I wanted to kiss him.
But by evening, the air cools and I can’t ignore it anymore. The pull is still there—stupid, strong, relentless. Like the gravity between two storms about to collide.
When the last patient leaves and Jaden packs up, I finally pull out my phone. His name sits at the top of my messages, taunting me. I should delete it. I should throw the phone into the nearest manure pile. Instead, I stare at it until the sun dips behind the stands.
Jaden calls over his shoulder, “You good?”
“Fine,” I say automatically.
“You heading out?”
“Yeah.”
He nods, too tired to pry, and disappears. The moment he’s gone, the silence roars. I stare at Brick’s contact like it might combust on its own.
Don’t do it, I think. Don’t. But I do. I drive home faster than legally allowed and plop onto my sofa and call him.
It rings twice before he picks up. His voice is deep, low, the kind of sound that fills every space it touches. “Doc. Didn’t expect you.”
“Hi,” I manage. My throat’s dry. “Sorry, I—this was probably a bad idea.”
“I like bad ideas,” he says, and I can hear the smile in it.
“I shouldn’t have called.”
“And yet here we are.”
I laugh softly, nerves cracking open like ice. “You’re impossible.”
“You keep saying that,” he drawls. “But you keep proving yourself wrong.”
I sink onto the edge of my bed, pressing the phone tighter to my ear. “You’re distracting.”
“Good. Means I’m doing something right.” His voice rumbles lower now, velvet wrapped around gravel.
I can picture him perfectly—shirt half-undone, hat tossed on a chair, boots by the door. He sounds tired but happy, like the kind of man who knows how to take his time with everything. “I just wanted to say thank you.”
“For what?”
“For not making this weird.”
He chuckles, slow and warm. “Doc, I hate to break it to you, but it was already weird. You just made it interesting.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“Too late.”
I can hear him shifting, probably leaning back in some hotel chair. There’s the faint sound of a television somewhere, muffled. “So,” he says. “You been thinking about me?”
I roll my eyes. “You really never stop.”
“Answer the question.”
“I’ve been thinking about quitting this job.”
“Liar.”
“Why do people keep calling me that today?”
“Because you’re bad at it.”
“I’m excellent at it.”
“You’re terrible,” he says, laughing. “You get this little hitch in your voice every time you fib. I bet you had to study extra hard in med school just to hide your tells.”
“Brick.”
“Yeah?”
“Stop analyzing me.”
Even his chuckle sends vibrations down my spine. “I can’t. It’s fun.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“And you like it.”
“God help me,” I say, but I’m smiling. He makes it impossible not to.
There’s a pause, a soft hum of air through the line. “Long day?”
“The longest.”
“Tell me about it.”
So I do. I tell him about the heat, the stubborn riders, the exhaustion that sinks into your bones.
He listens, really listens, only breaking in to ask a question or laugh at the right spots.
When I finish, I realize I’m lighter. Like saying it out loud cleared room for something else. “You’re easy to talk to.”
“I was about to say the same thing.”
“That’s dangerous.”
“Probably.” He clears his throat, voice dropping again. “You still mad at me for flirting?”
“I’m mad at myself for enjoying it.”
“That’s not a no.”
I bite my lip. “No. But I think it’s inappropriate.”
“I’m old enough to know what I want.”
I fall silent, pulse thrumming in my ears. “And what’s that?”
“You.”
The word hangs between us, a live wire. I don’t know whether to laugh or hang up. Instead, I whisper, “You shouldn’t say things like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because they make me forget every reason this is a bad idea.”
“Good,” he murmurs. “Forget for a minute. Tell me what you want.”
I close my eyes. The sound of his voice wraps around me, rough and careful all at once. “You really think you can just…say things like that and get away with it?”
“I don’t want to get away with anything. I want you to believe me.”
“Brick…”
“Yeah, Doc?”
“You’re trouble.”
“I’ve been called a lot worse.” He laughs again, low and genuine, and it pulls a matching sound out of me before I can stop it.
“You drive me insane.”
His voice goes warm. “Likewise. Tell me about when you decided to be a doctor.”
“Really?”
“I want to get to know you.” There’s nothing coy or flirty in his tone this time. It’s just a simple statement of fact. No jokes, no bullshit.
I’m not sure I’ve ever had that. Definitely not at this stage. So I tell him, and he listens like it matters. Nobody’s done that in a long time. By the end of it, he muffles a yawn, but he’s still asking questions and dragging this out.
“You should get some sleep,” I tell him. “That’s a pretty bad laceration you’re trying to heal.”
“Only if you do.”
“I’m lying down right now.”
“Then I’ll imagine you that way.”
“Don’t push it.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it. I’ll just dream of you,” he says, and I can hear the smile again. “You’re something else, Annie.”
“I hope that’s good.”
“It’s real,” he says. “And that’s better.”
The words sit warm in my chest. “Goodnight, Brick.”
“Night, Doc.”
I end the call and stare at the ceiling. The room hums with quiet, but inside my head it’s loud—his laugh, his voice, every reckless thing we just said. I know it’s wrong. I know where this road leads. But for once, I don’t care. I feel alive, and that’s worth something.
I close my eyes, and the last thing I hear is the echo of his voice—low, rough, full of promise—telling me my name like it’s the first time anyone ever said it right.