13 | Pullin’ back
CLEMENTINE
Colton looks at me like I just struck him. “What do you mean?”
I grab the sheet, tugging it over me, suddenly feeling a little exposed. “We’re just blowing off steam—getting all that pent-up sexual frustration out. We both know how things ended last time.”
He sits up, skin golden and still slick with sweat. “That was because you were movin’ away, Tiny.”
I scoff. “Exactly—and I did move away. I live in the city now. I’ve got a house, a job—a life, Colton. What, you thought I’d give it all up because you made me come once?”
His jaw ticks. “It doesn’t have to be just once.” His hand snakes out, curling around my wrist. “Don’t pretend you don’t feel it, Clementine. There’s somethin’ real here.”
I pull free, slipping out of his bed. “Don’t get all sentimental now, cowboy. It’s just sex.” I walk into the bathroom to collect my underwear.
He follows, towel slung low on his hips, heat radiating off him. “You know damn well that wasn’t just sex.”
“Please.” I step into my panties, and snap my bra into place. “Save it. You wanted to get off, so did I. That’s all this was. I’m fixing up my aunt’s place, then I’m gone. You’ll still be here—pitching hay and mending fences. And we can both forget it ever happened.”
Something flickers in his eyes, sharp enough to slice me in two. He leans against the bathroom doorframe, gaze dragging over me. “So that’s what this is all about.”
I tug on my shorts. “What?”
“I’m just a simple cowboy. Not good enough for your shiny new standards.”
That twists something deep in my chest. “I didn’t mean it like that—it’s just… I’m not staying, Colton.”
“I get it.”
“Colt—” I start, reaching for him, but he turns and heads for his closet. He pulls out a flannel, holds it toward me with a wry smile. “‘Fraid I can only offer you plaid, darlin’. Think you’ll manage?”
“Come on,” I murmur, shame curling in my gut. “I’m sorry I put it that way. But we haven’t spoken in seven years. You can’t expect me to drop everything I’ve built to—what—be your little farm wife? Make you stew, raise your kids, warm your bed while you’re out in the field all day?”
He steps closer, draping the flannel over my shoulders, sliding my arms through the sleeves and buttoning it like I’m a child. His voice is quiet, but firm. “You gotta think real low of me if you believe that’s all I’d ask of you, Clem.”
My pulse trips over itself at the nearness of him, the way the heat radiates off him in waves.
“I don’t know what to think,” I admit. “Last time, me leaving was a death sentence to whatever was happening between us. You never reached out.”
Colton steps away, replacing his towel with a fresh pair of boxers and some faded jeans and tugging on his shirt. “I left my damn hat in the stables,” he mutters under his breath, settling on a battered baseball cap instead.
And God help me, he’s still the most handsome man I’ve ever laid eyes on.
I’ve dated since him—boys, even men—but no one’s ever measured up to Colton McGraw. Not a single one. I still find myself thinking of him before I drift off to sleep at night.
But I know myself. Country life will kill me slowly.
I can’t sit around doing nothing all day.
I love Mama, and I love helping her around the house, but I’d get physically ill at the thought of living the way she does.
There’s only so many potatoes I could peel staring out at my husband before I’d go stir-crazy and run away.
I need to work. I need to do something for me. I need a purpose in life.
I just can’t help but think about Dad. How he dropped his whole life for Mom, moving out to the countryside and being miserable alone so they could be happy together. And they were—they were the happiest couple I’ve ever seen, right up until the end.
But Dad wasn’t cut out for this life. And after Mom passed, he couldn’t get out fast enough.
Sometimes I wonder if that’s why he fell in love again so quickly—maybe he was just looking for a ticket out. A woman to share his life with.
“Clementine?”
I blink out of my spiral and find Colton watching me from the doorway. “You’re welcome to stay, but I thought you had to meet the contractor?”
I clear my throat. “Right. Yeah.” I follow him downstairs, my steps heavier than before.
Colton drives me back to my aunt’s in silence, the tension thick enough to choke on.
By the time I unlock the farmhouse door and step inside, my chest feels hollow.
I shower on autopilot—trying hard not to think about Colton’s calloused hands soaping me up when I do—and get dressed without looking at myself. There’s shame etched across my body, like I betrayed myself when I gave into my lust.
I’m still drying my hair when a curt knock shakes me from my thoughts. I turn and pull open the door—
—and find a man standing there with a clipboard, smiling like he knows me.
He has a square jaw, a fresh shave, and a tidy, pressed button-down that looks out of place against all this dust and peeling paint. His smile widens when he sees me, like he’s been waiting for this exact moment.
“Clementine Holliday,” he says, low and easy, like he’s known my name forever.
I blink at him, caught off guard. “Sorry—have we met?”
He chuckles, shifting the clipboard in his hands. “Wedding. Couple nights back. You were dancin’ with your cousin near the end of the night. I cut in.”
It hits me then—the clean-cut cowboy from the reception, the one who twirled me through two songs before I slipped away. “Oh,” I say, a little sheepish. “Right. You’re—”
“John,” he supplies, holding my gaze. “John Avery. Contractor.”
I step back to let him inside. “Of course—John. Small world.”
“Small town,” he corrects, grinning as he steps inside.
I walk him through the house, telling him bits and pieces about the place.
“My aunt’s plan was to gut everything,” I explain, gesturing as we move room to room. “Knock down walls, strip the trim, start fresh. But I’d rather keep the character. These built-ins, the woodwork, the porch—I want to preserve as much as I can.”
John studies the crown molding, nodding slowly. “Most folks want shiny and new. Nice to see someone who respects history.” He glances at me, a smile tugging at his mouth. “Suits you.”
I ignore the flicker of warmth in his tone and keep walking. “Kitchen’s non-negotiable, though—it really needs updating. Same with the wiring and the upstairs bathrooms. But the rest…” I trail my fingers along the old banister. “The rest I’d like to keep mostly as is.”
He scribbles something on his clipboard. “Alright. We’ll adjust the plan.”
By the time we’ve looped back to the foyer, he closes his notes and tucks the pencil behind his ear. His eyes linger on me a little too long, taking in Colton’s flannel.
“You know,” he says, casual but not really, “I was hopin’ we’d run into each other again. How about I take you out to dinner sometime?”
I blink, taken aback. “Dinner?”
“There’s a nice place downtown,” he says with a shrug, though the look in his eye is heavier than that.
My throat goes tight. “I appreciate it, but no. I’m not—”
He holds up a hand, palm out, smile softening. “Hey. No pressure. Just thought I’d ask.”
I nod, relief washing through me. “It’s not you,” I add, although it very much is. “I’m just here temporarily, and…” My sentence dies a quiet death in the air between us.
“No need to explain,” John says, still eyeing my flannel. “Offer stands. It wouldn’t have to be a big thing—I’m not looking for anything serious either.”
I give him a half-smile. “I don’t think so, John.”
John nods and steps out onto the porch. “Fair ’nough. I’ll draw up the revised plans and get back to you, Miss Holliday.”
“Thank you,” I murmur, shutting the door behind him.
I lean against it for a moment, listening to the sound of his truck pulling away, and try to shake off the feeling that just brushed cold fingers down my spine.
Then I call my aunt.
“How’ya doin’, sugar?” she drawls immediately after answering. “Gettin’ my farmhouse nice and pretty?”
“Sure am,” I say, “about that—you said I have full creative freedom, right?”
There’s a beat of silence, then, “Clementine Holliday, if you—”
“It’s nothing bad, aunt Marg, I just figured we should keep some of the original details. People who come here will want an authentic country experience—If they want sleek, they’ll get a hotel.”
“If you say so, sugar. You’re the expert. That reminds me—I was gonna ask John Avery about it, but since you know the McGraw boys, maybe you could ask…”
My stomach dips. “Ask about what?”
“The gate on the north pasture. Hinge snapped clean off last month, and the welder’s been givin’ me trouble. I need someone who actually knows what they’re doin’.” She sighs, like she’s tired of the whole ordeal already. “Doesn’t one of those guys weld?”
The answer rolls off my tongue before I can stop it. “Colton does.”
“Well, there you go,” aunt Marg says, satisfied. “He’s a good guy. Would you give him a call for me?”
I rub the space between my eyebrows with two fingers. “Right. Sure. I’ll… handle it.”
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Think he'll still drop everything to come help her, even after what she said?
??