37
Talia woke to the sound of her best friend’s ringtone playing somewhere close.
For a few seconds, she refused to open her eyes.
The bed was too comfortable. The sheets were too warm. Her body was too heavy with the lingering softness that came after a night spent not sleeping nearly enough.
Then the ringtone kept going.
Her eyes opened.
Sunlight poured through the curtains, bright enough to tell her it was not early anymore. She blinked at the unfamiliar ceiling, the unfamiliar room, the unfamiliar weight of quiet all around her.
Then memory returned.
Not in pieces.
All at once.
Gordon’s cottage.
Gordon’s hands.
Gordon’s mouth.
Gordon’s bed.
Talia sat up fast, clutching the sheet to her chest.
She was not in the lavender suite.
She was alone in Gordon’s bed.
The phone continued to ring.
“Oh, Lord,” she muttered, reaching toward the small table beside the bed.
Her phone sat there, plugged into a charger that had not been hers. Apparently, Gordon had found one for her. Of course he had. Because the man was determined to be thoughtful in ways that made her defenses look flimsy and ridiculous.
She grabbed the phone and answered before it went to voicemail.
“Hello?”
“Well, good morning to you too,” her best friend said. “Are you still in cowboy land?”
Talia smiled despite herself and pushed her hair away from her face. “Good morning, Patrice.”
“That was not an answer.”
“Yes. I’m still at the ranch.”
“Mm-hmm. I figured. Otherwise, you would’ve called me by now to tell me you survived rural Texas and returned to civilization.”
“Sunset Springs is civilized.”
“Do they have sushi delivery?”
“No.”
“Then my point stands.”
Talia laughed softly and leaned back against the headboard, still holding the sheet in place even though no one was there to see her.
Patrice did not miss much, even over the phone. “You sound funny.”
“I just woke up.”
“At this hour?”
Talia glanced toward the window. “What time is it?”
“Almost ten.”
Her eyes widened. “What?”
“Yes, ma’am. Almost ten. So either the ranch life has finally exhausted you, or the cowboys are more interesting than you’ve admitted.”
“Patrice.”
“I’m just asking questions. I thought journalists respected questions.”
“Not when they sound like traps.”
“All my questions are traps. You know this.”
Talia smiled and sank lower against the pillow.
Patrice softened. “Seriously, how’s it going?”
Talia looked around Gordon’s bedroom, taking in the folded quilt at the foot of the bed, the simple dresser, the pair of boots near the wall, and the clothes she had not put back on last night.
How was it going?
That was a dangerous question.
“It’s going,” she said.
“Terrible answer. Try again. And this had better be the story of all stories, because you’ve been there more than a week.”
“I know.”
“You said a few days.”
“I know.”
“You said you would get what you needed and come home.”
“I know that too.”
“So?”
Talia closed her eyes for a second. “The story is coming along.”
“But?”
“But I’m not sure Martin is going to like it.”
“Why not?”
“Because it isn’t the scandalous story he wanted.”
Patrice was quiet for a beat. “What is it?”
Talia looked toward the bedroom door, half expecting Gordon to appear even though she was alone.
“It has heart,” she said quietly. “More than I expected. More than I was prepared for.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t say oh like that.”
“I didn’t say it like anything.”
“You did.”
“I said it like a woman realizing her best friend may have gone to cowboy land and discovered feelings.”
Talia rubbed a hand over her face. “We are not discussing feelings.”
“Fine. Then discuss the story.”
“It’s about a man people think they understand because of his last name and the bad things attached to it. But they don’t understand him at all. They don’t understand what it means to be raised by cruelty, to betray it, and then have to learn how to belong somewhere good.”
Patrice was quiet longer this time.
“That actually sounds beautiful,” she said.
“It could be. If I get it right.”
“And if Martin hates it?”
Talia looked down at the sheet pooled around her waist. “Then I deal with that when it happens.”
“You sound different.”
“I’m tired.”
“No. You sound softer.”
Talia’s grip tightened around the phone. “I’m not softer.”
“Girl, please. I have known you since you wore those tragic yellow glasses and thought bangs were a personality. I know softer when I hear it.”
“The yellow glasses were stylish.”
“They were a cry for help.”
Talia laughed, grateful for the familiar rhythm of teasing. “How are things with you?”
“Oh, now she wants to change the subject.”
“Yes. Aggressively.”
Patrice let her, because that was what a real friend did.
She talked about her new boyfriend, who had apparently survived a brunch with her cousins and only said one embarrassing thing.
She told Talia about work, about a neighbor’s dog that kept trying to sneak into her apartment, about a restaurant they needed to try when Talia returned.
“And yes,” Patrice added, “before you ask, I went by your apartment. I collected the mail, watered the plants, and threw out the questionable leftovers in your fridge.”
“They were not questionable.”
“They had started a society.”
“Thank you for stopping by.”
“You’re welcome. Your peace lily is dramatic, but alive.”
“It gets that from you.”
“Rude.”
“Accurate.”
Patrice laughed. “So when are you coming home?”
Talia looked around the room again.
Home.
The word did not land where it usually did.
“I’ll be home soon,” she said.
There was a small silence.
Patrice heard it. Talia knew she did.
“All right,” Patrice said gently. “Call me if you need me.”
“I will.”
“You better.”
They ended the call.
For a long moment, Talia stayed in bed, holding the phone in her lap.
Then she pushed the sheet back and got up.
Immediately, she realized a new problem.
She was naked.
Completely.
And she had no idea where her clothes were.
“Fantastic,” she whispered.
The night before had not involved careful folding.
It had involved kissing in the living room, stumbling toward the hallway, hands tugging at fabric, breathless laughter when she nearly tripped over one of Gordon’s boots, and clothing discarded in a trail that might embarrass a less desperate woman.
This morning, that trail was evidence.
Talia tiptoed across the bedroom floor, moving toward the door with one arm over her breasts like someone might suddenly appear in the hallway of Gordon’s cottage.
She was deeply grateful to whoever had hung the curtains.
Deeply.
The bedroom curtains were drawn. The living room curtains were drawn too, enough to block anyone from seeing straight in. It did not mean no one knew her car was outside. It did not mean the ranch grapevine had gone blind overnight.
But at least no one was getting a morning view of her nakedness.
Small blessings.
When she entered the open living, dining, and kitchen area, she stopped.
Her clothes were not scattered across the floor.
Not anymore.
They had been gathered and folded neatly on the bar that separated the kitchen from the living room. Beside them sat her laptop, her charger, her notebook, and her purse.
On top was a sheet of Stanley Ranch letterhead.
Talia picked it up.
Gordon’s handwriting was neat and careful.
I brought a change of clothes and your computer in case anyone sees you leaving. They’ll think you were just working in private at my place.
G.
Talia stared at the note.
Then she smiled.
A slow, helpless smile she was glad no one could witness because it would have given away far too much.
He had thought of that.
Of course he had.
He had woken up, left her sleeping, gone to get her things, and arranged a cover story for her dignity before she had even opened her eyes.
It was sweet.
It was thoughtful.
It was also wildly optimistic.
Talia looked toward the front window.
Her car was still parked in his gravel drive.
It had been there last night.
It was there this morning.
His closest neighbors might not have needed binoculars to put together a theory. On a ranch where children heard butter melt and grown women exchanged entire conversations with one glance, there was no way their night would remain between only the two of them.
Still, the effort touched her.
That was becoming a problem.
Gordon’s efforts touched her too often.
She gathered her things and carried them to the bathroom. The shower helped. Hot water, soap, a clean towel, and the familiar motions of dressing made her feel almost like a rational adult again. Almost.
She put on the clothes Gordon had brought, then stood in front of the mirror and stared at herself.
She looked different.
Not obviously. Not enough that anyone else would know just by looking.
But she knew.
Her skin seemed warmer. Her eyes too bright. Her mouth softer than it had been yesterday. There was a small mark low on her shoulder she did not remember getting until she touched it and memory flashed bright behind her eyes.
Gordon’s mouth there.
Gordon’s voice against her skin.
Talia gripped the edge of the sink.
“Do not start,” she told her reflection.
Her reflection looked unconvinced.
She returned to the living area, opened her laptop at the bar, and sat down.
If anyone asked, she had been working in private at Gordon’s place.
So she would work.
At least a little.
Enough that it would not be a complete lie.
She opened the document and read the first few paragraphs. Then she read the same sentence three times without understanding it.
Her mind slid back.
Gordon behind her at the stove, arms around her waist.
Gordon at the table, telling her she could write books and he would be her biggest fan.
Gordon in the hallway, kissing her like he was asking permission even after she had already told him yes.
Gordon in bed.
Talia’s fingers hovered over the keys.
She could still feel the way he had touched her.
Attentive.
Reverent.
Commanding when she wanted him to be, careful when she needed him to be.
He had learned her like he had all the time in the world and no intention of wasting a second.
He had made sure she was satisfied, not once rushing toward his own pleasure before giving her hers.
He had watched her face, listened to her breathing, noticed every small sound she made as if each one mattered to him.
No man had ever touched her like that.
Not like a secret.
Not like a compromise.
Not like a woman he enjoyed but did not plan to claim in daylight.
Gordon had looked at all of her.
Her curves. Her softness. The parts other men had criticized, hidden, tolerated, or treated as if they came with apologies attached.
He had looked at her like he adored the exact shape of her.
Every touch of his hands, every press of his body, every slow kiss had made her feel wanted without condition.
Adored.
The word scared her enough that she closed her eyes.
She could not afford adored.
Adored made women imagine things.
Adored made temporary feel permanent.
Adored made a cottage in Sunset Springs feel warmer than an apartment in Houston.
“No,” she whispered.
She opened her eyes and stared hard at the screen.
Focus.
She said it louder this time. “Focus.”
The word echoed in the quiet cottage.
Talia breathed in slowly, then out.
She forced Gordon from her mind.
Not completely. That was impossible.
But enough.
She placed her fingers on the keys and began to write.
The article needed to be finished. More than that, it needed to be right. Not soft because she liked him. Not sanitized because she had slept in his bed. Not cruel because Martin wanted teeth.
Honest.
She owed Gordon that.
She owed Luke and Edye that.
Maybe she owed herself that too.
She wrote about names and inheritance. About how some men are born under shadows cast by fathers they did not choose.
About a ranch that had taken in a man who arrived with evidence instead of excuses.
About the difference between guilt and responsibility, punishment and accountability, exile and belonging.
She wrote about Gordon as a man in the middle of becoming.
Not redeemed by love.
Not saved by better people.
But strengthened by the first place that made room for him to choose who he wanted to be.
The sentences came slowly at first.
Then faster.
Talia lost track of time.
Outside, the morning moved toward afternoon. Trucks passed occasionally. A horse whinnied in the distance. Somewhere beyond the cottage, ranch life continued with all its noise and purpose.
Inside, Talia wrote.
She wrote until the article had bones.
Until it had breath.
Until she could begin to see the ending.
Then she sat back, heart beating too fast for someone who had only been typing.
Luke and Edye needed to read it before they left for the cattle drive.
That thought had been there since the beginning, but now it felt urgent.
They needed to know what she intended to say about Gordon.
They needed to see that she was not here to gut him for a promotion.
And Gordon needed to read it too.
Not yet.
But soon.
Talia saved the document, then saved it again because paranoia was the backbone of responsible journalism. She looked around Gordon’s cottage, at the quiet kitchen, the small table, the living room, the hallway that led to the bedroom where she had woken alone in his bed.
The note still lay beside her laptop.
She picked it up again and ran her thumb over the letter G.
Soon, she had told Patrice.
She would be home soon.
But for the first time, Talia wondered what home was supposed to feel like when a person finally found it.