Chapter 3
Christine
There’s nothing like falling into a bed clean after a long day of being covered in dirt.
I don’t bother drying my hair, figuring I’ll deal with the nest of tangles in the morning instead. Until I remember morning comes early on the ranch.
With a groan, I flip the covers off and push out of bed.
The moonlight flooding my bedroom floor lights the way to my dresser.
I’m not drying my hair, but I can at least brush it.
I start at the ends, wanting to rush the process, but I know patience is a virtue, so I slow down.
And just like every other time I stop rushing around and my mind has a moment to wander, Tagger invades my thoughts.
Sort of like he did my whole life. The feelings of an innocent crush at eight differ from those I felt for him when I was sixteen.
I may have been invisible to him, but he made every fiber of my being tighten when he was around. I couldn’t think straight, struggled to complete sentences without giggling, and, worst of all, I made a fool of myself, thinking he might be interested.
Why in hell would a twenty-year-old, who had every girl falling at his feet, find me something special?
My chest flames in embarrassment, remembering how I made a fool of myself trying to flirt with him.
I didn’t even know how to flirt back then.
Asking him to help me onto my horse was ridiculous.
He knew I could get on without help, but he still obliged.
It was probably best he and Baylor returned to campus early that year.
Otherwise, I might have done something else stupid to get his attention.
I can only hope he doesn’t remember as vividly as I do.
God . . . so humiliating.
Setting the brush down, I return to bed, tucking myself back into the softness of the covers and mattress. I close my eyes and snuggle the covers under my chin. It’s past eleven, but sleep doesn’t seem to come like usual.
Tag looked good today. Too good for his own good.
I can only imagine the type of woman he dates back in New York.
Classically pretty like Grace Kelly and a pert tip to their nose, fashion-forward blond hair much lighter than mine cut with precision by the fancy stylists, and ten minutes doing yoga gets their bodies back in perfect shape to draw in a man like Tagger Grange.
They probably even dry their hair before they get in bed . . .
Dammit.
Not sure how I managed to guilt myself, but I get back up and go into the bathroom.
Since I’m wide awake anyway, I spend the next fifteen minutes drying my unruly locks before brushing it again and adding a little product to tame the flyaway strands.
It won’t weather a hard night’s sleep, but that doesn’t seem to be in the cards for me tonight.
I don’t fully style it, but I like my hair’s natural shine and the way the light brown contrasts with the blond streaking through it. I even inherited a sprinkling of red strands from my mom.
A pang in my chest I’m all too familiar with returns. It’s not fair she’s gone. No goodbye. No last I love you. Nothing but my dad calling to tell me no one survived the car accident.
I tuck my hair behind my ears like she used to do, barely able to still hear her telling me I have such a pretty face. Almost . . . Her voice is fading from the memories I have so desperately tried to hold on to. I hate that she lives in videos and photos but not here with us anymore.
Swiping at the unexpected emotion sliding onto my face, I raise my chin and return to bed once more, determined to find sleep.
Of course, I didn’t bargain on Tagger haunting me all night either. But here he is, plain as day in my head again. I guess some crushes never go away. I’m going to be rocking on that front porch with Lauralee and still thinking about him.
I clench my eyes, knowing he’s at the forefront of my mind only because I saw him again today. But when I start accepting that thinking about him won’t end until he flies back out of here, I realize today that he saw me as well.
At eighteen, I swear he noticed me for the first time, but he would never cross that line. Wonder what he thinks now that I’m eight years older?
Flipping over, I cover my face with the pillow, hoping to smother some sense into myself. Tagger Grange will be my undoing. I felt it back at the store. I lose my better judgment when he’s in town. I need to keep my distance because he’s nothing but trouble when hanging around.
The sun rose too early for my liking, but I still drag myself out of bed and stumble my way through getting dressed for the day.
With some of the crew visiting family in Houston for a few days, I take over making sure the horses are fed and the irrigation system goes off as scheduled in the lower acres of crops.
Too busy for breakfast, I’m starving and finally head back toward the house. The crops aren’t tall enough to hide the dust I spy in the air in the distance. I pick up the pace because I know that means we have visitors.
A gray sedan is parked near my truck when I reach the yard. I don’t see anyone when I look around. Shielding my eyes from the sun with my hand, I turn back to see if they’ve climbed the fence.
“Hey, stranger.”
My attention whips to the barn to find Tagger and Beck heading toward me. “Hey,” I say, lowering my hand. “You’re out and about early.”
He checks his watch. With his brows narrowed, he replies, “It’s almost eleven.”
“Oh, it felt earlier to me.”
Coming to a stop with a few feet remaining between us, he smiles. It’s so genuine that I wish I’d had time to prepare for it. Though admittedly, my heartbeat had already picked up speed from the very sight of him. “Time always did slip away out in these fields.”
“Still does.” Kneeling, I smile at his son who stands looking around. “Hi, Beck. Did you come out to see the horses?”
He jumps, stomping his feet back in the dirt to cause a little dust cloud to form. “Yes!” I love how everything sounds like such an adventure to him. He’s the cutest kid. I remember Tag having that same color hair when he was young and eyes wide with possibility before life took hold.
I glance at his dad. It’s easy to get caught in his looks.
He’s the handsomest man I’ve ever seen, still after all these years.
It’s easy to be drawn to the charisma of his ways—easygoing, funny, and gives you his full attention when you’re speaking.
But it’s his eyes that give him away. The charm doesn’t quite reach them like it used to, and if I get the chance to stare into them for longer than a few seconds, I can see he brought some troubles back home with him.
It's not something I have a right to pry into with questions, and I would never do so in front of his kid, but it’s noted.
To Beck, I smile again because he makes it hard not to, and say, “I like the enthusiasm. We can head over now or—”
“We don’t want to get in the way if you’re busy.”
The scoff erupts before it can be stifled.
“We’re running a ranch . . .” I signal toward the hill that leads to the acres of crops we grow there.
“And farm. When are we not busy out here?” His smile falters.
I didn’t intend to make him feel bad, so I say, “It’s lunchtime.
I was just coming to the house to eat something.
Want to join me?” I start walking. Maybe the invite isn’t only for him.
I reap the benefits of his company as well.
“It’s not fancy. BLT sandwiches are on the menu today. ”
I hear the gravel under their feet just before Tag says, “It’s been a long time since I had a BLT.”
Turning back, I keep my feet moving. “I’ve been known to make a good one.”
He rubs his stomach. “I’m suddenly hungry.”
“I can eat, too, Daddy.” Beck runs to me and slips his hand in mine like we’re old friends. I like this kid.
Looking down at him, I ask, “Do you know what the B stands for?”
“Burger?”
I can’t hold back a laugh. “Close. Bacon. Do you like bacon?”
“Does Beckett Grange like bacon?” Tag bellows behind us. “He’s a bacon monster.”
“Rawr,” Beck roars, then dashes to the porch.
His place at my side isn’t vacant for long, Tag sliding right into the space. “Sure you don’t mind, Pris?”
I stop. Facing him, I tilt my head and arch an eyebrow. With a poke to the chest, his oh-so-hard chest, I caution, “Listen, I let you get away with it yesterday, but if you plan on hanging around and breaking bacon with me, the nickname needs to be left in the past.”
Judging by how his brows knit together, he appears confused. “What’s wrong with Pris?” There’s such an innocence to his tone like I’m the one ruining the fun.
“You know what’s wrong with it, so I don’t know if you’re trying to rile me up or you still see me as that same tag-along little sister, but I have news for you, buster.”
“Oh yeah? What’s that?” The confusion disappears from his face and is replaced with a growing smirk.
I swear he’s the devil sent to tempt me into hell.
And it’s been so long since I was even near a man I wasn’t related to or worked with, I’m ready to take the bait.
I lean in, close enough to inhale the expensive aftershave that lightly coats his skin, and whisper, “I’m all grown up if you haven’t noticed. ”
He moves in even closer, so close that my lips part in a desperate attempt for air to reach my lungs as my entire body stills.
Our shoes bump together, his chest rests against my arm, and with the minutest of angles, the scruff on his cheek brushes against my temple.
His eyes dip to my lips as he drags his tongue over the corner of his mouth, and then tilts his head until his breath reaches my ear, and whispers, “I’ve noticed, Pristine. ”
Pristine . . .
He’s the devil alright.
Before I have a chance to poke him again, a cold front sweeps in when he leaves me standing there alone. The squeal of the screen door that needs oiling is swung open, and the two of them walk inside.
It’s best he’s gone, or he might find himself pinned to the wood planks of the porch.
I turn to face the property, resting my hands on the railing. I take a long moment not only to catch my breath but also to calm my racing heart. Dropping my head down and closing my eyes, I equally love and hate that he gets a reaction from me so easily.
He always did, even when it was annoying like that nickname.
But I suddenly feel alive in ways I haven’t since I returned home, and if I’m to give credit where it’s due, it’s because of him.
God, I’m in so much trouble.