Chapter 3 #2
Since Liam sells bucking bulls to the rodeo, he hosts a training session for new riders.
It’s mostly guys trying to earn their stripes before the season kicks off.
It’s vital for them to get on a real bull, to feel the weight, the heat, the instinct of the animal beneath them.
No mechanical bull or spinning barrel can replicate that.
Liam nods. “You want to hang around the barn and annoy the riders with questions, be my guest.” He grins. “I’ll even throw in a press pass.”
“Oh good,” I say. “That’ll pair nicely with the boots I already own.”
We share a smile. A real one.
“I’m proud of you, Phern.”
“Why?” I ask, startled. “I haven’t done anything yet.”
He gets a far-off look in his eyes. “Sometimes the hardest part is dreaming.”
That quiets me.
I touch his arm. “I talked to Olive this morning. She seemed happy. Said last night’s date went well.”
“Good,” he says softly. “I’m glad.”
He hesitates, then adds, “I couldn’t have done this without you. Or Will.”
“Sure you could have,” I say automatically but I’m the one who pauses this time. “Have you heard from Carl?”
“Not since I sent him packing.” His voice is careful, measured. “It’s for the best. Even my therapist agrees. But I still feel rotten about it.”
“That’s understandable,” I say gently. “He’s your dad. It’s complicated. But for the record?”
He looks up.
“You seem happier without him hovering.”
Liam nods once, slow and thoughtful. “I think I am.”
We finish up at Liam’s, and I head back into town. When I drive past Flowers End, I spot Will leaning against the front railing, cigar in hand.
I’m not usually one for smokers, but something about him holding it has always worked for me. Maybe it’s the way he rolls it between his fingers like it’s second nature. Or how the scent—rich and earthy—somehow smells like comfort and firewood instead of something bitter.
I lift a hand in a casual wave as I turn down the alley beside the bar, pulling into the small parking space behind Knot and Spur.
I’m barely out of my truck when I hear footsteps.
Will rounds the corner, still holding the cigar between two fingers. “You got a delivery while you were out. I signed for it.”
I blink. “I did?”
He nods toward the back door. “Big box. Looks like furniture.”
I check my phone and groan. “Crap. That was fast. I didn’t think it’d ship so soon. Sorry you had to deal with it.”
He shrugs. “Didn’t mind.” There’s a beat of silence and then he asks, “Need help getting it up?”
My heart stutters.
He means the stairs.
Obviously.
But my brain is deeply uncooperative.
“Sure,” I say, clearing my throat. “If you’re not busy.”
He smirks, just a little. “I’ve got a minute.”
And just like that, Will Flowers is following me up to my apartment with a box of furniture between us and a whole lot of unresolved tension neither of us is talking about. Yet.
The box is bigger than I expected, and awkward as hell to maneuver up the narrow back staircase. Will takes most of the weight without complaint, jaw tight, muscles flexed, and I have to force myself not to look.
Once we get it inside, he drops it in the middle of my living room with a grunt.
“This is a coffee table?” he asks, eyeing the box like it’s personally offended him.
“Supposedly. I guess I’ll find out once I build it.”
He takes a drag off the cigar, then stubs it out in the small dish I set on the windowsill when I moved in. I put it there because it reminded me of my dad, and how he used to put out his cigars. It makes me happy seeing someone else use it.
“Alright. Let’s see what we’re working with.”
I arch a brow. “You’re staying?”
He shrugs, grabbing the box cutter from the kitchen counter like he lives here. “You’ll strip a screw or lose a bolt without me.”
I laugh. “That’s a bold assumption.”
“It’s not an assumption. It’s experience.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling as we start pulling pieces out of the box. Soon the floor is covered in wooden planks, metal legs, a little baggie of bolts and an instruction manual written by someone who clearly hates humanity.
We work side by side on the floor, knee to knee, passing tools back and forth, occasionally brushing fingers. It’s easy. Familiar.
Will asks, “You liking it in town?”
“Yeah,” I say, quieter now. “I needed space. A place that felt mine.”
He nods, then screws in one of the legs. “You’ve always been good at disappearing when things get hard.”
I stiffen. “Wow. Okay.”
He doesn’t look up. “Didn’t mean it like that.”
“How did you mean it?”
Will sighs. “I meant you always run somewhere. Into work. Into taking care of everyone else. Into hiding.”
“That’s rich coming from a man who opens a bar to avoid actual feelings.”
He huffs a laugh and sits back on his heels, watching me.
“You scared me,” he says suddenly.
“What?”
“That night. When Carl got in your face. I didn’t say it then, but it scared the shit out of me.”
I swallow hard. “I didn’t know.”
He nods slowly. “Yeah. I figured.”
Silence stretches, thick between us.
I murmur, “You’ve always made me feel safe, you know.”
Will’s eyes stay locked on mine, unreadable. But something shifts behind them.
“Then why do I get the feeling you’re trying to run?” he asks softly.
Because I am. Because the things he makes me feel are messy. Unsteady. Dangerous. And because I’m almost positive he doesn’t feel the same way. So I smile. A practiced one. Just enough curve to pass as casual.
“I was never supposed to stay here. Before Dad died, I had big plans on never coming back.”
My throat tightens as I swallow.
“I’ve never really fit in here,” I add, voice quieter now. “So, yeah. I’ll be leaving once I figure out where I belong.”
I say it like it’s logical. Like it doesn’t hurt.
Will leans back slightly, arms resting on his knees, like he’s absorbing it.
“Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out,” he says. But there’s no judgment in his voice.
Just disappointment. And maybe a hint of something else I can’t name.
“I don’t,” I admit. “But staying here, in this limbo? It’s not the answer.”
He nods once, slow. Then looks at the half-built table between us.
“Well,” he says, “good thing this isn’t permanent either.”
We finish the table in silence. Our knees still touching. Our hands still brushing. But it doesn’t feel like before.
It feels like something’s breaking beneath the surface and I don’t know how to stop it.