Chapter 9
Lark
Mary Lou’s eyes widen. “You’re Tristan and that’s Lark.” Then she cups her hands around her mouth but forgets to actually lower her voice. “She’s a Gatlin.”
I look up, and Tristan rolls his eyes. “I’m aware. I promise not to hurt your friend. I just saved her from that asshole who was trying to get in her pants.”
Let me die.
Just…dead. Seriously, he did not just say that.
“Better not, buddy, or I’ll kick your ass,” Mary Lou, my champion best friend, warns.
“I don’t doubt that…”
I don’t either. She’ll totally do it. She’s scary.
Jimmy looks to me. “Are you okay with that?”
“If I must,” I say and then rest my head on my arm. “I can ignore him if he doesn’t talk.”
Tristan snorts a laugh. “I promise not to say a word.”
“Good.”
Words are something I need to keep inside my head. Words will definitely get me in trouble if they’re allowed out.
Jimmy and Tristan help the three of us to our feet, and somehow we make it out the door. The three of us hug, promising to call each other tomorrow and vowing to drink water and take medicine before we pass out.
I’m drunk, but not that bad. At least I feel much more sober than I did ten minutes ago. Tristan walks me around to the passenger side of his truck and opens the door. The side rails seem awfully high. I put my foot up, but it slides off, and I giggle. “Oops.”
I try again, but my feet are not my friend.
“For fuck’s sake,” he mutters, and then his hands are around my waist and he’s manhandling me into the cab.
“Hey! I can do it!”
Maybe.
“Obviously not.”
Tristan climbs up, then pulls my seat belt across my lap and clicks it. Then the door closes, and he’s walking around the front.
“Jerk,” I mutter and rest my head against the cool glass window.
He gets in, looks over at me, and sighs. “If you’re going to puke, tell me first so you don’t ruin my truck.”
I mimic his mouth, repeating it but not aloud.
He sees it and glares.
“Fine, I’ll tell you before I hurl.”
“Appreciate that.”
Once again I find myself in his truck that smells like dirt, horse, cologne, and leather. All things masculine and all things inherently Tristan.
He pulls out, and my stomach roils. I close my eyes, hoping that the twenty-minute ride to the ranch will pass quickly, and without incident, if I’m not paying attention.
My stomach, however, isn’t a fan of this.
I lift my lids and groan, hand moving to my stomach.
Please, if you are up there, God, do not let me puke in front of this man. Just give me until I get home, and I will pray to the porcelain gods all night if you grant me this.
God is not answering my pleas.
“Tristan,” I say, my hand going to my mouth. “Pull over.”
Oh, this is going to suck so bad.
I will never be able to look at this man again.
Ever.
Hey, that’ll solve this stupid infatuation issue.
Tristan pulls over on the side of the road. I open the door, sticking the top half of my body out. I feel so nauseated.
I inhale deeply, waiting for the sickness to come, but it doesn’t, and instead Tristan is here, beside me, pushing my hair back. “Are you okay?”
What universe am I living in?
Did he seriously get out of the truck and come around to help me? No. This is a dream. I’m clearly so damn drunk I don’t even have a grip on reality.
It’s the only reasonable explanation for any of this.
Drunk or dreaming.
I will say, if I am dreaming, this is really unfair. Who the hell wants to dream about puking—almost puking—on the side of the road?
Not me.
I’d much prefer a sexy dream with orgasms.
“Good to know,” Tristan chuckles.
I gasp and cover my mouth with my hand. “I did not say that.”
“Sexy dreams and orgasms. You definitely said it.”
I can feel the heat of embarrassment climbing up my face. “Wake up, wake up, wake up,” I say to myself.
“This is awake,” he informs me.
Of course it is.
“I’m never drinking tequila again,” I moan, heaving myself into my seat, my head falling back against the headrest.
“Has the nausea passed?”
I nod, creaking my eye open just a touch and seeing his gorgeous face there. “For now.”
“You think I’m gorgeous?”
“No!” I deny quickly.
He smirks. “I’m pretty sure that’s what you said.”
I hate myself right now. “I didn’t.”
“Ya did.”
I roll my eyes. “You promised not to talk.”
“Ahh, but you talked to me first.”
“That doesn’t mean I want a conversation.” I bristle, crossing my arms over my belly.
Tristan laughs. “Fair enough. No more talking. Although feel free to tell me more about your dreams.”
The asshat closes my door and walks around the front.
I close my eyes again, hoping I can keep my stomach from revolting during the rest of the drive. Even better, I can’t talk if I’m asleep.
Time to fake it.
As soon as Tristan hops in beside me, I know I’m doomed. He leans in, adjusting my seat belt back around me. My eyes open immediately, and I push his hands away. “I’m perfectly capable of doing this myself.”
One dark brown brow lifts. “Are you?”
I glare at him. “Yes. Now, go back to your side. I’m going to nap.”
His breathy laugh echoes in the silence. “Suit yourself.”
The truck rumbles to life, and I pretend my eyelids are glued.
Well, partially.
I lift my right one, staring at him in the dim light from the dash.
His head turns, and I slam it closed, hoping he didn’t catch me.
Hope is futile at this point. I should stop doing it since it’s not working out all that well for me.
“How’s the nap going?”
I sigh. “Great.”
“How is your stomach?”
“As long as I keep my eyes closed, it seems better.”
Apparently, if I can’t see the road, I’m able to control it. Tomorrow is going to suck, though.
After trying to fake sleep and my stomach starting to churn again, I turn to Tristan. “Why is your ranch named Heartstone?” I ask the stupidest question ever asked.
He glances over. “Why do you care?”
“I don’t.”
“But you just asked.”
I hate him.
I decide to back down and not let my curiosity get the best of me. “Forget it. I don’t care.”
Tristan snorts a laugh. “It’s because of my mother.”
That makes zero sense. “Huh? Your mother?”
Tristan’s family farm has been passed down for at least four generations. How do I know this? Because our family has been doing the same. It’s always the first son who gets it. Blah blah. Boys and the patriarchy crap. Not that any of the daughters couldn’t have run those ranches—and done it better.
I’ve heard the story about my family and their pass-down rules, and I know it matches his, so that truly baffles me. Our name has been the same since the 1870s.
He nods. “We’ve always been named the Stone Ranch after my grandfathers, going back forever. That didn’t change until my father met my mother, Virginia Hart.”
“Okay, that’s cute. Tell me more.” Curiosity is epically piqued.
He grins. “Thought you didn’t care?”
“I don’t,” I counter. “I just like stories.”
“Uh-huh. Before my father met her, he said that the farm lacked heart, and then he found her. So he said she was the heart to his stone, and then he changed it to Heartstone so that no matter how hard things are, we know that there’s always life here. And her heart is what keeps us going.”
“That might be the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard,” I confess.
“Pop is a bit of a romantic,” he admits.
Of all the things I’ve heard about his father, that’s definitely not one. Still, it’s adorable, and I know that my heart will never be the same after that.
“Girls love a grand gesture,” I say absently. “I bet she was a goner after that.”
Tristan laughs. “Legend has it that she fell in love with him the moment she saw him.”
“And what about him?”
“I think he loved her before they met.”
We keep riding, the beautiful story of his parents’ love fading with each mile and my nausea growing. God, I should’ve stayed home. Mary Lou and her “let’s go have some drinks and dance” night out. It’s never just that. It always ends up being drunken nights and regret-filled mornings.
“I told my friends that I broke up with Jeremy,” I tell Tristan for absolutely no good reason. “Suzanne decided that was worth a shot, and Mary Lou said it was worth four.”
“That sounds like her.”
I turn my head to look at him. “She really is a bad influence.”
“Emmy Jo and I had our hands full with her…” Tristan clears his throat and looks ahead. “Anyway, anytime Mary Lou gives advice, do the opposite.”
I laugh. “I’ll remember that.”
“Honestly, I’ll be shocked if you remember half of tonight.”
“I remember that you danced with me,” I joke.
Although I won’t ever forget it, so maybe the joke is really on me.
“You danced with me. The girl circles.”
I roll my eyes. “Sure, she does. You could’ve skipped.”
“As could you.”
This is true. “The second time, though, that was all you.”
He snorts. “That was like ten seconds, and really, it was more like me saving you.”
I roll my eyes. “Semantics. The truth is, we danced together.”
He half laughs while shaking his head. “I’ll deny it until the day I die.”
“I’m sure there’s proof somewhere.”
“Just like there’s going to be proof we’re not the ones vandalizing your property.”
“If you say so…”
Tristan sighs deeply. “You’re going to have to apologize to my entire family when I prove it.”
“If that happens, I’ll do it, and I’ll even make my brothers do it. That’s how sure I am.”
I should probably stop talking since it’ll be a cold day in hell before either of my brothers apologizes to anyone, let alone a Stone.
I’ll at least encourage it.
And I’m sure I’ll be told I’m nuts and need to see the world for what it is.
“I look forward to that day,” Tristan says with a smirk. He knows exactly what I know about that possibility.
I look back out the window and thank my lucky stars that we’re on my road now. At least I can get out of this car and regret all my life choices tomorrow morning.
He starts to make the turn onto my driveway, and I remember that this is Tristan, and he can’t drop me off. “Stop!” I say quickly.
“What?”
“Drop me off here. At the end of the driveway!”
He stops the truck and looks at me, eyes wide for a heartbeat. “You’re kidding. You’re shit-faced. I’m not dropping you off at the end of the damn driveway.”
“Well, you’re not taking me to the door. My brothers were drinking, and God only knows if they’re home. My dad is definitely home and has a shotgun at the ready. You can’t risk it.”
Panic builds. They’ll blow a fuse. It doesn’t matter that Tristan is a good guy.
That we have this…truce of sorts. None of that matters to my brothers and definitely not to my father.
I already had to fight with them about when my truck broke down—adding a drunken night when I was supposed to drive will be the spark that lights up the inferno.
No. I’m not doing this.
“Thanks for the ride,” I say quickly and then lift the lock on the door and push it open.
I, of course, in my drunken idiocy, do not unbuckle my seat belt as I try to exit the fucking truck and am stuck.
My night is a series of bad decisions.
“For the love of God,” Tristan mutters as I fumble for the button to free myself.
I manage to hit it, and the seat belt loosens while I’m pretty much hanging out of the truck, but still halfway in.
My dignity is partially spared by the fact my feet do hit the side rails and I don’t tumble to the ground, as Tristan is in front of me.
His hands are on my waist, and I hold on to his broad shoulders. “Steady,” he says as he lifts me up slightly and puts me on the ground, my back against the truck.
“I should go,” I whisper.
“I’m not letting you walk drunk. So, whatever idea you had about running off isn’t going to happen.”
I look at the headlight beams, like beacons shining toward the front of the house, where my parents’ room is.
“Shut the truck off then.”
“Lark.”
“Please,” I beg. “I promise, I’ll stay here, but we have to be discreet. I really don’t want to be responsible for anyone killing you. It would be a lot of cleanup.”
He snorts a laugh. “I’d worry more about anyone coming up against me.”
He’s such a guy.
“Yes, I am,” he responds.
“Again with the saying my thoughts aloud!” I grumble.
“Stay put,” he warns.
When he seems to be content that I’m not going anywhere, he walks back to his side of the truck and turns the engine off, killing the lights.
I breathe a sigh of relief for clearing this first hurdle.
Now I have to actually walk, undetected, to the front door and pray no one woke up to the lights. If I somehow manage to make that happen, then I need to hope that my brothers are asleep and not waiting up because I was out drinking and they worry I won’t make it back safe.
I mean, look at me now. I’m just freaking fine.
Sure, I’m with my mortal enemy, dreaming of his face, his body, his mustache scratching me in all the wrong places—or right places, depending on your perspective—and I’m great. I almost puked once and can’t seem to keep my internal thoughts, well, internal. Again, I’m doing great, though.
Remembering that my internal thoughts have been becoming vocal, I look to Tristan, who runs his fingers through his dark hair and sighs. “Can you walk?”
I breathe my own sigh of relief that I didn’t say any of that. There’s no way he would’ve passed on the chance to say something.
“I can walk.”
At least I’m going to force myself to do it—unassisted.
I should really know better.
I take two steps and fall.
Yup. I fall.
Not gracefully either.
More like a sorority girl who did a couple too many keg stands and thought all was well with her balance.
It wasn’t well.
I flop over on my side and start laughing, because really, what else am I going to do? Cry? No way.
Tristan stands above me, arms crossed over his chest, and laughs. “That was…”
“Graceful?” I finish as a question.
“If you were going for the grace of a dead fish.”
I laugh and lift my hands. “Help.”
He does more than that. He squats down and lifts me up into his arms. My arms automatically loop around his neck, holding on to him. “What the hell are you doing?” I ask.
“What do you think? I’m not going to let you fall the entire way down your half-mile-long driveway. This is safer.”
Maybe for him. Not for me.
This close, I can feel his heat, the strength in his arms as he carries me as if I weigh nothing. I can smell his cologne mixed with fresh air and leather.
All of it is too much. Too close. Too—Tristan.