17. Reed
reed
. . .
Ipark two blocks away on purpose.
If I pull right up to Main Street, Layla won’t look. She’ll miss how Ruby Ridge opens slowly; the way the buildings lean toward each other, the way the air smells faintly of pine and coffee, the way everything feels…unrushed.
She hops out of the truck before I can even shut off the engine, already lifting her camera.
“Okay,” she says, walking backward down the sidewalk while filming. “I need everyone to appreciate this cutie small town. LOOK at all the cute shops with western decor!”
I shut the door and catch up to her, my hands sliding into my pockets.
She’s wearing a sundress today, the kind that moves with her, catching the breeze and brushing her legs.
My gaze travels along her delicate back, the curve of her natural hips, her sundress clinging to the right places.
Fuck, I shouldn’t be looking.
I force my eyes back to the street, even though I desperately want to admire her.
“It’s just buildings,” I say.
She stops so abruptly that I nearly walk into her.
“Reed Hayes,” she says solemnly, camera still rolling, “do not disrespect a good Main Street.”
I snort. “I grew up here. It’s allowed.”
She grins and pivots, filming the bakery window, the handwritten menu, and the flower shop next door, with buckets of blooms spilling onto the sidewalk. She crouches low, captures a shot of petals scattered on the concrete, then pops back up.
“Do they always do that?” she asks.
“Do what?”
“Put flowers everywhere. Like they’re trying to seduce people into staying.”
I shrug. “Guess it works.”
She glances at me, eyebrow raised. “Oh? You seduced?”
My pulse quickens as heat creeps up my neck. “That’s not what I meant.”
She laughs and turns back to her camera.
I watch her instead of the town now. I can’t help it.
The way she talks with her hands, the way she rocks on her heels when she’s thinking, the way she squints slightly at the screen as she’s filming.
We pass the old movie theater, its faded marquee letters crooked and sun-worn. She slows, filming it from across the street.
“This is cute,” she says. “Do they still show movies here?”
“Friday nights,” I say. “Usually something outdated.”
Her eyes light up. “I kinda love that, you should take me.”
Oh.
“Yeah, sure, I can do that.”
“Great! It’s a date,” she says, winking at me.
God damn it.
She walks backward again, narrating softly, nearly tripping over a crack in the sidewalk.
I reach out this time, my fingers brushing her arm just long enough to steady her.
She looks at me, surprised, then smiles. “Thank you for this.”
“Anytime,” I say, and mean more than just the moment.
We stop in front of a small boutique window; dresses, folded and stacked precisely on hangers.
She presses close to the glass, filming the street’s reflection behind her.
“This might be my favorite so far,” she murmurs.
“You say that every block.”
“Because every block keeps trying harder,” she says, glancing at me. “Unlike you.”
I huff a laugh. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You act like none of this is special,” she says, sweeping the camera around. “But you know exactly where the good light is, which shop has the best coffee, and which street is quieter.”
I don’t answer as I watch her lower the camera and look at the town with bare eyes, like she’s seeing something that belongs to her now, too.
She resumes filming, brushing past me, deliberately shoulder-bumping mine this time.
“You’re smiling,” she says casually.
“I am not.”
She tilts the camera toward me.
I dodge it, laughing despite myself. “Don’t.”
“Smile for my fans,” she teases.
“They don’t need to see me.”
She lowers the camera and looks at me, really looks. “I do.”
My chest tightens, and I look away first.
I’m not used to anyone being interested in me. I’ve locked people out. Who wants to look at a freak like me?
At the end of the street, she turns slowly, capturing one last sweeping shot.
The sun catches her hair, her dress, and the tiny dust motes floating in the air.
I stand there quietly, analyzing every detail of her, memorizing the freckles that dance across her nose, the way her eyes crinkle when she smiles, and how they reflect the natural light, honey and amber swirling in the vast blue.
She’s everything I could have ever dreamed of, but she isn’t mine to want.
“Thanks for bringing me,” she says, slipping the camera down into her purse.
I nod, my hands buried in my pockets, grounding myself. “Yeah.”
The truth settles in anyway, watching her discover Ruby Ridge feels a lot like watching her find a place in my life.
She keeps drifting farther from me, rummaging in her bag before pulling her camera out again, capturing chipped fences and tall grass brushing the pavement’s edge.
“This feels like a secret,” she says, half to herself.
“It kind of is,” I tell her. “Not many people walk this way.”
She hums, pleased, as she scans the horizon.
Suddenly, she stops so abruptly that I almost bump into her again.
“Oh.”
I follow her gaze, and it lands just beyond the road, past a low wooden fence.
There’s a patch of land that never developed. I’ve driven by it a hundred times without a second thought.
Right now, sunflowers bloom. Just a scattered burst of them, their faces tipped toward the sun.
She makes a soft, breathless sound.
“Reed,” she whispers.
Before I can answer, she grabs my hand.
Not my sleeve, not my wrist. My hand. My fucking hand.
Reed, relax, she’s just a friend, this means nothing.
Her fingers curl around mine, and then she pulls me, actually pulls me, off the road and toward the fence.
“Wait, Layla—” I start, but she’s already laughing and tugging me forward.
“Come on!” she says, breathless. “Please, please, please.”
We run awkwardly at first, then we find our footing, my boots thudding on the dirt, her laugh ringing out.
I vault the fence half a second after she does, landing hard and still holding her hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
She doesn’t let go as she drags me into the middle of the sunflowers, spinning once, then twice, her hair catching the light, laughter spilling from her as if she can’t contain it.
“Oh my god,” she says, breathless. “This is—this is perfect!”
I’m not looking at the goddamn flowers. I’m looking at her.
Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes shine, and her fingers tighten around mine as she continues to twirl us around.
My chest feels too tight for my own good, as my pulse pounds in my ears.
She lifts her camera again with her free hand, filming the sunflowers swaying, the blue sky overhead, our shadows tangled on the ground.
“Okay,” she says, giggling. “Tell me this town isn’t magical.”
I swallow the lump in my throat, choosing not to answer as she keeps spinning us in a circle.
She stops twirling us, turning to me then, still smiling, still holding my hand.
For a second, neither of us moves as the wind rustles through the flowers, brushing against us.
She looks down at our hands like she’s just noticing them intertwined with one another.
“Oh, sorry,” she says, but she doesn’t pull away right away.
“That’s okay,” I say quickly.
Her smile shifts, smaller now as she finally lets go, and I wish she fucking didn’t as she steps back just a little, but the space where she was feels cold immediately.
She lifts the camera again, filming the sunflowers from a different angle, humming softly as she smiles to herself.
I stand there with my hands loose at my sides, heart still racing, wondering how something so simple, running through a patch of sunflowers with her laugh echoing around us, can feel like it’s changing something I can’t undo.
And somehow… I don’t want to. I don’t want whatever this is between us to change. I want more.
She lowers the camera, taking two steps toward me. “Wait.”
Before I can ask what she means, she reaches for my hands again, this time both of them.
Her fingers slide into mine as if they already know where to go.
“Layla—” I start.
“Trust me,” she says, her eyes bright, already tugging.
She spins us again, and again, laughing as I stumble over my own feet.
Sunflowers blur around us, yellow and green streaking past my vision.
I’m painfully aware of how close she is, how her hands feel wrapped around mine, and how easy it would be to pull her in rather than let her lead.
“I don’t dance,” I protest weakly.
“You’re doing great,” she says. “Very… earnest.”
I snort. “That’s not a compliment.”
“It absolutely is!”
She twirls this time, her dress flaring, her hair lifting in the breeze as she turns back to me, laughing too hard to keep her balance, and she trips.
I reach for her at the same moment she reaches for me, but momentum wins.
We go down together, hitting the ground amid laughter and soft dirt.
She lands on top of me, and the laughter fades, replaced by something quieter.
I can feel her curves through her dress as her hands are braced on either side of my shoulders, her breath warm against my face.
The sunflowers sway above us, shadows shifting, the world narrowed to this small space between us.
She blinks, her eyes flicking over my face as if she’s suddenly aware of every inch of space, or lack thereof.
“Oh,” she breathes.
My heart is pounding so hard I’m sure she can feel it. I don’t move. I don’t trust myself to do so.
“Sorry,” she says softly, but she doesn’t get up yet.
“It’s…okay,” I manage.
Her gaze settles on my glasses, slightly crooked from the fall. She lifts one hand slowly, as if giving me time to stop her.
I don’t.
She nudges them back into place carefully, her touch feather-light on my cheek.
The contact sends heat straight through me.
“There,” she says quietly. “Better.”
I can feel my face burning. I know it’s obvious. I know I’m blushing. There’s no hiding it.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Something tender flickers across her expression, like she’s seeing me clearly for the first time.
For a moment, neither of us moves.
“Sorry,” she says quickly, her words tumbling out as she shifts her weight, suddenly very aware of herself. “I—I shouldn’t be on you.”
Her words hit me harder than the fall did.
“It’s—no,” I say at the same time she starts pushing herself up. “You’re fine. I mean— it’s fine. I didn’t—”
We both stop, flustered, talking over each other.
She laughs nervously, brushing dirt off her dress. “I’m really clumsy. I swear I’m not usually this—”
“Layla,” I say softly, and she looks at me.
Her expression changes, still bright, still warm, but there’s something else there now.
A flicker of guilt.
“I’m sorry,” she repeats, quieter this time.
Something twists in my chest.
“You don’t have to be,” I say, meaning it. “I should’ve… I don’t know. I should’ve caught you better.”
I push myself up first, then reach for her without thinking. My hands settle at her waist as my fingers curve instinctively around the soft warmth there.
Her skin is warm beneath my palms, the thin fabric doing nothing to help.
I’m suddenly hyper-aware of everything—how close she is, how easily my thumbs could move, how her hands hover for half a second before settling on my forearms.
I help her up slowly, taking a breath at a time before I lose it.
“There,” I murmur once she’s steady.
Neither of us lets go right away.
The sunflowers sway around us, brushing our legs. Everything is hushed except for the sound of my heartbeat pounding in my ears.
Her fingers curl slightly into my sleeves as my hands stay at her waist, my thumbs flexing once before I force them still.
I don’t trust myself.
She swallows. “You okay?”
I nod, probably too fast. “Yeah. Just—uh. You’re good?”
She smiles sheepishly. “Yeah. Thanks for… catching me.”
“I didn’t really,” I admit.
“You did enough,” she says.
It feels like she might say something else, something important. Her gaze flicks to my lips, then back to my eyes.
I let go first, and losing contact with her makes my heart ache.
She steps back, smoothing her dress, lifting her camera again to give her something to do with her hands.
“Well,” she says lightly, clearing her throat. “Sunflowers conquered. Reed Hayes successfully twirled.”
I laugh, rubbing the back of my neck. “I’m never living that down, am I?”
“Absolutely not,” she says, grinning. “It’s going in the vault.”
She turns away to film again, but she glances back over her shoulder, her eyes soft, and she smiles at me.
Her smile could gut me completely.
I stand there for a moment longer, my hands still tingling, my heart still pounding, knowing one thing for sure, that the touch meant something.
And whatever this is between us, it’s only just starting to burn.