Chapter 2-Esme #2
Mountains rise in the distance, blue and soft. The sky feels enormous. Everything about the place says permanence.
Strength. Labor. Pride.
It’s beautiful.
My chest twists painfully.
Of course, Benji would be part of something like this.
Something solid.
Something strong.
Something that looks like it’ll last.
And he did it all without me, which hurts a damn sight more than I want to admit.
I slow the van as I approach what looks like the main house, gravel crunching under the tires as I pull into the drive and park.
For a second, I just sit there.
Breathing.
Staring.
My heart feels like it’s trying to leave my body.
“You can do this,” I whisper to myself. “Get the papers signed. Explain the situation. Then leave.”
Simple.
Liar.
I grab my crossbody bag, smooth down my shirt, check the mirror once.
My lipstick’s mostly gone. There are shadows under my eyes.
My curls have frizzed out from driving with the windows cracked.
But the rest is the same if a little older.
I’m still wearing size eighteen jeans and an XXL shirt.
I still got a soft belly, thick thighs, and a bubble butt.
The hair’s got a few grays. The laugh lines got a little deeper.
Thirty-three hits a little different when you’re living mostly on the road.
What-fucking-ever.
If Benji can’t handle me looking human, that’s his problem.
I step out of the van.
The air hits me first—clean and crisp and edged with hay and dirt and something warm from the kitchen.
It’s grounding in a way I don’t expect.
Simple. Clean. Real.
Then the front door opens.
A woman steps out.
And my heart plummets.
God, she’s curvy and pretty, around my age, with a bright face and the cutest little apron I have ever seen in my life.
It’s vintage-looking, fitted, and very fall-girl-coded even though it’s still technically summer.
What if she’s Benji’s girl?
My heart stutters over itself, but if he picked her, then he picked her. I only hope they aren’t married because then this thing becomes a lot more serious.
An older woman follows behind her, wiping her hands on a towel, eyes immediately narrowing on me in careful assessment.
I brace myself.
“Hi! I’m—” the younger one starts, then freezes.
Her eyes go huge.
“—OMG!” she shrieks, both hands flying to her mouth. “You’re Van Life with Esme!!”
I blink.
Then laugh, because what else am I supposed to do?
“Well,” I say, a little startled, “Plus Size Life with Esme and a Van, but yeah. That’s me.”
She practically bounces down the steps.
“I’m Bit!” she says, beaming. “This is Angie—she does everything around here. I can’t believe it’s you! What are you doing here?”
Her energy is so bright and genuine it almost knocks me backward. She’s sunshine in apron form.
For one ridiculous second, I forget why I’m here.
Forget the papers.
Forget the stalker.
Forget the man whose name has lived under my skin for three years like a splinter.
I smile back before I can stop myself.
“You know my show?” I ask, a little amazed.
“Are you kidding? I love your stuff!” she gushes. “The one where you reviewed that roadside pie place in Tennessee? I watched that one like three times. Also, the flea market one where you cried over vintage Pyrex? Same, girl! Seriously, same.”
I laugh, really laugh, and some of the tightness in my shoulders loosens.
“Okay, that’s actually amazing.”
Bit grins at me like we’re already friends.
But the moment doesn’t last.
Reality comes rushing back in cold and hard.
Why I’m here.
What I need.
The man I have to see—who might be romantically attached to this energetic, pretty woman.
My smile fades just a little.
I bite my lip and make myself do this before I lose my nerve.
“Actually,” I say, voice tightening, “I’m here to see someone.”
Bit tilts her head, curious.
“Who?”
“Um, Benji Gunner,” I say, quieter now. “Is he here?”
The shift in her face is immediate.
Surprise first.
Then something else.
Recognition? Alarm? Sympathy?
Before I can figure it out, she half-turns and shouts toward the house,
“Sawyer! Get your fine ass out here a minute!”
“Trouble? Why you yelling like that?” a deep voice answers, sounding amused.
“Come on out! There’s someone here!”
A man steps out of the house behind her.
Tall. Lean. Broad through the shoulders.
Quiet in that dangerous way that tells me he notices everything.
He doesn’t smile.
Just looks at me with the kind of calm, measuring stare that says protector, leader, problem-solver.
Dangerous, if pushed.
I know the type.
Not that it matters.
Not to me.
I give him a polite nod.
“Hi.”
“This is Esme,” Bit says. “She’s looking for Benji!”
He cants his head, studying me like a wild predator might. Suddenly, I feel hunted.
“What do you need Benji for?” he asks, voice calm but edged.
Straight to the point.
No easing in.
No soft landing.
Just truth.
My throat goes dry.
I swallow hard, lift my chin, and force the words out even as my pulse starts beating against every rib I’ve got.
“Well,” I say, “see, uh, I’m his wife.”
And just like that?
The air changes.
Everything stills.
Even the breeze seems to pause.
Bit’s mouth falls open.
The older woman—Angie—sucks in a breath through her nose like she just smelled trouble coming from a mile away.
And somewhere deep in my gut, I know.
This is about to get a whole lot worse before it gets better.