9
I ’m in a cocoon of cozy, warm safety, sunlight cascading over my skin. A tinny clattering noise, bare feet on floorboards, a tiny mewl—perfect, homey sounds.
It doesn’t feel the same as when I’m on tour or on a set.
Except I feel the same. Cottonmouth. A pounding headache.
The rich scent of coffee drifts through the air. I crack an eye and sit up in bed. Where the fuck am I? Waking up in a strange bed isn’t anything new, but this place feels different. My gaze roams around the masculine room. High ceiling beams. Slate-gray walls. Sleek oak furniture.
What happened last night?
Ford.
Bar.
Dancing.
Word vomiting.
Actual vomiting.
“Oh no.”
I bared too much. Drank too much. Like always.
So much for New Reese.
As I shove the mound of blankets off me, I see a chair next to the bed. A bag of cinnamon candies and a bottle of water on the nightstand. His boots. A quilt.
A memory sweeps over me. Waking in the middle of the night and finding myself in Ford’s arms as he lifted me up and made me take tiny sips of water.
Ford stayed with me. When I was sick.
Tears prick my eyes. I don’t know whether to feel embarrassed or so very grateful.
Bladder screaming at me, I get up and pad to the bathroom. Finding a bottle of mouthwash and an unopened toothbrush next to the sink makes my eyes grow big. A gooey feeling takes root in my stomach, and I shake it off. He probably has women stay over all the time.
I wash my face, scrubbing it like I can erase the wreckage of last night, then head out of the bedroom in nothing but Ford’s jersey and my underwear.
I step into a small living room-kitchen combo, my gaze locking on Ford at the counter, wearing gray sweatpants and a backward baseball cap. The sight of him speeds my heart. There’s something mysterious about the man. That hard jawline. Those amber eyes. Forearms that should be in a hall of fame.
He hasn’t noticed me yet, and I drift forward, drawn to him.
Hunched over the stove, Ford stirs something in a pan. Coffee gurgles in a pot beside him. I smile when I see the black cat on the counter. Every few seconds, Ford stops and feeds her a piece of bacon.
Guess the cat distribution system works its way through even the hardest hearts.
“How are you feeling?” he asks without looking up.
I freeze. Clear my throat. “Currently dying from dehydration, but I’ll survive.”
“Coffee?” His lazy drawl makes my stomach turn over.
I shake myself out of my admiring gaze. “Oh, uh, yes. Please.” My voice is rough.
“Black?”
“Almond milk?”
He sighs wearily. “Really need to stop milking things.”
I hide a wan smile and move closer.
Ford returns from the fridge. “All I have is cream.”
“That works.” I reach for the coffee he sets in front of me and add a dollop of cream. “Honey?” I ask.
He squints at me. “In coffee?”
“It soothes the throat.”
While he searches in a cabinet, I scan his apartment. “Is this where you live?” I’m impressed. He has plants that are alive. Photos of his family. Baseball memorabilia. A leather couch. Sparse, but it’s clean. Lived in. Just like those gray sweatpants.
“Above the garage,” he grunts, running a hand through his thick lionlike hair. “It’s not much. All my brothers are on the ranch. This is just as good.”
“I like the smell.”
He jerks up his chin. “You do?”
“I do. It’s better than my penthouse. It’s homey.”
He returns to me, his eyes meeting mine. “Here, honey. Honey.” He holds out the honey bear and I take it, our fingers sweeping against each other. The briefest touch shouldn’t make me ache, but it does.
As I add a drizzle of honey to my coffee, my gaze shifts to Ford. His body reminds me of a mountain cat—long, sleek, and athletic, with golden skin.
I should hate Ford. But after last night, I can’t. It’s been a long time since someone genuinely cared about my actions without using it against me or asking for something.
Moving back to the burner, he lifts the pan, dumping eggs onto a plate. After adding two strips of bacon, he points at the chair. “Sit.”
Cupping my hands around the coffee mug, I take it to a small, round table.
My eyes widen in surprise when he sets the food in front of me. “I want you to eat,” he says, handing me a fork. “It’ll take the edge off your hangover.”
I give him a smile, fighting the sting in my eyes. God, the last person to make me breakfast was probably…my mom.
That triggers more snippets of last night to fill my mind. Telling Ford about my parents and our band. Being given up and then, taken in by Gavin. My long ramble about feeling unwanted. All memories I hate talking about when I’m sober, let alone drunk.
I bite my lip. “Listen…about last night. I probably said more than I should have about my parents. My manager. Let’s just forget about it, okay?”
There’s a quick flash of worry in his eye. “Why?”
Because it’s my past , I want to say. And I hate my past. It’s a blur. It’s painful. It’s just too much me.
I pick at the eggs, unable to meet his gaze. “It’s shit that I don’t want in the papers.”
“You don’t have to worry.” A mischievous gleam fills his eyes. “Runaway Ranch has a way of keeping your secrets.”
Then I’m at the perfect place. Except for Gavin, no one knows about what happened to me. He said it would be bad for my image, that it would make me look crazier than I already am. How can I trust anyone with my past when they’d only use it against me?
“Reese?” I jerk out of my thoughts as Ford nudges the plate toward me. “I want you to eat.”
I flinch when I see his busted knuckles.
“I’m sorry about your hand,” I say softly, tucking a lock of hair behind my hair.
“Comes with the territory.” His heated gaze rakes over me and I shiver. “Dancin’ on bar tops isn’t something I see every day.”
A smile tips my lips. “Free show. Don’t get used to it.”
He chuckles. After a second, his eyes drop, and I follow where they’ve landed. “This you?” I read the jersey upside down. “The Phoenix Renegades?”
He nods.
“You were a pitcher?” I ask. The extent of my baseball knowledge includes singing the national anthem at Chase Field early in my career. I bet Ford’s the real deal. He has charisma, an aura about him that screams star .
“Yeah.” A proud smile blooms on his face. “I fell in love with it when I was eight years old. I wasn’t a first-round draft pick, but I proved them wrong when I was named best pitcher in the league in my first year.”
I smile. “So humble.”
A bright grin tips his lips. “Fucking love of my life.” He looks at Mouse, perched on an empty chair between us, and reaches out to ruffle her fur. “Next is this damn cat.”
I prop my chin in my palm. “What was your favorite part?”
“Just being on the mound. Tuning everything out, like it was made for me.”
That’s how I feel about singing. Not performing, not the crowds—the music. The way it lives in me, through me.
I swallow a bite of egg. “When did you stop playing?”
“Damn near eight years ago.” Bitterness and regret taint his previously easygoing voice. “Came out with a bad shoulder and a whole lot of headaches.”
The happiness on his handsome face dims. There’s something grim in his amber eyes, something he’s holding back.
Ford chuckles. “Now I’m shoveling cowshit on a ranch and that’s what life’s all about.”
“You make it sound so easy to have a simple life,” I muse.
“It is easy, honey.” He leans in, his hand almost brushing mine. “Is that what you want?”
“I don’t know.” Shaking my head, I peer down at the eggs. “This is delicious,” I say. The eggs have cheese on them, a little spice, and the bacon is crisp and garlicky.
He gives me a strange look, like he’s realizing something. “One thing I can cook is breakfast.”
I take my time eating when what I really want to do is shovel it all into my mouth. Gavin would kill me. At the thought, I set my fork down.
Ford sips his coffee. Gives me a long look, like he’s slowly piecing things together. “What’s with this? You drink too much, and you eat too little.”
I’ve already blabbed my life story, so I might as well be honest. “I can’t gain weight.”
His expression turns fierce. “Who the fuck told you that?”
“My manager.”
Ford appears bothered by the statement. “This is the same guy who turned off your cards?”
I flinch. When someone else says it, it seems so simple. So obvious. So awful.
Flexing a fist, Ford asks, “What did you say your manager’s name was?”
“I didn’t. Gavin Cross.”I sigh. “He manages everything.” Embarrassment pushes down my shoulders. “Where I go. What I wear. Who I date.”
Now Ford looks annoyed. Interested. “Who do you date?”
“No one,” I mumble. Warmth spreads inside of me.
No one like Ford, that’s for sure. He’s handsome, and older than most men I typically date. Masculine and rugged. Unpolished, yet sexy as hell with his cocky attitude and those amber eyes that crinkle at the corners.
Jaw locked tight, Ford asks, “Why do you stay with this guy?”
Because I’m afraid. Because I don’t know anything else.
Instead of that, I say, “I don’t have a choice. I have a contract.” I let out a shaky breath. “I need to go over it. Which means I need to get it.”
Muscles ripple in his cheek. “Let me guess, he has it.”
“He does.” Frustration slams inside of me. I wish I had never told Ford. I feel stupid enough as it is. “I called him last night, and he gave me until the end of the summer to…” I trail off.
“To?” Questions swim in Ford’s eyes.
What do I tell him? To not have a mental breakdown? To reclaim my life? To just fucking be?
“To live,” I say, my gaze drifting longingly toward the window. To a ranch I haven’t even explored. “I need it. I just…really need it, is all.”
I set my fork down and push my plate away. Ford doesn’t look happy. “But I can go somewhere else.” A teasing smile tilts my lips. “I know you have better things to do than babysit a spoiled, pampered, pain-in-the-ass princess.”
Regret widens his eyes. “Listen. I wasn’t nice to you, and we’re gonna start over, okay?”
I shake my head, because I don’t want pity. It’s bad enough he swooped in to save me last night. “Ford, you don’t—”
“Nah.” He folds his muscular arms across his chest and leans back in his chair. “What would my little brother say if I turned you out? Wouldn’t be very cowboy of me.”
I let out a soft laugh. “Cowboy, huh?”
“Tell you what.” His teeth sink into his lush lower lip as he considers something. A low pulse blooms in my core. I hate that it turns me on. “Why don’t you come with me to town this morning?”
“I don’t want to keep you from your job,” I say.
“You are my job, honey,” he drawls. But instead of feeling irritation, all I feel is heat. In my stomach, between my thighs.
He flashes a bright white grin. Those broad shoulders, that swagger—Ford Montgomery’s a charmer. It just won’t work on me.
“I need to head into town to fix a saddle, anyway,” he says, standing and collecting my plate. He takes it to the sink. “Since you’re staying, you need things, don’t you? Can’t feed the chickens in sequins.”
I laugh. “I bet I could.”
He approaches the table, his amber eyes searching my face. “Talked to my brother last night. He said one of the things you need is a hug.”
I bristle. “A hug?”
He takes a step forward. “What do you think?”
I open my mouth to laugh, then stop short at the half-smile on his face.
“You’re serious?”
His Adam’s apple bobs and then bobs again. “One hug never killed anybody.”
“Oh.”
One hug. I can do one hug.
I rise, feeling a bit shaky, and shuffle toward him.
Gaze locked on mine, he steps into me. My palms land on his bare chest and every nerve ending in my body sparks. Ford’s breath hitches.
“This is a bad idea,” I breathe.
“Too late.”
I yelp when he suddenly wraps me in his strong arms, sweeping me up. Holding me close.
“Oh,” I sigh. My body feels deflated in the best possible way. Resting my head on his chest, I close my eyes and breathe him in. Ford smells like hickory and midnight air. Man. Earth. I can hear his heartbeat through his warm skin, and for one long second, I wish we shared it.
We linger there, without ulterior motives. Just a simple, easy moment. Ford hugs me with such tenderness that hot tears prick the backs of my eyes. So many times in my life, I’ve been offered alcohol when all I needed was a hug.
And then I laugh. I laugh because Ford Montgomery is one of the best things I’ve ever felt.
“What?” he says gruffly.
“You smell amazing.”
His lazy chuckle rumbles through my body. “Don’t get any ideas.”
I smile into his chest. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”