Chapter 10
Cruz
My first time seeing Addison in almost two weeks was jarring. Uncomfortably jarring. I shouldn’t be jarred by the simple existence of this woman.
And yet seeing her standing in the kitchen of the mess hall, an apron wrapped around her waist, flour smudged on her cheek and in her hair, I just about lost my breath.
I’d been thinking about her. Worried about her.
I’d almost checked up on her multiple times.
Spanned the distance between my cabin and hers just to check in and see if she was okay.
But I always thought better of it. Convinced myself she wouldn’t want to see me, that she was strong enough to deal with things on her own.
Because what I said to her all those days ago was true.
I don’t think she’s weak. But it isn’t weak to ask for help.
My heart aches for her in a very different way now.
Growing up with a little sister plagued by panic attacks, navigating the minefield of antidepressants, the tears, the hard days, the good days—it shapes your outlook on life.
And suddenly Addison went from an annoying pain in my ass—albeit a cute one—to someone … real.
And I feel like a jerk for judging her so quickly.
The pale light of the full moon shines through my windows. Like any bachelor, I never felt the need for curtains. Until right now, I suppose.
I shift in bed, trying to block out the light—and my raging thoughts. Thoughts of Addison can wait until tomorrow. Because I know my mind will be consumed by her. Like it has been ever since I laid eyes on that infuriating woman.
I groan, shifting onto my back. I sigh, glaring up at the ceiling.
My stomach grumbles. I glance at the clock. I’ve been tossing and turning long enough that hunger has caught up with me.
With an irritated sigh, I sit up, grabbing a sweatshirt and pulling it over my head before donning a pair of sneakers and heading out the door of my cabin.
I walk through the brisk, summer night, my path lighted by the moon above. Maybe a sandwich will help put me to sleep. Or another of Addison’s muffins. Despite how sad they looked, they did actually taste pretty good.
I reach the mess hall, pushing through the front door into an unexpectedly lit cafeteria. I blink in surprise, looking around. “Did Hank forget to switch off the lights before leaving?” I mutter to myself, stalking across the room.
Then a creak from the kitchen door grabs my attention, and a figure appears, stopping me in my tracks. None other than Addison Thatcher stands in the doorway.
Wearing a goddamn silk, purple matching pajama set. My gaze lands on her thighs, how soft they look, how badly I want to sink my fingers into them. And then her shoulders, her collarbones, just a hint of cleavage.
I clear my throat. “You’re up late,” I comment, finding my voice.
“So are you.”
I shrug a shoulder, feigning nonchalance. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“I’m a bit of a night owl,” she admits, then glances over her shoulder into the kitchen. “Besides, I had a bunch of muffin batter left over that I wanted to bake. Trying to see if I can make them not do that … thing again.” She shrugs softly, and my chest constricts.
“How’s it going?” I ask, taking a tentative step toward the kitchen, hoping—no, praying—she’ll invite me in.
She nods inside, turning and holding the door for me. “Much better,” she says, and as I approach, I see that she’s right.
“Look at you,” I chuckle. “You made muffins that look like muffins.” A huge batch of them is sitting out on cooling racks, seemingly straight from the oven.
She rolls her eyes.
“I was, actually, uh, hoping that some of your muffins were still around on my walk over here.”
She raises an eyebrow, then smiles. “Take one, please.”
I eagerly do as she says, grabbing a fresh muffin and taking a bite. “Fuck, I miss muffins,” I murmur between bites.
Addison laughs, turning toward the sink where a pile of her dirty dishes are waiting to be washed. “You don’t eat muffins?”
“I rarely eat offsite, honestly. And Hank isn’t a baker.”
“I’ve heard.”
The water turns on, and Addison starts wiping down one of the bowls. Her back is to me, and I find my gaze sliding along her curves. Her pajama shorts are short enough that I can see just a hint of her ass. I swallow, taking another bite of my muffin and averting my gaze.
“Bold of you to be wandering around the ranch in that getup,” I find myself commenting.
Addison’s head whips around, and there’s that familiar fire in her eyes. I’m both excited and annoyed by it. “Are you slut shaming me, Cruz?”
Cruz. I like the sound of it coming from her lips.
“Not at all. Just saying you’d have a lot of cowboys staring at you if they happened to be around.”
She places her clean bowl on the countertop, turning to face me and then crossing her arms. “Are you staring?”
I find the side of my mouth quirking upward ever so slightly. “Maybe.”
Her cheeks pinken just a touch, and slight surprise flashes across her face. Her gaze flicks down my body, taking in my sweatpants, my jacket. It can’t be all that exciting, but she momentarily bites her lip. Bites it. Holy shit, is Addison just as attracted to me as I am to her?
But then she rolls her eyes, gaining her composure. “You seem awfully attached to your whole cock-blocking role around here.” She crosses her arms over her chest. She’s referring to my behavior a few weeks ago with Graham. Honestly, in retrospect, it was uncalled for.
But I don’t exactly regret it.
“There’re a lot of assholes on this ranch,” I say with a shrug.
“Yeah, I’m looking at one.”
Ouch. Okay, I walked right into that one. Still, I smirk. “Guess better the asshole you know than the one you don’t,” I say.
Her eyes narrow. “You act like I need you to protect me. I don’t.”
I let out a short laugh, though it’s more tired than amused. “Didn’t look that way the other night.”
Her whole body goes rigid, and I realize the mistake I just made the second it leaves my lips. But it’s too late. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I didn’t mean for it to come out that way. Panic surges through me.
“Excuse me?” her voice is quiet. Quiet in a way that fucking hurts.
“I mean—during the storm,” I backpedal, shifting my weight. “You were out there in the rain, panicked, no jacket—”
But she’s not buying it. The storm was two weeks ago. Her chin snaps up, eyes blazing. “So now you’re using my panic attack as ammunition?”
I drag a hand down my face. “That’s not what I—hell, Addison, I’m saying you don’t have to act like you don’t need anyone. Because sometimes you do. Everyone does.”
That familiar glare is back in her eyes, hot enough to burn me. “You don’t get to decide that. You don’t get to decide anything for me,” she snaps.
I meet her glare, frustration tightening my chest. “And you don’t get to decide how other people feel. I’m not your enemy, dammit!”
She lets out a sharp laugh. “Could’ve fooled me. You boss me around, embarrass me in front of other people, and now you throw my lowest moment in my face. If that’s not an enemy, I don’t know what is.”
I take a step closer before I can stop myself, heat pulsing through me.
“I was trying to keep you safe!” I don’t know if I’m talking about her traipsing around in the storm or collapsing in on herself on her porch—or maybe both.
Because all I wanted in both instances was to help her. Just like I do now.
Her voice cracks just a little. “I don’t need you to keep me safe, Cruz. What I need is for you to stop treating me like I’m some kind of burden you got stuck with.”
My jaw tightens. “I don’t feel that way.”
She bites out a humorless laugh. “Yes, you do. You hate me.”
“Don’t say that,” I start, but she cuts me off.
“It’s fine, Cruz.” She says it not like she means the words but simply because she wants me to stop talking.
God, I feel sick to my stomach. The last thing I wanted was for her to feel worse. How did this conversation go awry so quickly?
“Sorry that my outfit fails your approval,” she mutters, stalking across the kitchen to a nearby chair where a piece of fabric is draped. “For your information, I wore a robe down here. Just wasn’t expecting company in the kitchen.”
She grabs the robe, wrapping it tight around her body. It doesn’t do much to lessen the appeal of her, though.
“Your outfit’s nice,” I say, wishing I could take back all my stupid comments. In an effort to simply talk about anything with her, I stuck my foot in my mouth. Big time. “And you don’t have to leave,” I add, seeing her grabbing her cabin keys off the counter.
She stares at me for a long moment, some of the fire dying in her eyes. Her shoulders soften. She hugs her robe tighter around her torso, and then her gaze rises to meet mine. In her eyes is an inscrutable mixture of emotions, but there is one thing I recognize. Or at least I think I do. Hope I do.
Desire.
Her gaze dips to my lips, then back up to my eyes.
If we weren’t across the room from each other, I’d already be kissing her. Already have her pressed up against the countertop, her legs wrapped around my waist, my hands in her hair. And I’m just about to take a step toward her too, but she breaks the moment.
Staring down at her feet, she mutters, “I hope you like the muffins,” before hurrying past me and out the door.
I stand there like an idiot, watching her go, until it’s just me and my half-eaten chocolate-chip muffin in my hand.
I’m suddenly not hungry anymore.
I toss the muffin on the countertop, taking a deep breath and then running my hands over my face. “Fucking fuck,” I mutter to myself.
What is wrong with me? Fighting with this poor girl like she’s the bane of my existence. No wonder she thinks I hate her.
And more upsetting … why do I care?
Am I actually falling for Addison Thatcher?
For one, she’s Tate’s cousin, which should make her firmly off limits.
Inappropriate. And for another, she’s everything I never thought I wanted in a woman.
Rich, preppy, wrapped up in city life and all the problems that come with it.
Compared to my calm, predictable life, she could be a grenade that blows it up.
And yet, I don’t care.
Staring at the wall opposite me, I realize the decision is practically being made without me. Or, at least, without the rational part of me.
“Fuck it,” I mutter, turning on my heel and storming out of the mess hall.
Hands in my pockets as I march down the road, I run over all the reasons why I shouldn’t do what I’m doing. But as my cabin comes into view and I pass it, those reasons become dumber and dumber. Or at least further away.
Addison’s cabin appears, and I force myself up the steps, my mind screaming a million contradictions at me.
I knock—hard. My heart is pounding in my ears.
There’s a pause, and then the door opens, Addison’s startled gaze colliding with mine. She opens her mouth, but I beat her to it.
“I don’t hate you.” It comes out of me ragged and breathless as I stand at her doorway like a man possessed.
Addison blinks, and seconds tick by. One, two, three. My chest constricts. Then a whisper of a breath leaves her lips. “I don’t hate you either.”
She might as well have just said that she loves me.
I reach for her, yanking her body against me and pressing my mouth to hers.