11. Winnie
CHAPTER ELEVEN
winnie
The truck ride to my parents house is quiet, but not the easy kind.
Danger pulls into the driveway and kills the engine. For a second, neither of us moves. My heart’s still beating like I ran a marathon instead of surviving a bar fight and a fake relationship announcement.
He gets out of the truck first, comes around to my side, and opens my door like this is perfectly normal. Like we didn’t just have the wildest night of my life.
“Night, Winnie,” he says.
“Night,” I answer, stepping down to the gravel.
I take two steps toward my porch before I feel it—that pull. I turn.
He’s leaning back against his truck, arms crossed, watching me like he’s waiting to make sure I’m capable enough to get myself inside.
I can’t go inside and sleep. Not after tonight. Not after him.
The way Danger put Rylee in her place. The way he stepped in, stood up for me without even thinking twice. And then there were the awful things he did to that man like it was nothing. My pulse keeps spiking just remembering.
I watched a man get dropped like something from some Marvel movie. By another man who I’m now fake dating.
That’s insane. It’s reckless. It’s …kinda hot?
No. Absolutely not. What the hell is wrong with me? Normal women don’t see a man throw punches and start wondering what those hands would feel like on them.
I have lost my damn mind.
“There’s no way I’m sleeping after tonight,” I say.
He nods once, real slow, like he knows exactly what I mean.
“Wasn’t planning on sleepin’ either,” he says. “You’re welcome to keep me company while I clear my head.”
This is the part where smart women go inside.
I walk back to the truck.
“Okay,” I say. “Let’s go.”
Two minutes later we’re turning onto the dirt road that leads to Stetson Ranch, headlights cutting through the dark.
He parks just outside PJ’s house.
This is where he clears his head?
“C’mon,” he says, sliding out of the driver's seat.
When I step out, the wind picks up. I barely have time to cover my arms before he reaches into the backseat, grabs a worn gray sweatshirt, and holds it out without looking at me.
“Put that on.”
It smells like laundry soap and him. Which feels unfair to smell this good.
I pull it over my head, sleeves swallowing my hands, and follow him around the truck.
He’s already sitting on the tailgate, elbow braced on his knee. Dark, dangerous, and… somehow magnetic.
I cross my arms and approach carefully. He doesn’t look at me or speak. Just watches PJ’s house, expression tight and unreadable.
I glance over at him. “Well… we had ourselves a night.”
“You should’ve stayed inside the bar.”
I waive him off. “There you go. Treating me like I’m twelve again. You think I’ve never seen a fight before?”
“No.” He says, twisting the ring on his pointer finger. “I think the look on your face said you’ve never seen one like that before.”
Heat crawls up my neck. Annoying part is, he’s not wrong. “Okay, fine. Maybe never seen one where someone loses a knee cap.”
He finally looks at me, eyes gone dark and heavy. “Normal day ’round here.”
“Wow. And I thought Saturday morning donut rush was stressful.” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, glancing around at the quiet farmhouse. “And so, does sittin’ out here in the dark help you clear your mind?”
One corner of his mouth twitches. “Yep.”
“That might be the most concerning thing you’ve ever said to me.”
He exhales through his nose, some of the edge leaving him. “Fisher’s stayin’ at Mama’s tonight.” He nods toward the house. “I keep watch wherever he is.”
My teasing fades. “You keep watch.”
“Keeps me calm,” he shrugs. “Knowin’ I’m close.”
I look at the house, then back at him. “That’s actually… kinda sweet.”
Great. Perfect. He’s hot, a little scary, and apparently dad of the year.
His eyes cut to me. “Don’t start.”
Before I can respond, he shifts and holds a hand out to me.
“C’mon.”
I glance at his bruised knuckles, then at his face. He doesn’t say anything else—he just waits.
I don’t take his hand. Not yet. Instead, I eye the truck, especially the monster tires, and smirk. “Don’t they say men with tires this big are compensating for something?”
I get an actual grin out of him. “You wanna find out?”
I slide past his hand, not taking it as I sit beside him. “I’d rather not.”
He grins.
There’s crickets. Some wind. The creak of the tailgate when he shifts.
For the sanity of my thoughts, I have to bring it up.
I exhale lightly. “So you got baby-mama drama, huh?”
He side-eyes me.
“Somethin’ like that.”
I turn toward him, swinging my feet a little.
“Well, for what it’s worth, Fisher’s a really great kid. He’s hilarious. Smart. Going places for sure. You did a damn good job.”
“Thanks,” he nods, like he already knows that. “I just want him to stay a kid for as long as possible.”
There's something about his voice right now—tired and completely unguarded. It catches me off guard, too. I've gotten used to the version of him that's all tough and grumpy cowboy. This one is quieter. Softer. The kind of version I suspect not many people get to see.
A ridiculous flutter stirs in my stomach.
I tell myself it's nothing.
And it definitely has nothing to do with the fact that his sleepy voice is unfairly hot.
He drags a thumb over the bruise on his knuckles and adds, almost under his breath, “Part of me figured Rylee would be gone for good. Never come back.”
I tilt my head. “And was the other part of you hoping she would come back?”
That makes him look at me again, and he’s not pleased with the question.
“If it’s true that you…” I trail off, realizing how insane this is. I do not have these kinds of conversations with him, and here I am asking about his sex life in the moonlight.
“What?” he shrugs. “Haven’t fucked anyone since she left?”
I swallow. “Yeah. That.”
He rubs his jaw, thinking.
“That has nothing to do with her,” he finally says.
My chest goes a little tight.
“It doesn’t?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “Had everything to do with Fisher.”
I study him silently as he continues.
“I don’t let anyone get close to me. One wrong person and everything falls apart. Don’t plan on bringing any more kids into this world without being damn sure they’ve got a mama. So I keep women at a distance. Plus, I’m not stupid enough to trust another woman to stick around."
I let that sit for a second. It’s more vulnerable than he probably meant to be.
“So what? You’re just never gonna trust a woman again?” I ask, half teasing, half curious.
“Yeah. I like it that way. It’s simple.”
I let out a breathy laugh. “You don’t strike me as someone who does anything simple.”
He turns his head just enough that I see a flicker of amusement.
“And you don’t strike me as someone who stays in their own lane,” he counters.
Touché. I sure don’t.
Then, I don’t even realize he’s looking at my arm until he’s moved closer.
“What’s that?”
I blink down. “What’s what?”
His large, rough hand catches my wrist—slow, careful, almost restrained. He pushes the sleeve of his sweatshirt back with his thumb, like I’m something fragile he’s not sure he’s allowed to touch.
Goosebumps explode across my skin.
His calloused fingertip traces one thin, delicate line. The lightest touch—but my whole body shivers. And he notices. His gaze lifts to mine, and the corner of his mouth curves like he knows exactly what he just did.
“Tattoos,” he says. “Didn’t picture you for ink.”
“They’re… the names of people and places who meant something to me. So I won't forget.”
His eyes track the tiny faded script as he reads them quietly.
“Paris… New York…”
His finger stops.
“...Cookie?”
I snort. “My bus driver.”
Danger stares at me.
“You tattooed your bus driver on your body?”
“Sure did.”
Danger blinks. “I'm gonna need more information than that.”
“She was the best bus driver in all of Weston. Used to keep a giant tin of cookies next to the driver's seat and hand them out when we got dropped off. She was basically a local celebrity. I can’t believe you haven’t heard of her.”
Danger’s brow lifts like he doesn’t believe me.
“Bus Driver,” he lets out a breath—not quite a laugh, but close enough that it almost feels like an accomplishment.
“I saw that woman every day for years,” I say, quieter now. “Didn’t matter what kind of mood I was in, she always made it better. I guess… I always hoped I could be that for somebody someday.”
He goes quiet, but his thumb is still resting against my wrist—warm, steady, like he forgot to let go.
“Is she still your bus driver?” he asks.
“What? No.”
“Can we ask her to be? Because I noticed that piece of scrap metal you’ve been driving around town.”
I gasp. “You are not coming for my car right now.”
“Someone has to. That thing sounds like it’s beggin’ for mercy every time you turn the key.”
“She has character.”
“She has tetanus.”
“She gets me where I need to go!”
“Barely. I’m pretty sure I saw a squirrel pass you today.”
“The squirrels in Weston are unnaturally fast.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Winnie…”
I grin.
Then his thumb shifts against my pulse.
Just like that, the teasing fades. Not awkward. Just... gone.
His hand stays around my wrist. Neither of us mentions it, but I'm suddenly aware of how close we are. How the night has gone still.
Please don’t let him lean in.
Maybe it's the wildness of the evening. The adrenaline I haven't quite come down from. Or the way he stepped in without hesitation, and that for the first time, people looked at me differently.
I don't know.
I just know that if he leaned in right now, I wouldn't stop him.
I clear my throat, trying to sound casual and not like I'm having a silent, irrational meltdown over a man's thumb on my wrist.
I swallow. “So what are we to everyone who asks?”
“Depends who's askin'.”
I roll my eyes. “Your brothers. Sawyer. Honey.”
He shrugs. “We left the bar together.”
“That's it?”
“For now.”
I study him.
For now. Like there will be more to explain later.
“You really don't care what anyone thinks, do you?”
“Not particularly.”
His gaze catches mine.
“But when Rylee's around,” he says, finally releasing my wrist, “you're mine.”
My heart almost forgets how to function.
“Well… guess I better start canceling all my other dates this week, huh?”
His eyes flick toward the house, all dark and unimpressed. “That’d be smart.”
I grin. “Just checkin’ on the rules.”
He shifts closer. Not enough to touch. Enough to make me wish he would.
“You start makin’ me look like a fool in my own town,” he says, “then that’s gonna be a problem for you.”
And the worst part? I want to know exactly what that means.
Desperately.