Chapter 8 Heston #2
I almost pull my phone out and shoot him a text about it right then and there.
Getting a reply at midnight on a weekend is doubtful, so I make a mental note to do it in the morning instead.
The idea of Dr. Cates finding her something around here instead of near her school, over seven hours away, probably shouldn’t excite me as much as it does.
So far, I’ve learned that she grew up east of here in Tish. It’s an hour or less away, I think. Her dad trains cutting and reining horses, and she’s already finished her bachelor’s degree.
Part of me was hoping she was a spoiled dropout with no hobbies or talents. Then, I’d finally have a reason not to like her any more than I already do. The fact that she’s halfway through vet school and knows her way around the same life on the ranch I live every day is a fucking turn-on.
I calculated her age pretty quickly based on what she’s told me about college.
I don’t know how she’ll react to an eight-year difference, but if she did any online research before making the drive here to hang out with a guy she knows very little about, she might already be aware of how much older I am.
She might be aware of a lot more than that, too.
The thought of her reading things about me from the press, as dramatic and lazy with facts as they are, is unsettling. Maybe if she brings it up, I can explain myself before she bolts in the opposite direction.
“I’ll make it happen,” I say, forcing myself to stop overthinking and get back to the conversation.
Her smile brightens. “Really?”
I nod. “Promise.”
We’re still looking at each other when the music cuts out.
Most of our friends who came over for a low-key dinner and hangout have made their way home.
It’s going on midnight, and after glancing at Gage walking toward the jukebox, Hattie fights a yawn.
I want her to talk my ear off until the sun comes up, or maybe kiss her lips, the ones I’ve been staring at all night, but I know she’s tired.
And mostly, I don’t want to jump the gun. Not with her.
All four of us guys have our own rooms down the hall, but the upstairs loft has bunks in it for guests. I put Hattie’s things up there when she arrived, and I should probably show her around to make sure she knows where the bathroom is and check that she doesn’t need an extra blanket or something.
I rub the side of my neck. “Do you want to—”
“Any requests?” Gage cuts me off. “Hattie? Give me a guest pick.”
He kicks the bottom of the jukebox, then leans over the top of it, studying the song selection. I don’t think he’ll ever fix or replace that old thing.
When Hattie turns toward him, her back brushes against my arm. “K13 is my favorite,” she says.
Gage slowly lifts his head with an amused smirk. Warren laughs lightly while hanging up his pool cue, and Tripp makes quick eye contact with me. His eyebrows are raised like he’s impressed, and I swallow the urge to spin Hattie around and haul her to the nearest fucking wedding chapel.
“Is that random or a John Anderson reference?” Gage tests.
She shrugs with a laugh, casually leaning more of her weight against my arm. “If Straight Tequila Night isn’t K13, you have no business owning a jukebox in the first place.”
Gage’s mouth hangs open slightly as he studies her. “You’re something else, Hattie Jo.” His eyes flick up to mine, and I know it’s childish, but I glare back.
Find your own dream girl, asshole.
He throws his head back in a laugh, then nods in understanding and tosses an empty beer can in the trash. “I’m out. See y’all tomorrow.”
Warren is stretching with a groan on his way down the hall as Hattie’s song request plays softly through the bunkhouse.
Tripp isn’t far behind him. The older I get, the more introverted I am.
I used to hate how energetic this place always feels, but it grew on me, and now the constant hum of music and steady flow of people feels like home.
“I could use a water,” Hattie admits.
She follows me to the kitchen, where I fish one out of the fridge for her. She takes it from me with a sweet smile. I’d run through a brick wall to keep it on her face. I stand in front of her with my hands in my pockets while she holds the water with both hands at her waist.
“You’ve been quiet tonight,” she says.
“Sorry,” I mumble. I’d rather say more, but I don’t, for fear of stuttering myself into embarrassment.
“I don’t mind,” she says through a quiet laugh. “Just because it takes you a while to figure out what to say or how to say it, doesn’t mean I won’t listen.”
I shift my weight to lean a hip on the kitchen island. Is she fucking with me? I can feel my eyes soften as I think back, trying to recall ever hearing a sentence like that before. It’s . . . maybe the simplest, yet most comforting thing any girl has ever said to me.
She smiles at me again, and I slowly lift the corner of my mouth in response. After another yawn, she turns toward the stairs to the loft and takes the first few steps. I hold my breath when she turns around before climbing up further.
“Oh, what time in the morning? Like, sixish?”
“That’ll work,” I answer after clearing my throat.
“Okay.” She takes two more steps, then looks over her shoulder once again. “Goodnight.”
I push off the counter to stand up straight. “Night,” I say, watching her walk the rest of the way up.