Chapter 3
The trouble with having a best friend who’s a therapist—or in school to become one—is you can’t hide anything. The moment I arrived with my bags—Rose knew something was up.
My flight landed after nine o’clock in the evening and Ellie was asleep, so Rose’s brother, Wesley, picked me up from the airport.
He hung out for just enough time to show off his cooking skills with a three-course dinner, and to brag about how he was right and I was wrong about Rose moving to the Mountain West.
Out of the three of us, he did most of the talking, while I tried not to focus on how my best friend was studying me silently until he left.
“Tea?” Rose asks now, stepping out onto the back porch with two steaming mugs.
I’m sitting out here on the swing, under a thick plaid blanket, enjoying the crisp air.
“I’ve had a long day,” I warn her, accepting a warm cup.
“I didn’t say anything.”
I roll my eyes and take a sip, then continue to stare off to a distant light over by the side of the river.
She follows my gaze. “Oh, that’s Dallas’s house over there.”
I squint at the structure that looks too far away to still be on the ranch. “I thought he and his daughter live here.”
“They do. The house isn’t finished. On its way though, I think.” She hums longingly. “You should see it, Will, it’s stunning what he built. Twice the size of this place, spiral staircase, enormous kitchen. And the backyard—big enough for a small farm.”
I try and picture it—the image she’s painting as I stare at its surroundings, what it must look like in the daylight. “Must be a killer view.”
She sips her tea. “It’s not downtown Manhattan, that’s for sure.”
I cock my head at her, catching the wistfulness in her voice. “You like it here?”
“I love it here,” she confirms, her tone serene, settled. Belonging.
My gaze drifts back to the distant light. “Well, that sounds promising—the house, I mean. Sounds like he wants to give her the world.”
I don’t know the man aside from a one-time encounter when he stopped by the Lock Bar while in New York visiting Ellie’s grandparents.
He never took his black cowboy hat off, was a little rough around the edges—like all of them.
And was easily the best-looking man I’ve ever seen.
I was also two margaritas in, so I’m hoping I imagined the part where I leaned in and sniffed him.
But this new detail about him—that there’s a house he built with his bare hands for a little girl he never knew he had—tugs at heartstrings I didn’t know I had left.
My father never took the time to do anything like this for me or my mother. He lived off her money and kept trying to find ways to get into my trust fund. The idea of my deadbeat father building anything other than bad credit is laughable.
“Yeah. If it were initially for her.”
“It wasn’t?”
Rose shakes her head, a sadness crossing her features. “The plans were designed for Millie.”
She says the name like I’m supposed to know who that is. I think back, remembering where I heard it—in one of Rose’s chatty catch-ups about all things Blue River Ranch and the Thorne men. “Oh. Right. His . . . fiancée, who . . . died, right?”
She nods, but it’s ever so slight, like her mind is somewhere else already.
“To be honest, I love having Ellie here. She’s such a delight, but I’m in school a lot and Wilder and I never spend any time alone together.
I feel terrible for saying it because it’s so obvious that Dallas needs us, but I didn’t exactly sign up to be a part-time babysitter. ”
I wince. And I’m not sure if it’s from the idea of my best friend—who’s barely twenty-three—caring for a child she didn’t ask for, or for the little girl who undoubtedly deserves more than she’s getting. “Is the kid that bad?”
“No, she’s amazing. But I have homework, and when I don’t, I don’t exactly want to make friendship bracelets—at least not all the time.
And it’s getting boring having to be careful not to get caught in the kitchen with my skirt around my hips, Wilder’s tongue down my throat, if she comes down for a snack. ”
I laugh. “Oh, you poor thing, you. How do you live like this?”
“It’s not funny. I’m twenty-three and I feel like I became a mom overnight.”
I scrunch my nose. “It does sound like a strange living situation you got here. Should’ve gotten the apartment with me.” At that thought, my smile fades.
And Rose is quick to notice.
She sinks back into the cushions, watching me.
I wait a beat before starting. “Eric came to the apartment this morning.”
She sighs. “What did that self-centered jealous asshole want?”
“The ring back. He took it. And then told me I need to vacate the apartment by Friday.”
She curses under her breath. “He didn’t try anything, did he?”
“I wasn’t there. I was . . . in my self-defense class,” I blurt out.
“You’re taking self-defense? Did someone get handsy at the bar with you?”
“Sort of.” I pause. “It was Eric.”
“What?”
“Few weeks ago, I was playing at the bar and a guy was getting a little too close after I finished my set—drunk, obviously. Eric comes in out of nowhere, knocks the guy off his feet, and Billy sends us both into his office to work it out.”
“Why would Billy do that?”
“He didn’t want me stepping outside with him. Didn’t trust him.”
“Hmm . . . don’t blame him. You’ve been broken up for almost six months, this is downright stalking. So what’d you do?”
“Threatened him with a restraining order once and for all. Told him I could take care of myself and he needs to stop showing up where I work like he’s got a claim on me.”
Rose waits for more.
Sighing, I tell her the rest. “He threw me up against the door and said, ‘Show me how you can take care of yourself.’ Tried to prove that I’d be helpless if a situation got . . . physical.”
“Oh God, Willow. Did you call the police?”
“Eric isn’t . . . harmful. He’s just a jackass trying to make a point.” I brush off.
“And he got to you,” Rose points out—seeing right through me.
She’s not wrong. As much as I hate to admit it, he got under my skin, burning into me like a brand. And the only way to get him out—is to prove him dead wrong.
“I don’t want him to be right,” I admit. “So I’ve been taking these classes and I’m really good. I just need a distraction. And . . . a place to stay a few days? Maybe through Sunday?”
Her eyes light up. “Of course. You’re always welcome.” She chews her lip. “But the guys are back on Friday and . . . it’s a little tight here . . .”
“And it’s not your place. I know. It’s fine. I have some friends in the city I can stay with.” It’s a lie and Rose knows it. I cover it with the truth. “Then I’ll be moving in with Mom temporarily. Hopefully no more than a few weeks, just until I can secure an apartment.”
“Oh Lord.” She thinks for a moment, until an idea sparks. “Wait, we have guest cabins.” She snaps her fingers. “When Wilder gets back, I’ll see if we have a vacant one. It’s off-season now so I doubt they’re all full, other than the fall harvest guests.”
I release a breath with a hopeful groan. “That would be great.”
“But I’m so glad you’re here. I’ve missed you. Come on, you look exhausted. Tomorrow we’ll catch up some more—like how on earth you think you’ll survive living with your mother for a few weeks.”
“Desperate times,” I mutter.
“I’ll get you settled in Dallas’s bedroom.”
My stomach flips. Not at the mention of Dallas Thorne again who, I won’t lie, I’ve thought about more than a few times after our brief encounter at the bar.
But at the idea of sleeping in his bed tonight.
Will it smell like his black hoodie that’s now tucked in my suitcase?
The one Rose gave me one night we were working late at the bar.
Dallas lent it to her before she left town and I insisted on keeping it.
If only to help her forget Wilder, and anything associated with him, of course.
It had this woodsy scent I thought was just from the town or built into the thread or something. But when I saw the mountain man it belonged to? I became deliriously addicted to the damn thing.
I’d never admit this to Rose, but I didn’t wash it for weeks.
I remember skipping away after he tried to reclaim it—and felt his eyes on me the entire time I played piano.
He was—in a word—smoldering. The kind of cowboy you pull right out of a movie.
I shake my head. “Maybe I could take another room? The couch maybe?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve already changed the sheets and there is no other room except where Ellie is sleeping.”
“Right.” His daughter.
Maybe I was wrong, maybe I mistook the smolder for God, I hope my daughter doesn’t grow up to play piano at a local bar and dress like that.
It’s what I imagine my father thinking if he ever bothered to check in on me.
“In that case, Dallas’s room it is.”