19. Stripped to the Bone
Chapter nineteen
Stripped to the Bone
Hayes
The unmarked sedan slowed to a crawl. The tires rolled off the smooth highway asphalt and hit the rutted driveway of Driftwood Blooms. The jarring crunch of the gravel echoed in the cabin.
After four weeks spent trapped inside sterile corporate boardrooms and sealed courthouses, the sudden noise was deafening.
I stared out the passenger window. Autumn fog clung to the damp, fallen leaves lining the edges of the property. The mist obscured the distant tree line.
“Visibility is getting terrible out here on these back roads,” the driver said, glancing into the rearview mirror.
“Just pull up near the loading dock,” I said.
The car lurched forward a few more yards before the brakes squealed. The vehicle came to a halt. The engine settled into a low, rattling idle. I reached across the worn upholstery and grabbed the canvas strap of my duffel bag.
I popped the door handle and shoved the door open. The coastal air rushed into the heated cabin. The crisp bite of the autumn chill sank into my thin jacket.
“Watch your step in the mud, buddy,” the driver called over the console.
I swung my legs out of the car and stepped into the mud.
I hauled the bag out behind me, the canvas strap digging into my shoulder.
The lawyers and the massive buyout penalties had nearly bankrupted me.
I had traded custom suits and private jets for the clothes on my back and this single, beat-up bag.
I was legally a ghost. The press could not follow a man who no longer owned a single corporate tether.
I leaned back toward the open window, resting my forearm on the damp doorsill. I dug my free hand into my jacket pocket and pulled out a crumpled fifty-dollar bill. I extended the cash through the window.
“Are you sure this is the right address, buddy?” the driver asked. He looked past me, his eyes scanning the bleak, foggy yard and the row of unlit greenhouses. “It’s just a bunch of muddy greenhouses out here, and the meter is already paid.”
I didn’t bother turning around to look at the property. The man saw a desolate drop-off. I saw the only patch of dirt in the entire world that held any actual value.
“This is the exact right place,” I said, dropping the bill onto the center console. “Keep the change, and have a safe drive back to the airport.”
The driver picked up the cash, smoothing the wrinkled paper against his thigh. He shifted the car into park. Warm exhaust fumes drifted up from the tailpipe, mingling with the salty mist swirling around my knees.
“I appreciate the tip, man,” he said. “I can stick around for a few minutes if you need me to wait out the fog.”
I shook my head, stepping back from the open window. “That won’t be necessary. You can go ahead and head back to town.”
The driver shrugged, shifting the sedan into reverse. “Suit yourself, mister. Good luck with whatever you’re doing out here.”
The gears clicked. The tires spun in the gravel, kicking up a spray of dirt against the wheel wells. The sedan backed in a slow arc toward the main road. The headlights swept weak yellow beams through the fog, panning across the muddy yard.
I stood rooted in the mud, watching the red taillights bleed into the mist. The vehicle turned onto the pavement. The low hum of the engine receded down the coastal highway. A moment later, the crash of the ocean swallowed the mechanical sound.
I was alone. The chill of the mist seeped through my jacket, raising goosebumps on my arms. The salty fog collected on my skin. I tightened my grip on the strap of my bag. My boots sank deeper into the mud.
I refused to take a single step toward the farmhouse porch.
The days of crossing security checkpoints and VIP velvet ropes were over.
I had no authority here. If Sutton ordered me to turn around and walk back down that highway, I would do it.
The miles of mud would be mine to walk with nothing but the bag on my shoulder.
The only way I could earn my place on this farm was to do this entirely on her terms. II stared across the empty yard, tracing the outline of the packing shed.
The corrugated metal door remained shut against the concrete dock.
The fog swirled around the base of the building, turning its edges soft and gray.
My uncalloused fingers ached from the cold, but I stood completely still.
I let the coastal cold settle over my skin. In Los Angeles, I would have demanded a heated trailer. I would have complained to Toby about the erratic schedule and the lack of catering.
Here, the physical discomfort kept me grounded. The biting wind cutting through my clothes was a harsh reminder that the corporate lawyers and the PR handlers were finally gone. I was just a man standing in the dirt, waiting for judgment.
“Don’t send me away,” I whispered to the metal.
The words vanished into the damp air. The silence of the property stretched out, making it harder to stand my ground.
I thought about the months spent suffocating under the studio’s thumb, letting my mother pull the strings to protect a fake romance.
I had burned the machine to the ground for the chance to stand in this freezing mud.
No glittering Hollywood dream was worth more than my family.
I shifted my weight in the gravel. The wait stretched on, agonizing and slow. I kept my eyes locked on the metal tracks of the door.
Please don’t send me away.
The silent plea repeated in my mind, raw and desperate. I had spent years memorizing lines, but this was the only truth that mattered.
Just give me one chance to prove I can be a father in the real world.
A sudden clatter broke the quiet. The base of the shed door vibrated in its steel tracks.
The rusted rollers groaned, a harsh screech piercing the fog.
The corrugated panel slid upward, inch by agonizing inch, until it locked into the ceiling brackets and revealed the dim interior of the packing shed.
Sutton stepped out onto the concrete loading dock.
She carried a plastic flat of dormant daffodil bulbs, balancing the awkward bulk on her hip to protect her pregnant stomach.
Her seventh month showed in the deliberate, careful way she shifted her weight.
She wore faded overalls and a knit sweater.
The coastal fog swirled around her rubber boots as she moved toward the edge of the platform.
I stood motionless in the wet gravel. I did not call out her name or wave a hand to get her attention. She kept her eyes focused on the inventory clipboard hanging on the wall, her brow furrowed in concentration. Then, she turned her head.
She stared at my boots in the mud, then slowly looked up to meet my eyes. She froze. She gasped, a white puff of breath appearing in the chill. Her fingers went slack against the edge of the flat.
The flat plummeted. It hit the concrete with a sharp crack. Potting soil exploded across the concrete, burying the scattered bulbs. The rich, damp scent of disturbed earth cut through the salty mist, filling the space between us.
The shock on her face stripped away the last of my defenses.
I shifted my shoulder, letting the strap slide down my arm.
The bag hit the puddle at my feet with a dull thud.
It contained a few shirts, a razor, and the remaining cash I had salvaged from the liquidation.
My hands hung empty at my sides, palms open to the damp air.
I locked my knees to keep my boots planted in the mud.
Every instinct drove me to cross the yard and close the physical gap, but I forced myself to wait.
She held all the authority on this farm.
I was trespassing on her property, offering no excuses and demanding no favors.
The wind picked up, but I refused to break eye contact.
I let the silence stretch, absorbing the weight of her judgment.
The quiet held for a long minute, magnified by the steady crash of the distant ocean.
Sutton did not retreat into the shed. She did not call for Ruby to run me off the property.
Instead, she took a tentative step forward, her boots crunching over the spilled soil.
“I watched the broadcast a month ago,” she said. Her voice was steady, betraying none of the chaos I had unleashed in Los Angeles.
I nodded.
“We didn’t know if you actually survived the corporate fallout,” she continued, studying my unkempt hair and the single bag resting in the dirt. “And then you just show up standing in the middle of a mud puddle.”
I let out a slow breath, the white vapor drifting in the cold air. I kept my posture relaxed, offering her exactly what happened with no excuses.
“The studio filed emergency injunctions to freeze my travel and my accounts,” I said. “The lawyers tried to drown me in paperwork, threatening to seize everything down to the shoes on my feet. I couldn’t come near you until the ink was dry and I was legally clear.”
Sutton stared at me. The money, the studio protection, the career—it was all gone. I had signed it all away, leaving myself with nothing but the dirt beneath my boots.
She looked at the battered canvas sinking into the mud, then back up to my face. The stiffness in her posture finally gave way.
“You’re actually broke, aren’t you?” Sutton asked. “You don’t have a handler, or a return flight booked.”
She left the shattered flat resting by her boots. Instead, she stood at the edge of the dock, wrapping her arms protectively over her sweater. The coastal wind whipped her hair across her cheeks.
“You’re freezing, Hayes,” she said. Her voice carried over the rustle of the trees. “That jacket isn’t meant for the coast.”
“The cold doesn’t matter,” I answered. “I’m not leaving.”
She held my gaze for a long moment. Then, she walked down the steps.
Her boots sank into the wet dirt at the bottom of the stairs. She stepped directly into the mud and crossed the yard to reach me.
I took a single, hesitant step forward to meet her halfway. The wet gravel ground into the dirt as my boots sank into the muck. We stopped just a few feet apart. We were just two people standing face-to-face in the crisp autumn air.
Puffs of our breath plumed and mingled in the chill air. Every step she had just taken toward me felt like an unearned miracle. I stared at the curve of her stomach beneath the overalls, the undeniable proof of the family I had abandoned for a PR machine.
I kept my arms at my sides. My jacket pulled taut across my shoulders as I resisted the overwhelming urge to reach out.
I wanted nothing more than to step across the final gap, pull her into my chest, and bury my face in her hair.
But I didn’t have the right to touch her yet.
I had to state my terms of surrender first.
“I didn’t do it for the cameras, Sutton,” I said, the coastal air stinging my throat. “I did it because I needed you to know that there is nothing in that world worth losing you.”
She studied my face, searching for the polished actor who used to spin every argument into a victory. He was gone. I offered her nothing but the exhausted man standing in her driveway.
“It’s not going to be glamorous out here, Hayes,” Sutton said. She kept her chin high, refusing to back down. “There are no assistants, no luxury suites, and no red carpets. It is just dirt and hard work, every single day.”
“I don’t want Los Angeles,” I answered. “I just want you, and our baby, and whatever quiet life you’re willing to let me earn.”
The damp chill seeped through my thin jacket. The biting wind carried the scent of the spilled soil across the yard. I forced myself to stay rooted in the gravel.
I had spent years memorizing scripts crafted to win over studio executives. But standing here shivering in the mud, I owed her the unvarnished truth.
“The buyout penalties drained almost everything I had, Sutton,” I said. My voice sounded raw in the quiet space between us. “I am not asking to just walk back into your bedroom like nothing happened. I’ll do whatever it takes, just to earn your trust back.”
She stared at me, the coastal mist collecting on her eyelashes. Her hands remained wrapped tightly over the curve of her stomach beneath her overalls. The silence stretched out, interrupted only by the distant surf against the cliffs.
“I am completely done acting,” I added, my voice rough. “And I am entirely yours.”
I braced myself. I expected her to maintain the polite, icy detachment she had wielded against me since the day I first trespassed on this property. I expected her to thank me for the apology, turn around, and walk back up the steps to the packing shed.
She didn’t turn away. The tension in her shoulders finally relaxed. She stepped forward, her boots sinking into the wet dirt, and closed the distance between us.
Without a word, she reached out. She grabbed the lapels of my jacket and pulled me forward. My freezing chest collided with the sudden, shocking warmth of her body.
I moved on instinct, wrapping my arms tight around her back. I slid my hands down to the base of her spine, leaning back slightly to make room for her pregnant stomach against my chest. I buried my face deep into the crook of her neck. The familiar scent of her vanilla shampoo washed over me.
“You’re an absolute idiot, Hayes Gallagher,” she whispered, her voice muffled against my collarbone.
“I know,” I breathed, tightening my grip on her sweater.
“But you are finally my idiot again,” she said. I felt her tears soaking into my shirt.
The last suffocating hold of Los Angeles fell away into the dirt.
I was shivering, nearly broke, and unemployed, but standing in this muddy driveway with my arms wrapped around my family, I had never felt richer in my life.
I pressed my mouth against her neck, holding her tight enough to prove I was real, but careful enough to protect the child resting between us.
“I’m so incredibly sorry it took me this long to prove it,” I murmured against her skin. “I promise I’ll never make you feel invisible again.”
She let out a shaky breath, her fingers relaxing their grip on my lapels. She pressed her hands against my chest, leaning back just enough to look up at my face.
“You’re freezing,” she said softly, her fingers grazing my cold skin. “And your boots are completely ruined.”
“The boots don’t matter,” I said.
She offered a small, exhausted smile.
“Pick up your bag and come inside the house so I can make you some coffee,” she said.
She stepped back, turning toward the farmhouse porch. I let out a long breath, the coastal chill returning to my skin as she stepped away. I reached down, grabbed my bag from the mud, and followed my wife home.