Chapter Nineteen – Paisley
Chapter Nineteen
Paisley
I 've been hiding in Martha's for the better part of an hour, pretending to work on festival planning while actually wallowing in my own personal soap opera. Like some kind of caffeine-addicted Greek chorus, I keep stirring my now-cold coffee, as if the answers to dealing with emotionally constipated cowboys might materialize in the murky depths. Spoiler alert: they don't.
"More coffee, hon?" Martha materializes at my elbow with a fresh pot and a knowing look that makes me want to crawl under the table and possibly never emerge. She's got that small-town oracle energy going strong today.
"No, thanks." I push my cup away with the kind of determination usually reserved for avoiding ex-boyfriends at Whole Foods. "I think I've reached my caffeine limit for one day."
She tsks, refilling it anyway because apparently, 'no' is just a suggestion in Martha's universe. "Nonsense. Besides, you might need a reason to stay, considering what's coming through that door."
Before I can ask what she's orchestrating, the bell chimes, and there he is—Wes Montgomery in all his brooding glory, looking like he's stepped straight out of one of my novels. Except my fictional cowboys never made my heart do this stuttering dance in my chest, like it's trying to learn a new rhythm and failing spectacularly.
He scans the diner, his eyes finding mine with an unerring precision that makes me wonder if he's got some kind of romance-novel-heroine GPS installed in that stubborn head of his. The afternoon light catches his profile, highlighting the stubble along his jaw that I definitely haven't been thinking about touching. Much. Okay, maybe a little. Or a lot. Whatever.
"You hungry?"
Two words. Just two simple words, delivered in that gravelly voice that somehow manages to sound both casual and loaded with enough meaning to fill a Russian novel.
"Starving, actually." I gesture to the empty seat across from me, going for nonchalant but probably landing somewhere between desperate and deranged.
A muscle ticks in his jaw—his tell when he's fighting some internal battle—but he sits down anyway. Martha materializes with menus and enough enthusiasm to power a small city during a blackout.
"The usual?" Martha asks, though she's already writing it down like the outcome is as predictable as Bernard's morning tantrums.
Wes nods, because of course, he does. He probably hasn't changed his order since high school. The man's so set in his ways, he makes geological formations look impulsive.
"Same," I say, because apparently, my brain short-circuits whenever he’s within a ten-foot radius. Stellar work, Monroe. Really showing off that fancy Manhattan education.
The silence stretches between us like taffy, sweet and sticky and impossible to break cleanly. I stir my coffee again, watching the cream create abstract patterns that look suspiciously like my career trajectory—spiraling with artistic flair.
Wes leans back in the booth, stretching his arm along the back of the seat like he isn't the one who stormed in here with a look that could curdle fresh milk. He lets out a slow breath, tapping his fingers against the tabletop in a rhythm that makes my nerves hum like live wires.
"You shouldn't go out with Luke." His voice is low, gruff, like he's forcing the words through a cheese grater.
I blink, my spoon clinking against the ceramic as I set it down. "Excuse me?" The words come out sharp enough to slice bread.
His gaze flicks to mine, steady but as unreadable as a poker champion's tell. "Luke. The guy who asked you to coffee earlier. He's not right for you."
A slow burn creeps up my spine, equal parts confusion and irritation. "And you've come to this conclusion how, exactly? By scowling at him from across the festival grounds? Did you perhaps consult your magical cowboy crystal ball?"
Wes exhales sharply, scrubbing a hand over his jaw in a way that makes my stomach do unauthorized gymnastics. "I know his type."
I arch a brow. "Oh, do you? And what type is that? The kind that actually expresses interest without requiring a CIA-level decoder ring?"
"The kind that doesn't stick." His fingers curl into a fist against the table before he forces them open again. "He's not serious, Paisley. He just likes the chase."
I fold my arms, leveling him with a look that could strip paint. "And what if I'm not looking for serious? What if I just want a cup of coffee and a nice conversation with someone who doesn't avoid me like I'm carrying the plague? Novel concept, I know."
His jaw tightens. "That what you want?"
I hesitate, because no, that isn't what I want. I want him—his steady presence, his quiet strength, the way he looks at me like I'm a puzzle he can't solve but can't walk away from either. But he had walked away. Ever since that morning in the barn when I laid my heart out like a rookie poker player showing their hand too soon.
So I lift my chin, channeling every ounce of Manhattan attitude I've got left. "Maybe."
He makes a sound—something between a scoff and a sigh—and shakes his head like I'm the unreasonable one here. "He's not what you need."
Something inside me snaps like a rubber band that's been stretched too far. "And you would know what I need? What, did they start offering mind-reading classes at the local feed store?"
Silence stretches between us like an overworked metaphor, thick and charged and absolutely suffocating. Wes looks at me like he wants to say something, but whatever it is gets lost somewhere between his stubborn pride and that frustrating sense of duty he wears like emotional body armor.
Before he can answer, Martha appears with our plates, her timing both impeccable and infuriating. Like some kind of diner-based deus ex machina. "Here we go, kids. Eat up." She shoots Wes a look that could peel wallpaper before walking away, probably to go report this entire scene to her gossip committee.
I pick up my fork, my appetite having packed its bags and left for greener pastures about ten minutes ago. "You don't get to do this, Wes," I say quietly. "You don't get to push me away and then decide who's good enough to take me for coffee. That's not how this works. That's not how any of this works."
He doesn't answer right away, just stares down at his plate like those scrambled eggs might spontaneously rearrange themselves into relationship advice. When he finally speaks, his voice is softer, rougher. "I just don't want you to get hurt."
Something in my chest squeezes, because for all his frustrating behavior, I know that's the truth. Wes Montgomery doesn't say things he doesn't mean. He's about as subtle as a freight train and twice as stubborn, but he's honest. Which, honestly, just makes this whole situation worse.
"I think that's my decision to make," I say, my voice matching his quiet tone even as my heart performs an interpretive dance of feelings I'm not ready to name.
Wes nods once, like he's losing some internal battle I'm not privy to. But he doesn't argue. And somehow, that's worse than any defense he could have mounted.
The clatter of silverware and low hum of conversation fills the space between us, but it does nothing to ease the weight pressing down on my chest. Wes has always been a man of few words, but the ones he chooses carry more baggage than a transcontinental flight. And these? These settle over me like a lead blanket of unspoken things.
He picks up his fork but doesn't eat, just pushes his eggs around the plate like he's conducting some sort of breakfast orchestra. I should let it go. Should focus on my own meal instead of hanging on to whatever silent war is playing out behind those unreadable eyes.
But I'm too tired for his half measures, too worn down by weeks of this emotional tango where we're both dancing to different songs.
"Why, Wes?" I finally ask, my voice quieter than I intend. "Why do you care?"
His fingers tighten around the fork like it's a lifeline. "You know why."
My heart trips over itself like a drunk sophomore at prom. "Do I?"
He lifts his head then, his gaze locking on to mine with something fierce and unguarded. It lasts all of two seconds before he exhales and looks away, shaking his head like he regrets letting even that much slip through his carefully maintained walls.
Frustration builds in my chest like a pressure cooker about to blow. "Because from where I'm sitting, it seems like you either don't know or don't want to admit it. And I've got to tell you, neither option is particularly flattering."
His jaw clenches, and for a moment, I think he's going to shut down completely and retreat behind that impenetrable fortress of stoicism he's so fond of. But then he surprises me.
"I'm not the man for you, Paisley." His voice is rough, like the words are made of gravel and broken glass. "That's why."
A sharp, unwelcome sting presses behind my ribs. "So that's what this is about." I laugh, but it's about as genuine as a three-dollar bill. "You think Luke's not right for me, but you're not, either? That about sum up this particular episode of Cowboys Who Can't Express Feelings ?"
His gaze flicks to mine, something unreadable darkening his features. "Yeah."
I let out a slow breath, staring down at my half-eaten meal that's rapidly becoming a monument to awkward conversations. "You ever stop to think that maybe that's not your call to make?"
"I have to make it." His voice is barely above a murmur, but the weight of it settles deep in my bones like lead. "Because I can't—" He stops, shaking his head, like he can't even bring himself to finish the thought.
I wait, but the rest of the sentence never comes. It just hangs there, another unfinished thing between us.
"Right," I say, swallowing against the lump in my throat that feels suspiciously like my heart trying to escape. I grab my coffee and take a sip, even though it's gone colder than my dating prospects. "Thanks for clearing that up."
He exhales through his nose, his fingers flexing on the tabletop like he's trying to grab something that isn't there. "Paisley?—"
But I don't want to hear whatever excuse or half-truth he's about to offer. I push back my chair and grab my bag with hands that definitely aren't shaking.
"I need to finish up festival prep," I say, forcing a smile that probably looks as authentic as a gas station Rolex. "You know, since I'm still allowed to make some of my own decisions."
Wes doesn't try to stop me. He just watches as I slide out of the booth and walk toward the door, every step feeling like I'm moving through molasses.
The bell chimes as I push through the door, the sound impossibly cheerful for what feels like a funeral march for possibilities. I'm not sure if this is the end of whatever's been building between us, or just the beginning of something else entirely.
But right now, walking away from Wes Montgomery feels like both the hardest and easiest thing I've ever done.
And isn't that just the story of my life?