Chapter 18 #2
“Hm?” My eyes flick up, looking straight into Wesley’s. Then, as if that isn’t bad enough, Emmett’s. Both of them are staring at me like I’ve just confessed every detail of my dream out loud.
My cheeks flare with heat.
“Having your friends visit next weekend?” Heath repeats.
“Oh! Right—um, yes.” I clear my throat, trying to drag my thoughts back to normal human conversation. “Thank you again for letting them stay.”
“Not a problem.” Heath smiles, warm and easy. “Seems like a good time for you to have a little fun.”
Fun.
I drag my gaze back to my plate. I’ve been hoping today will be the day he lets me take on more responsibility.
I’ve been busting my ass for weeks—emptying trash cans, feeding animals, scrubbing buckets, shoveling literal tons of horse shit, hauling hay—and doing it all without complaint. Well, without outward complaint.
I’ve shown I can handle more—real responsibility. Maybe he’s planning to tell me after breakfast. He usually meets me out at the barn to give me a rundown for the day and tell me which horses are being pulled for trail rides.
I’m not giving up hope yet.
Even if my brain is still at war with itself, replaying pieces of the dream like a movie trailer I absolutely should not want to see.
The sky is smeared with pink and orange hues as the soft glow of the rising sun spreads across the horizon.
I’ve grown to love this quiet and unhurried beginning of the day, when the world is still half asleep. The calm before guests fill the empty spaces and the guys head out to work cattle and lead rides.
Each day feels like a reset. A fresh start.
When I breathe in, I can almost convince myself it’s a normal morning.
That I’m normal. Untouched.
Footsteps crunch down the dirt path. I turn, expecting Heath—but it’s him.
Wesley strides toward me, the morning light catching along the sharp line of his jaw, the shadow of stubble, the permanent furrow between his brows. His gaze catches mine—unreadable but heavy, making my stomach knot even tighter.
Everything is fine.
He’s holding his thermos of coffee in one hand, the other shoved deep into his coat pocket, shoulders moving with that effortless confidence he always seems to have. I straighten my spine, pretending my pulse isn’t throbbing.
“Oh. Hi.” My voice comes out lighter than I mean it to. “I wasn’t expecting to see you. Where’s Heath?”
He takes a slow sip before answering, eyes still on me, as if he’s waiting for something. As if he can see the imaginary marks from their mouths on my skin.
“He asked me to give you the rundown for today.”
So much for polite conversation. A shiver crawls up my spine, from the chill in the air and from the way his eyes linger, like he’s piecing together something he wishes he didn’t see.
“Oh. Alright,” I murmur, crossing my arms over my chest.
He studies me for a moment too long. Just long enough for the back of my neck to warm.
Then he looks away and gestures toward the neat stack of hay bales lined against the exterior barn wall.
“You just have to move these around to the other side.”
I blink at the mountain of bales. “From the left side to the right? Why? That seems…a little redundant.”
Usually, the guys put them in the hayloft. But maybe there’s an event coming up? I turn to ask, but he’s already walking away.
No explanation. No goodbye.
A moment later, his truck door slams. The engine growls to life and he pulls away.
The second his truck disappears down the road, the silence drops heavy around me—thick enough that I can actually hear the leftover echo of my hammering pulse.
I take a slow breath.
Then another.
Then one more, because apparently seeing Wesley for fifteen seconds is now enough to scramble my entire nervous system.
I pop my earbuds in, scroll to my playlist, and tune out the world around me. Work. I just need to get lost in my work. Physical tasks. Sweating. Literally anything except remembering the way it all felt so real.
His hands.
His mouth.
His brother’s mouth.
My own breathless, desperate sounds caught between them both.
My cheeks burn again. Fuck, I need a lobotomy.
I roll up my sleeves and reach for the first bale. The twine bites into my palms as I lift. My muscles strain, in a perpetual state of aching.
I drag the bale across the dirt, drop it into place on the opposite wall, and go back for another.
But I can’t stop the dream from creeping into my mind.
Tip my head back and groan into the cloudless sky. “Why? Why would my brain do that?”
I yank another bale off the stack, annoyed at both it and myself. The effort sends a pulse of tension through my shoulders, but it’s not enough to chase away the phantom sensation of fingers tracing my hips. Two hands, one from behind, one from in front. My breath stutters.
I drop the bale harder than necessary.
It was just a dream.
People have weird dreams all the time. Stress dreams. Anxiety dreams. Heat-induced psychosis dreams.
They don’t mean anything.
Except this one felt like something.
Like a warning.
Or maybe a wish.
Dust floats in the beams of sunlight as I pass the open barn door. Buttercup and Monty shuffle in their stalls, like they can sense the hurricane swirling in my chest.
I shove another bale across the ground, dirt sticking to my skin. My arms burn, sweat prickling along the back of my neck. I rip my coat off, unable to bear the heat any longer. I rest my hands on my hips, catching my breath and taking a water break. Why is it so fucking warm already?
My playlist is blasting in my ears, but my heartbeat is louder.
Why did he leave so fast?
How does he go from brushing my hair behind my ear and saying things he shouldn’t, to pushing me away again and being his usual brooding self?
It was almost like he couldn’t look at me.
The realization pulses through me, dizzying. I’m being stupid. But also…maybe not?
Because he had looked at me, just before he turned. Like maybe he was the one who had woken up from a dream he wished he could forget.
My heart kicks painfully against my ribs.
“No,” I whisper, refusing to give the thought oxygen. “Nope. Absolutely not.”
I grab another bale, muscles trembling slightly now—not from exertion, but from the possibility that this thing twisting my stomach might not be one-sided.
“I have a secret,” I whisper to Lydia as I slip into my hidden nook behind the bar, tucking my knees up like I’m trying to fold myself out of existence.
It’s been my hideout during lunch, keeping me safe from awkward run-ins with Lane. He’s been timing his break to end when mine starts, and I’m really thankful he’s been respectful and keeping his distance.
Now I’m also hiding from the Morrow boys. Especially after my dream last night…the dream that’s been on a constant replay in my head against my will.
Lydia crouches down in front of me with a devilish grin. “I love secrets. Spill.”
“You have to swear to me that you won’t tell a soul. Or judge me. Swear it.”
She grabs a tequila bottle from the shelf, places one hand over it, and raises the other like she’s in court. “I swear to the tequila gods, I won’t judge you or tell a soul.”
I inhale, lean in, and exhale the words in one mortified breath: “IhadasexdreamaboutWesleyandEmmett.”
“What? Sadie, come on, just say it.”
“I had a sex dream about Wesley and Emmett,” I whisper.
Her brows shoot up. “Holy shit. Both of them?” I nod. “You’re a busy girl. What was it like?”
“Lyd!” My voice comes out strangled. “This is not funny. I can barely look at them now.”
She shrugs. “I think there’s a very simple solution.”
“Oh, please, wise one, enlighten me.”
“You,” she says, touching my forehead dramatically, “need to get laid.”
I gape at her. “Lydia—”
“I’m being serious. He-who-shall-not-be-named was giving you mind-blowing O’s on a regular basis, and now your body is in withdrawal. The dream was your brain’s way of…compensating.”
I open my mouth to argue, but someone knocks on the bar. She holds up a finger before popping up to help them, leaving me alone in my shame cave.
I rest my chin on my knees. Maybe she’s not entirely wrong. Maybe I’ve been chasing the wrong thing—searching for earth-shattering love only to end up disappointed. Maybe a fling would be simpler. Maybe it would hurt less.
Lydia drops down again, wiggling her eyebrows. “Sooo. Who are you gonna bang?”
I laugh despite myself. “Ew. Sometimes you’re such a guy about this stuff.”
“Aww, you love me anyway. Now tell me, who’s the lucky guy?”
“I think you’re half right,” I say slowly.
“Half?”
“Yes. I think I do need to…scratch the itch. But I’ve never done the casual thing.
Never had a one-night stand. I’ve always been looking for love and—obviously—that has not gone well.
Kolson ghosted me. Lane…” A swallow. “I just wanted to love and be loved, and I rushed into anything that resembled that feeling.”
Lydia softens instantly. “Baby, the only reason you even looked at Lane was because you were overreacting to your real feelings.”
I frown. “Agree to disagree.”
“Mmm. Except I’m one hundred percent right.” She twirls her finger. “Continue.”
I roll my eyes. “Instead of a relationship or a one-night stand, I think I need something in-between. A fling.”
She winces. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea. And I don’t think there’s anyone around here you’d want to sleep with more than once. We should just go to Lucky’s. Tourists are easy.”
“I don’t want to go from zero to a hundred in the time I have left here. I think having a fling is the perfect solution.” I shrug. “You said so yourself.”
“Um, correction: I did not suggest you getting a regular fuck buddy. I said you needed to get laid.”
“Ugh, can we not call it a fuck buddy? It’s a fling. No strings. No attachments. A mutually beneficial arrangement.”
“Sounds like a fuck buddy to me, but sure, honey. A little summer fling.” She smirks.
I stick my tongue out at her—right as a familiar deep voice rolls from the other side of the bar.
“Have you seen Sadie?”
Wesley.