Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
WESLEY
I don’t move.
I just stand there, rooted in place like an idiot, watching Sadie storm across the yard toward the main house. Her shoulders are tight, her fists clenched like she’s holding herself together by sheer force.
Fuck.
She was right about one thing: I’ve been a complete fucking asshole to her. And for what? Because she makes me feel too much? Because she looks at me like I’m someone I’ll never be good enough to be?
Seeing the pain in her expression, the sheen of tears in her eyes, the tremble in her lip, guts me. I will never forgive myself for it. But she shouldn’t cry over me. I’m not worth her tears.
I watch her cross the yard and I can’t stop replaying the sight of her—hair falling out of her bun, tank top clinging to her skin, sweat dripping down the curve of her throat. She’d hauled nearly every bale on her own. Fifty pounds apiece. Hours of work I never meant for her to actually do.
I thought she knew it was a joke.
But she believed me. And she did it. For me.
I rake a hand through my hair and blow out a breath.
Why is she being so fucking stubborn?
“She’s not stubborn, son,” Dad chuckles behind me.
My head snaps toward him and I blink. Shit—did I say that out loud?
He gives me a look, like I should already know what he’s thinking.
But I don’t. Not with her.
With Sadie, I am permanently and clinically incapable of doing the right thing. I can’t seem to stop fucking up and making everything worse. Even trying to keep my distance, I end up hurting her more than if I’d just admit the truth.
And that kills me more than anything.
She’s almost to the porch when Dad says quietly, “She might’ve grown up in a big house full of staff, but that girl’s been alone a long time. Don’t pile on. Go easy on her. She’s trying.”
I don’t answer. I can’t.
My eyes are glued to her small, furious figure marching toward the porch.
Trying.
And I’ve done nothing but push her away.
“What the hell are you waiting for?” Dad grunts. “A formal invitation? Go fix your mess.”
And I do.
My body moves before my brain catches up, before giving it a second thought. Just as she steps onto the porch, I catch her, my fingers wrapping around her wrist—too tight, too desperate, mirroring how I feel inside.
She whirls around, eyes red and swollen, and I am ruined. Her eyes hold mine, daring me to make things worse. Like she expects it. And why shouldn’t she? I’m not capable of anything else.
“Look, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings—but you’re blowing this way out of proportion.”
My voice comes out too sharp. Patronizing. The exact opposite of my intentions.
A frown flickers across her face, her eyes narrowing as she tries to twist her arm out of my hand.
“You can’t just keep running off every time you’re feeling pissy,” I blurt, pulling her back again.
Her voice is low, lethal. “Pissy?” She glares down at my hand on her wrist. “Wesley, let me go.”
I release my hold immediately.
“Yeah, Princess,” I sneer, hating the way the words taste in my mouth. “Just ’cause you’re in a bad mood and seem to lack a sense of humor, doesn’t mean you get to take it out on everyone else.”
She growls—actually growls—then spins back around and storms up the remaining steps.
I follow. I shouldn’t. But I do. Because I’m done trying to make the right choices. I’m done letting her slip away.
She makes it all the way to her bedroom door before I plant my arm across the frame, blocking her in. I don’t touch her. I don’t have to. The space between us pulls tight, humming with want.
“Wesley…”
My name spills from her mouth in a whisper.
She won’t look at me. Her eyes are locked on the doorknob like she’ll break apart if she meets my gaze.
I could survive solely off the sound of my name in her mouth for the rest of my life. I’d give anything for her to look at me again.
“Please,” she murmurs, voice shaking. “Just leave me alone.”
Guilt rushes up my throat, hot and acidic.
“I’m sorry.” The words fall out, my voice raw. “For this morning. For the joke. For being a dick. For all of it. Everything.” I scrub a hand over my face. “I didn’t mean any of it. I just…Fuck, Sadie. I’m sorry.”
When she looks up at me, a tear slides down her cheek.
Something inside me fractures.
I’m done being the thing that hurts her.
Forever.
“Will you come with me?” I ask, my voice wavering.
She hesitates, teeth catching on her bottom lip as her fingers twist the hem of her tank top.
The silence stretches so long it aches.
I lower my arm, slowly stepping back, accepting the reality of what I’ve lost.
“Okay,” she whispers.
A wave of relief surges over me so roughly I nearly stumble.
I take her hand—gently this time—and lead her out toward my truck, worried if I hesitate even a second, she’ll change her mind.
“Where are we going?” she asks as I open the passenger door for her.
“You’ll see,” I say, hoping she can’t hear how hard my heart is pounding.
Because there’s nowhere in the world I want to be more than wherever she is.
We’re sitting on the tailgate of my truck, the field stretching out in front of us like someone spilled every shade of summer across the earth. Wildflowers sway in the breeze, brushing against each other like they’re whispering secrets.
I’ve brought her here a handful of times now, so it shouldn’t be a surprise anymore—but it still feels special in a way.
It feels like something I shouldn’t get to have.
She’s connected her phone to my truck, scrolling through her playlists with her bare feet dangling off the tailgate.
I can’t look away from her. She looks so soft like this. Unarmored. A little sunburned and smudged with dirt. Sweaty. Human.
Beautiful.
“You can put on whatever you want,” I say, trying to sound completely unaffected by how close her thigh is to mine.
She puts on something soft, folky even. It’s delicate, raw, and a little unexpected.
Just like her.
I should’ve known better, but just when I think I’ve figured her out, there’s another layer to peel back.
“Tell me something real,” she says, her voice light as she continues swinging her dangling feet.
“What does that mean?” I ask, even though I know exactly what it means.
She rolls her eyes. “You know. Something honest. Something that is one hundred percent you, unfiltered.”
A tight pressure wraps around my ribs.
“Alright.” I breathe in deep and don’t look at her when I say it. “Sometimes I think about getting in my truck, driving off the ranch, and never looking back.”
Her head snaps toward me. “You don’t like it here?”
“I do.” I drag a hand over my jaw, staring out at the mountains, the last edge of sunset cutting the top of the ridge. “This is home. It’s everything I’ve ever known. But sometimes I wonder who I’d be if I was somewhere else.”
“That makes sense,” she says, her voice soft. “After my mom …I used to daydream about running away, too.”
I nod, and for the first time all summer, it feels like I’m actually seeing her. The real version.
“You’re not who I thought you’d be,” I say before I can stop myself.
She frowns, a little crease forming between her brows. “Who did you think I’d be?”
I smirk. “Give me your phone.”
She side-eyes me but hands it over. A few taps later, the opening beats of “California Gurls” come out of my speakers.
Her jaw drops. “No way. I can’t believe you even know this song.”
She giggles—really giggles—and covers her mouth with her hand like she can’t help it.
“Believe it or not, we do have internet access here,” I say with a smirk. “And this shit’s Emmett’s guilty pleasure. I can’t escape it. After a few drinks, I might even sing it for you.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m not.”
Her laughter bubbles out again, bright and full and fucking addictive. I’d bottle that sound if I could. Keep it forever.
“Your turn,” I say. “Tell me something real.”
Her smile fades slowly as she wipes the corner of her eye, where a happy tear clings to her lashes. She clears her throat, her fingers knotting together in her lap, twisting the fabric of her shirt.
“Do you want to know the real reason I’m here?” she asks, her voice nearly a whisper.
“Only if you want to tell me.”
Her throat bobs and I find myself staring, tracing the flutter under her skin, unable to look away. Then she drags her teeth over her bottom lip, turning it a flushed, tempting pink, and goddammit—I want to touch her. I want to taste her. I want things I have no right wanting.
“There was…an incident. With one of my father’s clients.”
I don’t miss the bite in her tone when she says “incident.” Like it’s rehearsed. A line that was fed to her.
“Gideon Cross. Someone my father considers a close friend—even after everything.” She smiles sadly.
“My friends and I went to a party in the Hills. We’d gotten separated, all pulled in different directions, and I couldn’t find them.
I was looking for the bathroom when he cornered me.
It was one of those gut-feeling moments…
where you know you’re not safe, but your body reacts too slow. ”
The muscles in my jaw clench.
“He forced me to try this expensive whiskey. It’s hard to say no to someone who’s never heard it before.” Her laugh is humorless—hollow. “I was stupid. I only had a tiny sip, but it was enough. He’d slipped something in and everything got fuzzy and then he had me against the wall and I—”
Her voice cracks and she squeezes her eyes shut, shaking her head, trying to hold herself together.
It hurts—like her pain has spread between us, crawling up behind my ribs and shredding me from the inside out.
I can’t just sit here. I reach for her, covering her hand with mine. She flinches at the contact, then sinks into my touch. My chest goes tight. I want to pull her closer. I want to take every bit of that pain apart with my bare hands.