Chapter 2
CHAPTER
TWO
Mira
“I can explain,” I say before I’m even out of the car.
“I figured.”
The door swings closed behind me, and I shove my heart-shaped sunglasses onto the top of my head.
In the distance, chaos continues to unfold.
Shouts, shrieks, and the distinct sound of oinking create a cacophony of background sounds—how do I smooth this over?
—but all that fades into oblivion as my gaze settles on him.
The warmth from his deep brown eyes spread through my body—heating my chest, coloring my cheeks—coiling into an almost too tight ball in my core.
It’s unfair how well time treats him.
Hartley has always been devastatingly handsome—a fact I’m uncertain he knows, but he probably couldn’t care less if he did.
The more years that pass, the better he becomes.
He fills out the denim wrapped around his muscled thighs, and his shoulders are as broad as the barn behind him. And his mustache? Stupid hot.
His physical appearance is enough to throw any woman off kilter, but that’s not even his superpower.
That lies in his charm. He has a seemingly effortless ability to …
be. There’s no flash, no force, and absolutely no performance in anything he says or does.
He’s just a quiet gravity that’s steady and grounding in a way I’ve only ever felt around him.
And it takes my breath away. He takes my breath away. Totally unfair.
“You better get to talkin’,” he says. There’s a twinkle in his eye, and I hope it’s from amusement and not the sun.
“So,” I say, coming to a stop in front of him. Whiffs of his understated cologne drift by like a welcome home committee. “I was at Oscar’s last night, and there was this little piglet …”
He drops his arms from across his chest. His head falls to the side as he peers down at me and sighs.
“I didn’t know what else to do,” I say, my tone rising. “I panicked.”
“You panicked,” he says carefully. “So you decided to buy a pig?”
“No. I panicked because that baby was getting auctioned off to someone who would fatten him up and process him. It’s like he knew it—he knew his fate.
And instead of just standing there looking cute, he chose life.
” I talk even faster. “He raced around the arena, searching for an out. He knocked over a farmer and a card table, and I swear the little thing nearly had a heart attack. It was so sad.”
Hartley rolls his eyes.
“He wanted to live, Hart. What was I supposed to do?”
“I don’t know. Turn around? Don’t look?”
I groan. This isn’t going quite as well as I’d hoped—I usually get my way much quicker than this when it comes to Hartley.
It certainly didn’t help that Oscar beat me to the ranch and the pig decided to make a run for it again.
But, at the end of the day, none of that makes getting Hartley on board impossible. It just makes it a harder sell.
“Remember that time in middle school when Gray and Brooks caught those fireflies in a cup because someone told them they could remove the glowy part and put it in their hair?” I ask, trying another angle.
The corner of Hartley’s mouth tugs toward the sky for the briefest moment. But that’s all the assurance I need to continue.
“But you knew how sad that made me because I didn’t know if their parents would recognize them without their glowstick.
You saw the tears in my eyes, and then conveniently got Gray and Brooks to run to the barn with you for something so I could accidentally knock over the cup and free the fireflies.
” I smile sweetly up at him. “This is like that. Except people were gonna eat … Pigasso.”
“Pigasso?”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t name farm animals, Mira.”
“Is this a bad time to tell you that his middle name is Pigglesworth?”
He begins to crack a smile but stops short.
Instead, he holds my gaze steadily. There isn’t any anger in his eyes over this whole ordeal.
At worst, he’s slightly irritated with me.
But he’ll give in because it’s what needs to be done …
and I can’t decide if that makes me happy, or if it’s a sharp knife plunged into my heart.
We were five years old when we met. I wore a pink pair of sandals my mom bought me for the first day of kindergarten, and I loved them because I thought they made me the fastest runner at Sugar Creek Elementary.
I was standing by the sand table when Hartley came up to me and complimented my shoes.
I decided then that this guy was the coolest guy in the world—except for my dad, of course.
Our story started there and ended well before it should’ve. And that’s one of the great regrets of my life. But it’s also a circumstance that cannot be changed, and I’ve learned to accept that.
“Are you keeping that thing?” Cathy shouts, breaking our bubble.
Hartley’s gaze pulls from mine. “I’m as surprised about this as you are.”
Wincing, I peer over my shoulder. “It’s my fault, Cathy. Sorry.”
“Could’ve guessed that without asking.” She points a finger at me and grins. “This had your name written all over it, little girl.”
“I said I’m sorry.” I laugh. “It’s a long story.”
“Always is with you. Now you'd better make time to come by here and help me replant the garden your piggie just destroyed, or the next time I see you, there’ll be no pecan pie.”
I gasp. “You wouldn’t!”
She winks before disappearing inside Hartley’s house.
“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” Bobby says, stopping in front of us. The pig squeals in his arms.
Bobby McIntyre is a bridge between the past and the present.
Now in his fifties, Bobby used to work for Hartley’s dad, Ronnie, before he passed away.
When Hartley took over, Bobby stayed by his side and helped him assume full control of the ranch.
I always loved Bobby. He was fun, saved me from a snake, and pretended not to find the bottles of strawberry wine we hid in the loft of the old barn at the back of the property.
“How are you, Bobby?” I ask, starting to pet the pig. But, before I can make contact, it swings its snout toward me with a not-too-friendly oink as if it’s about to bite me.
“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of this thing?” Bobby asks, amused.
I make a face. “I’m not afraid of it. I just … I thought it would be softer. Cuddlier.” More grateful that I spared its life.
“You’ve read too many storybooks,” Hartley says.
I study Pigasso. The pleading look in his face last night isn’t the same one staring back at me this morning. I’m not really getting Wilbur from Charlotte’s Web vibes anymore.
“Since you’re both here,” Oscar says, slamming the back of his truck closed. “I’ll consider this signed, sealed, and delivered.” He gives Hartley a wave, and an unnecessary—and totally unhelpful—chuckle, before climbing inside the cab and taking off down the driveway.
“What do you want me to do with this, boss?” Bobby asks.
“His name is Pigasso,” I say.
Bobby nods, pressing his lips together so he doesn’t laugh. “Pigasso. Got it.”
Hartley sighs, his gaze weighing heavily on the side of my face. And every second that passes with Bobby’s question unanswered feels like a lifetime because I know why he’s not responding. He’s waiting for me to answer a few questions first.
Crap. I take a deep breath and turn to him.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “In my more … sober state today, I realized that not calling you before sending a pig to the ranch was a not-so-great idea. I can try to find an animal rescue, but it might take me a couple of days. Could you at least keep Pigasso until then?”
Bobby coughs back a laugh. “Want me to put it—Pigasso—in an empty stall for now?”
“Yeah,” Hartley says, his voice flat.
I glance over my shoulder at my car. “Hey.” I turn and find them both looking at me. “Since you’re both here, do either of you know how I could get my hands on enough gas to get back to town?” I half smile, half wince at their reactions.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Mira,” Hartley says, shaking his head in exasperation.
“What? I was in a hurry,” I say. “That last quarter tank just goes. It goes so fast that my fuel gauge might be faulty.”
Bobby laughs. “I’m glad some things don’t change. It gives me hope for the future.” He starts toward the barn. “Good to see you, Mira.”
“You, too,” I call after him.
Hartley heads to his truck bed and slides two gas cans to the tailgate.
How is he this prepared? He moves without looking at me, like it’s a normal day at work and I’m not standing next to him.
But a vein in the side of his neck pulses as he lifts the plastic jugs, and I think that has more to do with me than the weight of the bottles.
My heart thumps wildly as I watch him carry one to my car. He hasn't exactly agreed to take Pigasso, nor has he accepted my apology. Worst of all? He acts like he doesn’t want to speak to me.
And no matter what’s going on between us—good, bad, or otherwise—he always speaks to me.
“I’m sorry,” I say, stumbling over my words.
“Don’t worry about it.”
His tone makes me worry even more.
“Hart …” I groan, stepping out of his way. “I really am sorry about this. I’ll get Pigasso out of here as soon as I can.”
He fills my tank and then tosses the empty jug back into his truck. “I said, don’t worry about it.”
“But the words aren’t really matching the tone, you know?”
We stare at each other for a few seconds that stretch longer than they should.
When Hartley looks at me like this, everything stills. The world slows. The noise that’s constantly rumbling through my head—worries, questions, and memories—is stripped away. I’m left with nothing to hide behind.
It’s just me. Exposed. Vulnerable. Bared before him.
And unfortunately … I don’t hate it.
I’ve thought about how Hartley looks at me a million times, because vulnerability has never come easy to me. It’s wrecked more relationships than I can count. But with Hartley, it’s different.