Chapter 19 Perfect Fit
perfect fit
ROXANNE
I fell asleep after Leo, Allie, and I ate dinner in my room and watched Legally Blonde. Peak women’s empowerment film, if you ask me. I’m not sure when they left, but when I woke up, there was a tray with fruit, a muffin, and coffee waiting for me with a note.
Get something to eat and then text us. We’re going to be doing some drone work today.
Love you,
Al and Leo
I roll out of bed and for the first time since I arrived, I peel the heavy satin drapes apart. The view doesn’t make me feel like I’ve got a weight hanging from my heart. I haven’t made peace with this land yet, but it’s progress.
I shower again and my hands flip through the clothes I’ve hung in my closet. I don’t reach for the turtleneck—I reach for jean shorts and a short-sleeve T-shirt
My scar is still mostly covered, but since the cat’s out of the bag, I feel okay letting some of the edges show.
I do feel lighter as I head down the heavy log staircase of the lodge. I take a steadying breath and prepare to face the day, but it’s as if the wind is knocked out of me when I see him.
He’s leaning against the side of his truck like he stepped off the cover of a ranch-themed romance novel.
Duke Faraday in all his crisp T-shirt-clad confidence.
His arms are crossed, forearms flexed in a way that makes me feel instantly ridiculous for noticing.
A soft breeze lifts the ends of his hair beneath his hat, and that infuriatingly perfect jaw ticks when he spots me.
Oh no.
My heart skids in my chest.
The sense of peace I’d just reclaimed? Gone. Sprinted off into the woods.
Of course he would look freshly showered and rugged and devastating after the spectacular meltdown I had last night. I probably still have puffy eyes and a pillow crease across my cheek.
His eyes trail over me, slow and unreadable, in a “he notices everything and it makes my skin tingle” kind of way.
“You look better,” he says, his voice gentler than usual.
“I’m still recovering from public water humiliation and the emotional collapse that followed, but thanks.”
“Emotional collapse?” His eyes are large and searching my face now.
I kick at an invisible rock. “It’s fine. I’m good.”
“I’m happy to see you left the turtleneck behind.”
I smile. “Yes, well, I figure …” my voice trails off. “Thank you. I … I didn’t get to thank you for everything yesterday.”
The corner of his mouth tugs up, and he opens the door to his truck. “You can thank me later. Get in.”
“Excuse me?”
“Get in the truck, Trouble.”
“And where do you think we’re going?”
He closes the gap between us and the energy coming off him threatens to unravel me. “This has gone on long enough.”
“What has?”
“We’re going to town to get you some new clothes so you don’t almost die again on my watch.”
I want to fire off a retort, but I remind myself of how my pride has gotten me in trouble the past few days. I blow out a long breath and climb into the cab. Jameson snorts from the back seat, and I’m happy to see him. When Duke gets in and the door shuts with a satisfying thunk.
“Oh, uh, I was supposed to meet Leo and Allie,” I say. “I don’t want them to think I’m still sulking in my room.”
“Caught them on my way in and let them know what we’re doing.”
“I don’t have my purse, my wallet—”
“I’m buying.”
My shoulders stiffen. “Out of the question. I’m perfectly capable of buying my own clothes.”
“Me offering to buy you some new duds doesn’t imply you’re not capable.”
He reaches for the truck’s console, maybe to adjust the air or tap something on the dash, but his arm brushes my thigh.
His hand pauses. Just for a second. My breath hitches, heat blooming in the exact spot he touched me. He doesn’t pull away immediately, clears his throat and finishes whatever he was doing, like nothing happened.
Um, something did happen though, because my skin’s still buzzing.
He shifts into drive and continues. “Of course you can buy your own clothes, but there’s no reason to have you spend money on clothes that you probably aren’t going to strut around in back in New York.”
“No, probably not.”
“You’re going to pick out whatever you want to wear for the summer and then anything you don’t want to take back with you, I’ll keep here or donate.”
“Sounds reasonable,” I say quietly.
“Can we go now, or do you want to try a few more excuses?”
“I guess I’m fresh out.”
“Good. We’ve already kept Jameson waiting too long.”
We don’t even fully leave the drive leading to the ranch when Duke interrupts the still-simmering silence between us.
“When did you get struck by lightning?”
I feel that question like a kick in the ribs. “Wow, you get right to it, don’t you?”
He pumps his eyebrows twice. “I don’t mess around.”
“I’m starting to see that.”
“Is this the accident Leo and Allie have referred to?”
I give a slow nod. “Yes.”
“When was the last time you talked about it?”
“The day after it happened.”
“And you’ve been hiding your scar ever since?”
“For the most part.”
I roll my window down because launching myself out of the car feels safer than answering another one of Duke’s questions.
The blast of fresh air is an instant reprieve. I close my eyes and let the wind whip through my hair, trying to focus on that instead.
“Lichtenberg figures,” Duke says after he’s silent for a few beats.
I brush my hair out of my eyes, but keep my eyes fixed on the forest passing by the window. “What?”
“That’s what the fern-like patterns from lightning burns are called. They make a scar, but they usually disappear after twenty-four hours. There are cases where the scars are more permanent, but they are extremely rare … just like you.”
“Thank you for making sure I know the science behind why I’m such a freak of nature.”
“You’re not a freak of nature, Roxanne. You’re an impossibly beautiful woman who needs to deal with all that hurt you.”
I rub my temple. “I’m working on it. But I … I don’t really want to talk about this now … with you.”
“Fair enough.” He rolls down his window and rests his elbow on the frame. “You shouldn’t hide that scar anymore, though. It’s pretty fucking badass and kind of makes you look like a superhero.”
“Too bad I can’t shoot lightning out of my fingers.”
“Better for me since I’m fairly certain you would’ve cooked me night one.”
A little laugh escapes me. “You’re not wrong.”
“So, show your scar off as the badge of courage it is. You survived something horrific and that’s all that people will think when they see it.”
“It’s … it’s so ugly. I hate looking at it. I hide it so I don’t have to answer questions about it.”
“But that’s the thing about everyone at Firebird Ranch. Most people aren’t going to ask you outright because they are dealing with their own scars.”
“You did. You asked me outright.”
“I’m not most people. Anyway, true healing begins when you really get in there and clean out the wound.”
“And yet, you won’t let me interview you.”
“There’s far more interesting people to interview.”
“You’re a retired Delta Force soldier who now enjoys dressing up like a cowboy and is reportedly an expert at karaoke. I’d say you’re pretty interesting.”
He glances at me with a big grin. “You still think about me in those chaps, don’t you?”
“Yes, I think about how ridiculous you looked.” I refuse to tell him how those chaps framed his perfectly sculpted ass and that yes, I’ve still been thinking about it.
“What about your scars?” I ask, reaching back to scratch Jameson’s ear and changing the subject.
“Can you at least tell me how you got those?”
He runs his fingers down his stubble but doesn’t answer.
“It seems like you help so many, Mr. Faraday. Who is helping you?”
“Topper kicks my ass all the time. Rusty keeps me in line. Georgia watches out for me. So, I’m all set.”
“Sometimes we focus on taking care of others because it helps us not deal with our own demons.”
“Thank you, Ms. Freud.”
“I’m going to get you to open up if it’s the last thing I do this summer.”
“You are? That suggests you’re interested in spending more time with me.”
“For interviews for the story, yes.”
“I hope you can keep things professional.”
I roll my eyes. “I assure you, it won’t be a problem.”
“Oh, yes, that’s right, because, first and foremost, you don’t date mountain men.”
“That’s right,” I say, leaning my arm on the window frame.
“Have you ever dated a Duke Faraday before?”
A smile cuts through my steely exterior. “No, I can’t say that I have.”
“Well, that’s where you’ve gone wrong.”
I giggle into my fist, and Duke slows as we round a bend. The forest breaks open into a quaint little main street, like something plucked off a postcard and dropped in the middle of the mountains.
I sit up in my seat. “This? This is town?”
“Marble Valley, Colorado. Surprised?” Duke pulls into a spot in front of a tall, rustic building with hand-painted signs and flower boxes in full bloom.
“Well … yes.”
“You’re from Colorado, Trouble. You should know that not all mountain towns are full of elk and a general store run by a guy named Cletus.”
I glance out the window at a place called Fern & Fable, complete with soft music playing through outdoor speakers and a chalkboard sign advertising lavender lemonade and leather boots. “I was not prepared for the town store to be this charming.”
“Don’t let the ambiance fool you. They still sell horse shampoo.”
I narrow my eyes as he shuts off the truck. “You don’t strike me as a man who would use something that luxurious.”
“I have a very high-maintenance mane,” he says, opening his door. “And I do like to take care of it because … I’m worth it.”
I laugh as I climb out, Jameson leaping down beside me with surprising grace for a dog built like a loaf of bread. “Well, let’s get this over with. What am I supposed to look for?”
“Anything practical, a few pairs of good shoes, one pair of boots,” Duke holds the door open for me, but I let Jameson run in first. “Beyond that, anything else you want.”
The second I step inside, my world shifts.
What the hell?
It’s like I’ve been swallowed by a high-end hunting lodge that had a one-night stand with an Anthropologie, and they kept the baby.
One half of the store (Fable, presumably) is all sleek gear and rugged displays: flannels hung on vintage canoe paddles, hiking boots curated in perfect rows, and a faux forest scene complete with a trickling indoor stream and an animatronic fox sniffing at a fake campfire.
A mannequin in a puffer vest is roasting a flannel marshmallow.
The other half (Fern) stretches into delicate archways, twinkling string lights, and racks of flowing dresses. There’s a chandelier made entirely of antique teacups. A wall of vintage suitcases acts as shelving for handmade jewelry.
Duke steps up to me and presses his index finger under my chin and gently closes my gaping mouth. “Told you. Not a Cletus in sight.”
Before I can say more, a purr sounds from behind me.
“Hello, handsome.”
I turn as a woman, who looks like she stepped out of a Hallmark ranch wedding, pops up from behind a sales counter. She’s petite, caramel blond, wearing a head-to-toe floral maxi dress, cowboy boots, and a belt with more rhinestones than should be allowed in civilized society.
Duke smiles. “Hey, Mary-Kate.”
Of course her name is Mary-Kate.
“I was talking to Jameson here.” Mary-Kate leans down and gives Jameson a biscuit, which he takes to a fluffy dog bed that sits in the corner.
She then turns her attention to me. “Is this the little miss you said needs some new duds?” Mary-Kate asks, her eyes bobbing up and down as she sizes me up. “Looks like she’s a size six.”
Oh, so she is literally sizing me up.
“That’s right,” I say.
Mary-Kate extends a manicured hand my way. “Come with me. We’ll get you taken care of. Duke’s already given me his card.”
I reluctantly take Mary-Kate’s hand and glance over my shoulder at Duke. “How very Pretty Woman of you.”
“Wasn’t in the mood to fight you about this,” he says, following us deeper into the boutique.
“That’s disappointing,” I say as Mary-Kate starts shuffling through a rack of clothing in front of us. “You seem to like to fight.”
“Duke, you want a beer?” Mary-Kate asks as she starts shoving frilly, cowgirl clothes my way.
“Would love one.” Duke sinks into a chair that sits outside the dressing room. A different woman brings Duke a beer, smiles, and then walks up front to help another customer.
“You serve beer here?” I ask.
“Got to keep the men happy while the women shop, darlin’,” Mary-Kate replies.
“Okay, start with these,” Mary-Kate commands now that my arms are full.
“What’s all of this?” I ask, glaring at all the dresses and wispy shirts in my arms. “I thought we were here for practical things?”
“Oh, I already pulled those,” Mary-Kate says. “The shoes you’ll still have to try on, but I wanted to get started with the fun stuff.”
Fun stuff? This is not what I came for. But when Mary-Kate hands me a glass of bubbly and forces me behind a lace curtain, I don’t dare protest.
I take a sip of champagne and decide to try on the red dress first.