Not His to Keep (High Lonesome #2)

1. Rory

Rory

What the actual fuck was I thinking?

My heart pounds in my chest as I stalk down High Street, shaking with anger, headed right for the man who should be very, very scared right now.

Nate Patterson.

My first love.

The one I thought I had a second chance with, the one who says he loves me.

The one who’s been ruining any chance I had at a relationship for the last ten years.

Seriously, ten years.

I’m sure someone out there will think it’s cute, in the red-flags, morally gray, he only has eyes for her way.

But fuck that, because even if Nate thought he was doing the right thing by keeping me single all these years, making sure I wasn’t taken when it came time to enforce that pact we made when we were dumb teenagers, he royally screwed me over.

It’s not just that I’m still single at the ripe old age of twenty-eight.

And yes, I am single. Very single. Because if Nate lives through this, he’s still losing me.

The real reason I’m pissed? It’s that all those years of guys breaking it off with me just as I was starting to care for them or thought there could be something between us has made me question everything about myself.

It’s made me believe that I’m shit in a relationship. That I’m doing something wrong, something to drive away my boyfriends and make them dump me. That just maybe, I am unlovable.

But all this time, it was Nate, manipulating everything behind the scenes like some kind of puppet master.

What makes it even worse is that I had to hear about it from Yvonne. Yvonne. The evil bitch of High Lonesome, our little town in the Colorado mountains. The bully who terrorized me through high school, and who seems to take great pride in making people feel bad about themselves.

Well, good work, Yvonne. You did a bang-up job this time because I feel like shit.

I turn onto the side street where Nate lives, still fuming. A part of me knows that maybe I should hear his side of the story instead of trusting someone who’s known to be a lying snake, but the sane part of my brain isn’t working right now.

Honestly, I’m not sure that part of my brain has been working since the day I tossed some clothes in a laundry basket and headed up to High Lonesome, my childhood hometown, to see my ex-boyfriend.

Even though it’s just barely November, it’s cold enough outside that I can see my breath as I make my way from Lone Brews back home.

Or at least, to the house I’ve considered home for the past two months. Now I’m not so sure.

My hands are balled into fists in my pockets—initially because I’m mad, but I’ve since realized it keeps them warm.

See? Rage is a useful emotion.

I stomp up the walk to the front entrance. When I throw open the door, it slams against the wall behind it so hard that both dogs take notice.

Ollie perks his ears up silently, while Spam hops around like he’s been shot, yipping in a piercing tone.

“Nate!” I yell, completely ignoring both dogs as I move through the house, making each footstep heavier than it needs to be, like I’m taking my anger out on the floor.

Where is he?

As I yell his name again, he appears at the top of the steps, and fuck. It should be against the rules of relationship fights to look that good.

I propose that we incorporate a standard set of bylaws for couples’ fights.

Do it in private.

No dragging other family members into it.

And all fighting must be done in your most casual, non-sexy, least flattering outfit.

I, for one, am sticking to the aforementioned dress code, in ripped jeans and a Lonesome Acres T-shirt that Mandy, my boss at the barn, found in the back of the tack room a couple of weeks ago.

It’s been washed since its discovery, but the hem is still frayed and the logo faded. It’s the kind of shirt you choose for comfort, not for looks.

My hair is in a messy bun. When I headed to the coffee shop this morning, it was closer to a sleek bun, but even my hair is feeling the effects of my anger. It’s started to come loose, strands poking out after my hurry to get back here.

I’m sure I look like an absolute wreck, and if you ask me, that’s how it should be when you’re fighting.

Nate, on the other hand, isn’t fighting fair.

He’s shirtless, his abs and pecs on glorious display. My gaze automatically goes to the line of hair that trails down his abdomen and disappears into his gray sweatpants.

How dare he show up in gray sweatpants right now?

The kind of pants that leave his package very much on display, that make you think he’s about to throw you over his shoulder and carry you back to the bedroom.

The absolute fucking audacity of this guy, wearing those pants at a time like this.

And that’s even before he starts talking.

“You okay?” Nate asks, pulling a hand through his dark blond hair.

It’s wet. He must have just gotten out of the shower, something I don’t want to think of him doing, either.

How dare he be so freaking sexy when I’m trying to be mad at him?

I cross my arms over my chest and glare at him.

His brows pull together in concern. “Why are you wearing shoes in the house? Is everything okay? What’s going on?”

I kick off my shoes, leaving them in the center of the room, and shed my jacket as well, tossing it on top of the shoes for good measure.

It’s petty, but we’ve already established that I’m not my best self right now.

“What the fuck did you do, Nate?”

I don’t know what I expected to see on his face. Confusion, maybe. Apology. Concern for my mental health, even.

But instead, his eyes widen for a fraction of a second, his lips parting.

And that flash of guilt is all I need to see to know Yvonne wasn’t making everything up.

He rubs a hand down his face. “Rory, I?—“

“Seriously?” I cut him off. I’m not ready to hear his excuses. “You meddled in my life? Made sure I stayed single since we broke up? For ten years? Why? How?”

His brows pull together, almost giving the impression that he’s confused.

Nice try, but I’m not falling for it this time.

I step toward him. “How could you?”

Nate takes a few steps down the stairs, going slowly, as though he’s approaching a wild animal. “It was?—“

“What? What was it? You wanted to laugh at me? Make me think I was unlovable?”

I realize I’m not giving him a turn to talk, the rage that’s built up during my walk home pouring out in torrents.

I don’t care, though. He’s had a turn to speak up for weeks. Months, even.

That was the time to come clean. It’s too late now.

“It wasn’t?—“

“It doesn’t matter what it was or wasn’t, Nate.” I’m not in the mood for fucking semantics. “This is my life. What if one of those guys was the one I was supposed to be with? I could have been married by now. With kids.”

Nate takes the last few stairs in two large steps, closing in on my space. He grips my upper arms with his hands, firm but gentle. It’s almost comforting, and that is not what I need.

Be a jerk, Nate. Say something or do something that makes it easier to hate you.

That’s the problem with nice guys. They can screw you over just as well as the assholes, but then they make it hard to be mad at them.

I clench my jaw, refusing to give in.

Nate holds my gaze, undeterred. “No, Rory. None of the guys you dated over the years were the right one. You know that.”

I open my mouth to respond, but he holds me tighter, closer.

“They weren’t the ones you were supposed to be with. It was always us, Rory. You and me.” He presses his lips to mine, hard and claiming.

Heat and electricity flow through me, shorting out my senses, and my knees start to go weak before I grasp onto my last shred of control.

Shoving Nate back, I wipe the back of my hand over my mouth, as though I can wipe away the scorching heat of his kiss.

“No, Nate. We’re not supposed to be together. Not if that involves you meddling in my life. How did you even do it? Were you having me followed or something?”

Nate’s eyes shift leftward, then back to me. “Rory. It wasn’t like that.”

Which way do people look when they’re lying? Right? Left? Doesn’t one way mean you’re making something up?

Honestly, it doesn’t really matter, and not just because I have no clue which direction means something, or if that’s just an old wive’s tale.

Nate’s a cop. He probably knows all the tells, and how to get away with lying.

Just one more reason I should never have trusted him.

My mind conjures up the sleepover scene from Grease, where one of the Pink Ladies says something about how of all men, the only one a girl can trust is her dad.

Damn right, Rizzo.

Or was is Frenchie?

Anyway, that doesn’t really matter. The point is that whoever said it was right.

Men can’t be trusted.

Nate lets out a long sigh. “I just…”

“Just what, Nate?” My momentary distraction raises my anger, and I’m directing it all toward him. “Just muddled with my love life? Just fucked with fate?”

He holds his hands up, palms facing me. “Wait, Rory, slow down. What are you–”

I shake my head. No more getting distracted. “Don’t, Nate. You think you know what’s best for me, but you obviously don’t.”

My voice is shrill, the sound seeming to come from somewhere outside of me.

I’m losing control.

I hate this feeling more than just about anything. But this time, I’m not backing down.

I take a breath and grasp onto any semblance of control I have left.

“This is everything!” I shriek. “Who you end up in a relationship with is a huge part of your life! You can’t manipulate someone into being with you, Nate. No matter how much you want to.”

He pushes a hand through his hair again.

Stop that, dammit. It’s sexy as fuck and distracting as hell.

“Rory, that’s not what I?—“

“What else are you manipulating?” I practically shriek.

The sane portion of my brain is officially on hiatus, despite my best efforts. “My friends? My job?”

“Of course no?—“

I point a finger at him, vibrating with anger. “I don’t want to hear your excuses, Nate. I hoped that Yvonne was just being her usual bitch self and spreading rumors. But it turns out I’m the stupid one here. The one who couldn’t see what was happening right in front of my eyes.”

Tears spring to my eyes, and my nose prickles as the truth hits me where it hits the most.

I clench my jaw, but it doesn’t help, so in a desperate attempt to hold back the tears, I bite the inside of my cheek.

How can I ever trust him again? Or anyone, for that matter?

At least this is all coming out now, before any plans for marriage or family or anything like that. Better to know now, I suppose.

Nate drags a hand down his face, and I finally take in my surroundings.

We’re in the middle of the living room, almost dead center. His living room, I amend. I wouldn’t have picked this carpet.

My shoes and coat are out of place in the otherwise organized space. My coat lies crumpled where I dropped it, and one of my Asics is on its side next to the couch.

It takes me a second to find the other one, but eventually I spot it. The gray and pink sneaker is practically in the kitchen. Honestly, I’m kind of impressed it made it that far. Maybe I threw it harder than I intended.

The two dogs sit gingerly next to their beds, my cast-off clothing scattered around them.

Both look very concerned for Nate’s safety. Or my sanity.

I swallow hard as I try to pull it together.

This is too much. The whole concept of Nate doing something. I don’t even know that it matters what exactly it was, at this point.

Whether it was keeping tabs on me, or whatever Yvonne said, or meddling, or just hiding things. It makes me question everything that happened over the past decade.

I need time to figure things out, understand what’s happening. What I’m going to do next.

All I know for sure right now is that I need to get out of here.

I gather my shoes and pull my them back on one at a time, not bothering to undo the laces.

Screw your no-shoes-in-the-house rule, Nate.

I stomp upstairs to make my point.

In the bedroom, I pull open drawers and throw some clothes into my duffel bag, barely looking at what I’m packing. When it’s almost filled, I sling the bag over my shoulder, leaving the zipper open, and head for the bathroom, where I toss in my toothbrush and hairbrush.

Then, I zip it closed, the movement seeming to punctuate the fight.

I’ll come back for the rest later. For now, I just need to get out of here. Find some space.

Nate remains frozen in place when I storm back down the steps, duffel in hand.

I snag my keys from the rack by the entryway, throw open the door, and stalk to my car. I hate the Jeep almost as much as I hate Nate.

After I crashed my pickup into another car a few months ago, Nate helped me pick out the Wrangler.

At first, I loved it. The black paint with pink accents seemed like a perfect fit, matching the pink streak in my hair that’s become a permanent part of me.

Now, it just stands for everything that was going on to make a fool out of me.

I toss the bag into the back seat, then I slam the car door and head back up the walkway.

Nate is in the living room when I open the door, and his brows lift with hope.

I narrow my eyes at him. “I’m just here for Spam.”

I scoop my miniature pinscher into my arms.

Taking a step toward me, Nate clears his throat. “Rory, please. Don’t go. We can talk about this. I promise, it’s…”

When he trails off, I know. The situation is exactly what it looks like, isn’t it?

Nate manipulated my life. I don’t know how, or why, but I’m going to find out.

And I’ll have to come to terms with the idea that these past few months where I thought I could be happy with him? They were nothing more than a lie.

“I’m going to my parents’ house,” I bite out.

Spam adds a yip to punctuate my sentence.

“I’ll let you know when I’m ready to talk. If,” I amend quickly.

As I take in the expression on Nate’s face, a pit of anxiety forms in my gut as I wonder if I’m doing the wrong thing.

I can’t allow myself to process it, though. For once in my life, I’m not going to overthink things.

And Nate doesn’t get to be the one who looks devastated. Not after he caused all of this.

“Goodbye, Nate.” I carry Spam back to the front door and walk out.

As I walk to the Wrangler, my stomach twists with unease. A touch of the desperation I saw on Nate’s face creeps in.

I swallow hard, determined not to let it get to me. I’m going to move on. And I’m not going to cry.

I slip behind the wheel, setting Spam on the passenger seat, as the first tear slips down my cheek.

I squeeze my hand into a fist and make a promise to myself.

Nate will never make me cry again.

I just hope I can keep my own promise.