20. Henley
Henley
“Oh, sweet Jesus,” Harper mumbles under her breath as I finish telling her what happened last night. Melody’s mouth hangs wide. Sinking back into her couch, I toss a pillow over my face to hide my embarrassment.
“I think I’m going to need something stronger than water for the rest of this conversation.” Harper heads to Mel’s kitchen and uncorks the bottle of wine we brought over.
When my alarm went off early this morning, I’d never been so thankful that Harper had asked me to open the bakery with her. That meant I didn’t have to run into Emerson.
As we worked, I told her I need a girls’ gathering again tonight. All day I’ve been on the edge of passing out, waiting to spill every detail about what happened. Which is exactly how we ended up in Mel’s apartment after we closed.
I lower the pillow from my face, hugging it against my chest. Mel sits cross-legged on her blue velvet armchair, giggling at my flustered expression. Harper hands her a full glass of wine, lifting her own to her upturned lips and taking a hearty sip.
“Now what are you going to do?” She snorts, plopping down beside me on the couch. She offers me her glass, but I shake my head. Alcohol was part of the trouble I got myself into last night.
“I don’t know!” I whine. They both fall apart with laughter all over again.
“I wish I had your problem,” Melody says, sighing deeper into her seat. “Damn, Hen, I love you, but I didn’t think you had something like that in you.”
Aiming the pillow toward her, I let it fly. It smacks her right in the stomach as she shrieks. A bit of wine sloshes onto her overalls, and she leaps up to wash it off.
“Me either, bestie.” Harper winks, shaking her head at my scowl. “I’m proud of you, though. You must admit, what you did was kind of hot as hell.”
I groan into my hands. “You two are not helping.”
“Honestly, it seems like a win to me, babe.” Harper shrugs as Mel returns to the living room and slides me over to sit next to me.
Her small floral couch barely contains us all.
“For a man who is usually all in on the throttle, it appears he’s learned that you don’t have to win a race on the first lap. ”
“I agree,” Mel chimes in. “Thanks to the internet, we all know he’s been a little bit of a playboy over the years.
It seems with you he’s trying to be more cautious.
On a positive note, at least now you know for certain he has feelings for you still.
Most men would have definitely cracked under the pressure last night.
I think him not jumping in that spa shows he knows you're worth waiting for. Worth being patient, and taking his time with.”
“I agree. But he’s not doing okay right now. The last thing he needs is something messy, full of emotions. Something like a relationship.”
Their gazes bend around me. A look of concern lingers on their faces before they direct their attention back toward me.
“You’re not doing okay either, love,” Harper says, gently placing her palm on my thigh. “Maybe you both need a little bit of ‘mess.’ Something big enough to shake you both out of this rut. Something to remind you both what it’s like to feel alive again.”
Mel’s hand wraps around mine. “She’s right. It’s okay to give in and fall apart. Even through all the chaos and mess, we can create a masterpiece.”
Her eyes glide to her art space in the corner. It’s such a juxtaposition to the rest of her neat and tidy apartment. It’s the only small space in the entire house that shows a hint of disorder.
Pinned sketches cloud the wall behind her easel.
A mess of brushes sit haphazardly in a jar.
The drop cloth below is littered with every shade of paint imaginable.
But through the chaos of it all sits the most stunning piece of art.
Vibrant colors splay in a rhythmic pattern, each urgent stroke dancing along the canvas.
It screams freedom. Unbridled, thrilling, and every inch of it bubbling with life.
The feeling reverberates through my soul.
“It’s time for less overthinking and more letting go of the reins you’ve both wound around your life. It’s time to have a little fun,” Harper says before pulling me into her arms.
Mel joins in immediately and the weight makes us fall to the floor.
Laughter spills out of them while they try to wiggle free. I lie still on the carpet, soaking in their advice.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve never given myself room to breathe.
Always setting one goal after the next. Striving for perfection at every turn.
Mistakes were not an option, so when I made them, it gutted me.
The perfectionist that lives in my head used those mistakes to make me feel ashamed.
Remind me repeatedly that no matter how hard I tried to change myself, one thing would not change. How much of a failure I truly am.
My life is a battlefield. The war? Against myself.
Fight and fall. Attack and surrender. Each time I go down swinging, I dust myself off and keep charging forward. Trying to reach what feels like an unobtainable goal, proving my worth to others.
But, in these past weeks, there’s a new realization slipping through the cracks.
I’m surrounded by my biggest supporters, also the same ones I’ve been the most afraid of letting down. Where I’d thought they’d see me as a failure, it’s been quite the opposite. They’ve heard my stories, seen my faults, and still love me through it.
Perhaps now is the time I stop searching for my value in others. Time to stop setting impossible standards for myself. This is the moment when I need to start believing that I’m worthy enough for my own life.
Over the past three days, I’ve only observed Emerson in passing. Though we haven’t spoken to each other, it doesn’t mean there’s been a shortage of heated glances and tension-filled air.
I wake to rustling and hammering inside of the cabins beside ours. Realizing I won’t be getting anymore sleep, I throw on some clothes and make myself a cup of coffee before heading outside to work.
My eyes track Emerson as he carries the lumber back and forth, and I feel the burn of his stare scorching into me as I sit in front of my cabin and work on my laptop to finish the sample menus I had started for the ranch.
At night, it’s silent. His car is usually gone late into the night. Either at the shop or taking laps around the track. The rumble of his truck pulling in only in the early hours of the morning.
I’m only working three days a week with Harper, so the rest of my days I’m supposed to be working on getting Lane Ranch ready for guests. Since I didn’t have the courage to talk directly with Emerson after the spa night, I decided to go directly to the source, Preston Lane.
On my first day off, I invited myself over and cooked dinner while we caught up and he shared with me all of Autumn’s plans for the ranch.
Just being at the dinner table with him and cooking in their kitchen again stirred up so many memories of our intertwined past. It had me wiping my eyes more than once while preparing our food.
The entire house still feels seeped in her warm presence, almost as if she was about to walk through the door at any minute. Emerson’s reluctance to want to stay inside the house became so much clearer.
After we ate, Preston gave me all of Mama Lane’s notebooks for her dream project.
Each one was covered with cut-out magazine pictures for inspiration, all her hopes and ideas jotted down in the spaces in between.
Each page I turned felt like a conversation.
Like we were back sitting at the counter, and she was telling me exactly what she had envisioned.
I’ve been using the notebooks for the past two days to compile a plan for the interior design of the cabins, as well as produce several possible recipes for the menus. Now I just have to test them. Which means I need mouths to feed and ears to listen to my ideas.
Steam curls over my coffee mug as I watch the sun paint the morning sky from the dark blue Adirondack chair outside my cabin.
Deeply inhaling the fresh country air, I sip my delicious cup of caffeinated bliss.
I’m about to indulge in another when the amber skin of my next-door neighbor flashes before my eyes, sending a shower of coffee shooting from my lips.
Em towers like a beacon in the back of his truck, unloading bales of hay to one of the ranch hands.
Golden rays peek through the mountain range, highlighting every inch of his perfectly toned body.
Black ink etches his chest in a variety of patterns that I can’t quite make out from this distance.
All of them are new to my eyes. Makes me wonder what else has changed about Em over the years.
Rippled abs and muscled biceps stretch and flex with each toss of the bales. Sweat glistens over every indent. The man looks like a popsicle melting on a scalding summer day and my tongue wets my bottom lip, eager for a taste.
As if he’s not tormenting me enough, he throws the last bale to the ground and lifts his water bottle from the tailgate. But instead of being a normal human and taking a sip, he takes a page from one of my romance books. He lifts his cap and douses himself with the entire bottle.
Frozen like a doe in headlights, I watch it flow over his Adonis body.
It cascades over every inch of his sinful body like a damn waterfall.
I can feel myself melting into the chair.
The final nail in the coffin is when he runs his fingers through his soaked hair and replaces his cap on his head. Backward.
I’m deceased.
Someone clears their throat beside me, sending my coffee flying out of my cup and onto the grass beneath. “Morning, Hen.”
Oh dear god. Emerson’s Dad has just caught me ogling his son.
Embarrassment warms my cheeks as Preston smirks down at me and my now empty mug. He lifts my empty cup out of my hands and replaces it with his. Taking it graciously, my eyes accidentally roam back to his son. He follows my line of sight, and I hear a low hum beside me.
“I swear that boy is incapable of wearing shirts, no matter how many we bought over the years. I told him he’s going to scare all the horses, flaunting himself like that all over the barn.”
I lift the cup to my mouth, attempting to hide my laughter.
“What are your plans today?”
“Going to the grocery store. The Lane men are cordially invited to a sampling dinner tonight. We shall be the first to dine in the pavilion you all created. Then I can share with you all the rest of my plans. Are you in?”
A grin spreads wide on Preston’s face as he reaches down and squeezes my shoulder. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Releasing my shoulder, I think he’s turned to walk away, but I can still feel his presence linger behind me. I look up to catch his somber face tracing his son’s actions.
“You think he’ll come?”
“I’m hoping dinner being outside will help persuade him.” I sigh, and his head bobs quietly in agreement.
“What time? And can I bring anything?”
“How about a couple of those bottles of wine from the other night? Is 5:30 okay?”
“Perfect.”
Before he leaves, he tips his cowboy hat toward me like the gentleman he is.
“Hey, Preston?” I call after him.
His boots slow in the gravel path and he turns back.
“I know you’re worried about him, but I’m going to try my best to help him through this,” I say quietly, emotion bubbling up my throat.
“I know.” The edge of his lip curves slightly. “If anyone can get through to him, it’s you. It’s always been your gift. You bring a little sunshine everywhere you go. See you later, kiddo.”
While taking a deep gulp of my replacement coffee, I try not to cringe. The plain black coffee tastes bitter on my tongue, but I’ll take some caffeine rather than none. Gathering courage, my hand slips into my pocket and pulls out my phone.
ME: I’m making dinner tonight. It’s a sampling of the menu I produced for the Ranch. I’d love to see you there.
I watch as Em waves to the farmhand as he rolls a wheelbarrow full of hay toward the horse stalls. His hand slips into his back pocket of his perfectly fitted jeans, pulling out his phone. Nerves coil inside my stomach as I watch the dots roll back and forth.
After what feels like two minutes pass, the phone vibrates in my hand.
EM: New phone. Who’s this?
Seriously? Rolling my eyes, my fingers fly over the keys. But before I could send my reply, my phone lit up with another from him.
EM: Don’t roll your eyes at me, Trouble.
ME: Don’t be creepy and watch me text you.
EM: Kind of hard not to when you look like that. I guess watching has kind of become my thing.
Goosebumps ripple over my bare legs. My body hums while I think about the intensity of that same gaze only a few nights ago.
EM: How long have you been staring at me, Trouble?
The muscles in my spine straighten. Had he seen me practically drooling over him earlier? I start to type once more, but again he cuts me off, and I growl inwardly.
EM: Was it before or after the water?
Taking a chance, I glance up momentarily to catch his searing gaze on me.
ME: You did that on purpose, didn’t you?
As I hit send, my head whips up to watch his reaction. He throws his head back in laughter. The vibrant sound renders me breathless. I’m unprepared for the tug it pulls against my heart. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard such an exuberant laugh from him.
Collecting himself, he types something quick, then his head rolls up to meet my gaze.
EM: Looks like I’m not the only one who likes to watch, Trouble.
EM:
I don’t have to look up to know he’s giving me the same look. I can practically feel the smolder from here.
EM: Count me in for dinner.
EM: I’m starving.
As he walks away into the barn, I bite my lip, left wondering if it’s only food he’s starving for.