Chapter 7
Sleepless in Tennessee
Layla
Well… that’s not how I pictured my evening ending. Especially not with him kissing me. What kind of man kisses a woman like that and then takes off? And what kind of woman lets that make her question herself? Not me.
I’ve dealt with men not liking me because of my size. With boys who were embarrassed or ashamed that they wanted me when we were younger. I worked too damn hard to grow past that. I will not deal with that shit as a grown woman.
So what the hell is he thinking? This doesn’t feel like rejection though this feels like fear dressed up as control.
My hands shake as I struggle to get my clothes back on, my skin still slick with water, my heart pounding harder than it should. I tug my boots on, fingers clumsy, irritation and humiliation tangling tight in my chest. I twist my wet hair up into a messy bun, not bothering to care how it looks.
I’m too mad to care.
I swing back onto Shadow, gripping the reins tighter than necessary.
“Come on, boy,” I murmur. “Take me home.”
Thank God I’m good with directions. Thank God I pay attention. Because what if I wasn’t? What if I panicked? What if I got lost out here with a storm rolling in? What if I wasn’t strong?
The sky cracks with thunder in the distance, rain starting to sprinkle down, light but insistent.
How could he do that?
It’s at least ten minutes back, maybe more, and the rain’s already picking up. I give Shadow the signal to run, and he takes off beneath me, powerful and steady.
When I’m on this horse, I feel free.
Like this is exactly where I’m supposed to be. Maybe not on this ranch forever, maybe not with this man but here, in nature, moving fast, breathing deep.
The rain starts coming down harder, soaking my clothes, stinging my skin. I can see the guest house ahead.
“Come on, boy,” I urge softly. “We’re so close.”
I shake my head, frustration burning hot behind my eyes.
I’m not here forever. That’s the thing. Why can’t we just have a good time?
Why can’t it be easy? Flirting. Messing around.
Enjoying six months for what it is. I’m not asking for forever.
I haven’t been in a relationship in years.
The last man I let close was emotionally unavailable and cruel, and I promised myself I’d never tolerate that again.
But this? Kissing me like he means it and then disappearing like it didn’t matter?
Not okay. This should be something he wants.
This is exactly what most men would want.
As I get closer, I see him.
Cole is sitting on the porch of the main house, a beer in his hand, watching me come in through the rain. Staring me down like he’s been waiting.
I stare right back at him. Not soft. Not curious. Pissed. Hurt. Embarrassed as hell. I won’t be the one to beg. If he wants me he can come get me.
I lead Shadow under the poplar tree to keep him out of the rain and tie him off, my movements quick and clipped. I kiss his nose, pressing my lips to him for a brief second because at least he didn’t leave me.
I glance back at Cole one last time. Then I slam the door behind me. I’m not saying I’m done with him but I won’t chase him either.
A few hours go by, and when I finally look up from the couch, I see Maggie outside my front window, leading Shadow back toward his stall.
So… they must’ve had dinner without me. Good, I need the space. I’m not punishing anyone, I'm protecting myself. That’s fine. I can handle that.
I’ll pop a TV dinner in the microwave like a responsible adult and pretend I don’t care. Who needs country cooking anyway? I need to get some writing done. That’s the whole point of being here.
I open my laptop and stare at the screen. Nothing. My brain is empty, which is ironic considering it hasn’t shut the hell up all day.
With a frustrated sigh, I turn on some music, country, because apparently Tennessee is rubbing off on me whether I like it or not. It helps a little. Loosens something. But I still feel wound tight. John did say the liquor cabinet was full… The problem is, I have no idea where it is.
I open every cabinet like a raccoon on a mission until I finally spot it, a small wooden chest tucked beside the recliner in the living room.
“Ah ha,” I mutter.
Jackpot.
Rows of tequila. Jack Daniel’s. A couple bottles I don’t recognize but don’t care enough to Google. I grab the Jack, crack it open, and take a deep swig.
Oh yeah. That’s the stuff. I know I’m numbing and not fixing but tonight, I don’t want to fix anything.
It burns going down, settles warm in my chest, quiets my thoughts just enough.
I sit back down at the table, fingers flying across the keys, and suddenly the words are there.
Chapter after chapter pours out of me like I’ve been holding it in for weeks.
Every sentence feels like control I lost and am taking back. The storm keeps raging outside.
My brain doesn’t stop either.
By the time I realize how late it is, it’s already past three in the morning. Drunk and exhausted, I barely make it to the couch before passing out and abandoning my laptop.
When I wake up, my mouth tastes like regret and bad decisions. And my head, let’s not even go there. I check my phone.
2:07 p.m.
Well… shit.
Sunlight floods the room like it’s personally offended by my life choices. I shuffle over to the window, coffee in hand, and squint outside.
Cole is down by the fence line, talking to the ranch hands, probably bossing them around, if I had to guess.
I scowl. Typical.
I take a sip of coffee, standing there in my oversized T-shirt and yesterday’s emotions, when he looks up. And of course… he sees me. Our eyes lock. And then he starts walking toward the house.
Oh hell no.
I step back from the window like I’ve been caught committing a crime. I’m not dressed. I haven’t brushed my teeth. My hair looks like I wrestled the couch and lost.
A knock sounds at the door.
Nope.
“Yes?” I call through it.
“Can you come out?” Cole asks.
“I think I’m good,” I reply.
“Layla.”
The way he says my name makes my chest ache.
“I’m busy, Cole,” I say, even though I hate every word of it.
I want to talk to him so badly it physically hurts. But I don’t move. Wanting him doesn’t mean I owe him access to me.
You don’t get to kiss me and then abandon me in the woods in a storm and expect me to play nice.
I watch through the peephole as he stands there a second longer, shoulders slumped, before turning and walking away.
Good.
His head hangs low. He should feel bad.
And so should I if I let him think this is enough to get on my good side.
A few nights pass. I don’t go to dinner. No one comes knocking.
I write like a woman possessed.
By the end of the week, I’m twelve chapters in—no writer’s block in sight. Turns out I write best when I’m emotional. Or pissed off. Or when a grumpy cowboy has crawled under my skin and made himself comfortable.
Anger is a hell of a motivator.
I miss Nancy’s cooking more than I care to admit. It’s strange how quiet things have gotten. No Maggie popping in. No Luke cracking jokes. Maybe Cole told them what happened. Or maybe they’re just giving me space.
John did say I was always invited to dinner. And I believe him. You’d think like father, like son—but clearly that’s not the case here. Or maybe I showed up too late to see the nice version of Cole Marshall. Maybe some girl messed him up real good.
Either way… he’s been a great inspiration for my grumpy cowboy main character. All his Scrooginess has done me some good. But that being said, if Cole wants me, he’ll have to meet me where I stand.