Chapter 11
Right in the Ribs
Cole
I can see Layla sitting inside my truck before I even reach it. She’s stiff, arms crossed tight over her chest, staring straight ahead like she’s holding herself together by pure will. She looks wrecked. Pissed. Shaken.
And yeah, I ruined her night.
Jake Fritz. Fucking scumbag. I would’ve never let that happen.
Not like that. The way his hands were on her, the way he pushed her up against the truck, the way she said no and he didn’t listen — I want to put my hands around his throat and squeeze until he stops breathing. He’s lucky I didn’t do worse.
“She wanted it, bro,” Jake spits as he stumbles away, holding his jaw.
I take a step toward him before I even think about it.
Maggie grabs my arm hard. “Stop it!” she screams. “Enough!”
“What the hell is wrong with you, Cole?” she snaps, shoving me back. “I was trying to show Layla a good time—”
I cut her off. “By letting her go with Jake Fritz?” I bark. “He’s a fucking psychopath, Maggie. You know how he is.”
She exhales sharply, rubbing her face. “I know,” she says. “But Jesus Christ, Cole. You’ve been a damn maniac since Mom died. Since Abby.”
That name hits low.
“Layla’s not Abby,” Maggie continues, lowering her voice, stepping closer. “She’s not even your girlfriend. She’s Dad’s tenant. You’re losing your fucking mind.”
Her eyes soften just a fraction, then harden again.
“And you’re playing games with her feelings. If you want her, then fucking act like it.”
I clench my jaw.
“But don’t act like a lunatic,” she adds. “She was torn up after what you did at the creek. Torn up, Cole. That was fucked up.”
I shake my head, turning away. “I’m not doing this right now, Maggie.”
That’s when the truck door opens.
Layla steps out just enough to look straight at me, fire in her eyes, chin lifted like she dares me to say something.
“Can we go?” she asks sharply.
Fuck. That tone.
Maggie sighs behind me. “You need to make this up to her. Show her who you really are, not this asshole you’ve been pretending to be.”
I don’t look at Maggie. I look at Layla.
“Get in the truck,” I say.
Maggie snorts. “Nah. I think me and Lanie are gonna…head back to her house, you know. It’s been a minute.”
I cut a look at her. “Yeah. Yeah. I got it.”
She laughs, already backing away. “You know what to do,” she whispers.
I stand there for a second longer than I should, forcing myself to breathe, forcing my hands to unclench. My knuckles ache. My chest feels tight. I don’t remember deciding to hit Jake, I just remember seeing Layla’s face when he didn’t stop.
I walk to the truck and take a deep breath before opening the door.
She’s sitting there rigid, staring out the window. She doesn’t look at me when I get in. Doesn’t say a word. The silence is brutal. I start the engine.
The engine growls low as I pull out of the parking lot, rain starting to spit against the windshield like it’s pissed too. Layla sits stiff beside me, arms crossed tight over her chest, staring out the window like she’s trying not to come apart right there in my cab.
I ruined her night. I know that. The tires skid when I take the turn too fast, gravel snapping under us.
“You don’t get to decide what happens to me,” she snaps, her voice sharp enough to cut.
I nod once, jaw clenched. If I open my mouth right now, I’m going to say the wrong thing like I always do.
“You don’t get to punch people over me,” she continues, turning toward me now, eyes blazing, “and then act like you don’t want me. Who does that?”
That one lands hard. Right in my ribs.
“You don’t understand what could’ve happened, Layla,” I say low, rough, like I’m holding something feral back.
“I said no,” she fires back. “And yeah, he didn’t listen, but I didn’t need you to save me. I had it under control.”
My hands tighten around the steering wheel. Leather creaks under my grip.
“I’m not good at just standing there when someone I—”
I stop. Swallow. Clamp my mouth shut. She does not need to know I care about her. What will that do anyway?
But She waits. God, she waits. Turns fully toward me, eyes searching my face like she already knows what I didn’t finish saying.
“You kissed me like you meant it,” she says quietly. “And then you left me.”
Rain comes down harder now, pounding the roof, filling the cab with noise so I don’t have to hear my own heartbeat.
“If I stayed,” I say, voice barely above the engine, “I wouldn’t have stopped, Layla.”
She stills.
“And I would’ve done some things we can’t just”
Her breath catches. I see it. Feel it.
“Do you know how humiliating that felt?” she asks, tears finally slipping free. “Do you?”
That hurts worse than the punch I threw.
She turns back to the window, wiping her cheek fast like she’s mad at herself for crying.
“I don’t need forever, Cole,” she says, softer, but not gentler. Like she’s daring him to misunderstand her. “I’m not asking for promises or plans.”
She tilts her head, eyes sharp, mouth almost smiling.
“We could’ve just enjoyed each other while I’m here. No expectations. No pretending this has to be more than it is.”
I let out a humorless scoff.
“I don’t do halfway anymore.”
Silence stretches between us, thick and electric. She studies me like she’s finally seeing the crack in the armor.
“You watched me all day,” she says, bitterness sharp as broken glass. “All fucking day.”
“I watched because I couldn’t stop,” I snap, finally turning to face her. “And I hated myself for it.”
Gravel screams under the tires as I pull up to the guest house. The rain’s coming down hard now, sheets of it, relentless—like the sky’s got its own temper. I throw the truck into park but leave the engine running, like I’m not ready to commit to staying.
I look at her. Really look. Mascara smudged, hair a mess, eyes wrecked from holding too much in—and still the most dangerous thing I’ve wanted in a long damn time.
“I don’t trust myself around you,” I say, low and honest and pissed about it.
She reaches for the door, fingers shaking just enough to notice.
“Then stop pretending,” she says without looking at me, voice steady where it shouldn’t be, “like you don’t want me just as bad.”
She jumps out, slams the door, and runs toward the guest house, boots splashing through puddles.
I lean my head back against the seat, staring up at the ceiling of my cab, chest tight, breath uneven.
I sit there for a second longer than I should, rain hammering the windshield, my hands still locked around the steering wheel like it’s the only thing keeping me upright.
Christ.
My chest feels too tight. My throat burns. Every time I blink, all I see is her face when she slammed that door. The way her voice cracked. The way she looked at me like I’d already broken something I hadn’t even earned yet.
I told myself leaving her at the creek was the right thing to do. I told myself distance was safer. That was a lie.
The truth is standing in that parking lot watching another man put his hands on her almost sent me feral. Watching her say no and not be listened to flipped something dark and violent in my chest. I didn’t think. I didn’t hesitate. I just moved.
Because when Layla looked shaken… when her voice went sharp and defensive… when her eyes got glassy—
I can’t breathe. I shut the truck off and step out into the rain. The guest house light is still on. Of course it is.
She’s probably pacing. Overthinking. Replaying every second like I am. She does that, I can see it in the way her eyes drift when she’s quiet. The way she holds herself like she’s bracing for disappointment.
And fuck me, I am the disappointment.
She’s beautiful in a way that sneaks up on you. Not loud, not polished. Soft curves, strong presence. The kind of woman you notice in pieces — the sway of her hips when she walks, the confidence in her mouth when she talks back, the way she looks at you like she’s daring you to be honest.
I want her.
God, I want her so bad it scares me.
Not just her body, though that alone is enough to wreck me. Thick thighs I can’t stop thinking about. The way she fills space like she belongs there. The way she moves like she knows exactly what she does to people.
But it’s more than that.
It’s how she laughs without apology. How she asks questions that matter. How she looks at me like I’m not broken goods. Like I’m just a man who hasn’t been touched right in a long time.
When she’s near me, my skin feels too tight. My pulse won’t settle. Every instinct in me wants to pull her in, press her back against something solid, make her feel wanted — make her feel chosen.
I don’t trust myself around her.
That’s the truth I couldn’t say in the truck. Because if I touch her again, I won’t stop at a kiss. And if I let myself have her—really have her—I don’t know how I’d survive letting her go.
The rain soaks through my shirt as I cross the yard, cold and relentless. Gravel crunches under my boots, too loud in the quiet night, every step sounding like a bad decision I’m already committed to. My heart’s pounding like I’m about to do something reckless.
I am.
I stop at her door. Lift my hand. Hesitate—just long enough to feel how badly I want to turn around.
Then I knock. Once. Hard.
And I don’t move.