Chapter 16 Absolute Mindfuck
Absolute Mindfuck
Sawyer
My phone rings just as I step out of the shower.
I don't recognize the number, and honestly, I don’t have the energy for much of anything, so I let it go to voicemail.
This is definitely the beginning of a flare-up, and I hate that it’s happening when Pops is dealing with so much and needs my help with Wes.
At least Wes is here, and he’s dismounted his high horse long enough to help around the ranch.
For now.
I’m not sure how long he’ll last, but he seemed to enjoy the training session with Luci this afternoon.
Damnit. Now I’m using the stupid nickname he gave the horse.
Watching him with Lucifer shook up all my previous judgments.
Whatever chip he had on his shoulder when he first got here is slowly disappearing.
His face lit up as he sweet-talked the horse, grooming him until his black coat was free of debris and brushed to a shine.
By the end of the grooming session, Luci was quite literally eating out of the palm of Wes’ hand.
He’d found the sugar cubes in the tack room and had brought some out to offer him.
Now I understand why Pops wanted me to have Wes help with the horses. He's a natural with them, and they bring out a gentler side of him.
He still loves it out here. At least parts of it. No matter how much he pretended to hate it when he first got here.
He’s starting to carry himself differently, and I’m here for the cowboy swagger he’s getting from spending so much time on the ranch.
I sprawl out on my bed, groaning from the deep-seated exhaustion that's weighing me down.
My phone chimes and I roll over, swiping open the text message with my thumb.
Unknown Number
This is Wes. I need to run to town to grab a few things for our dinner.
I narrow my eyes at the screen. My fingers are losing dexterity from the joints swelling, so I click the call button instead of texting.
"Miss me already?"
He's as bad at answering phones as I am. "Ugh. You called me first. How'd you get my number, anyway?"
"I'll be over in about an hour. Add my number to your phone so you answer next time," he says, completely ignoring my question.
"Who gave you my phone number?" Whoever it was, I was going to strangle them for handing out my personal information without my consent. I'm pretty sure that's how most unsolicited dick pics happen.
"I just wanted to see if you needed anything while I'm in town?"
What's with the considerate guy routine? I couldn't quite figure out his angle.
"Who. Gave. You. My. Number."
He chuckles over the line and the low rumble of it in my ear makes goosebumps crop up on my skin. "I don't rat out my friends. I'll bring you one of everything from the store."
Friends… that rules out Pops.
"It was Tripp, wasn't it? It better not be Allie."
"See you in an hour, Red."
The line goes dead and I drop my head back onto my pillow. Tripp was going to pay for handing out my number to Wes. He knew how I felt about the guy.
Laying down was a bad idea. I’m still wrapped in my towel, not even fully dry, but I’m too tired to move. So, I just close my eyes and let the sound of the horses whinnying out my open window soothe the utter exhaustion gnawing at my bones.
There was no telling how long I’d be down for or how severe this flare-up would be. I hated not knowing. I loathed not being able to do it all myself. Having a chronic illness was an absolute mindfuck.
My naked skin pebbles as a cool breeze rustles the curtains on my open bedroom window.
I hike my towel up higher but still don’t bother to get dressed yet.
I have an hour before I need to be presentable.
And by presentable, I simply mean clean jeans and a T-shirt.
I can afford to close my eyes and rest for a few minutes like my traitorous body is demanding.
I startle awake. My room is bathed in soft oranges and pinks as the dim sunlight peeks through my curtains. The distinct sound of a pot banging has me prying myself from my bed.
I wince at the twinge of achy joints and sore muscles, shivering as the trees outside rustle in the wind. I glance down and realize I’m still not dressed; my towel lays uselessly on top of my olive-green comforter and my nipples are tight from the cool breeze still blowing through my open window.
It better be Wes out in the kitchen because if it’s a pot-stealing burglar, they’ll get away with the whole kitchen set by the time I find my clothes and get dressed.
I dig through the clean clothes in my laundry basket and find some jeans to wear and a T-shirt with a picture of a popsicle on it that says I’m a real treat.
My hair is wild from falling asleep with it wet, so I just throw it up into a sloppy bun.
Not the cute kind, but the haphazard kind, frizzy and partially falling out.
My hair doesn’t do “cute messy bun” without something in the way of hair product.
My wild waves were a curse no matter how much Allie swears she wishes her hair could look like mine.
I wasn’t about to spend extra time on my hair when Wes was whistling in my kitchen, probably attempting to burn my house down.
I wander down the hall, wishing my nap had left me feeling refreshed instead of like I’d been run over by a garbage truck. “You’re making enough noise to wake the dead.”
Wes grunts but doesn’t spare me a glance. His cheeks are stained red, probably from the steam coming from whatever he’s got simmering on the stove.
How long has he been in my house while I slept in the next room naked?
“I didn’t know you’d be asleep at seven o’clock,” he mumbles.
“I didn’t mean to be.” I shuffle over to my medicine cabinet and snag some pain relievers to help with the achiness I’m feeling.
“You okay?” Wes asks, eyes flickering toward the pills in my hand as I fill up a glass of water.
“I’m fine. Just have a headache.”
A deep furrow forms in the middle of his forehead, and a small piece of me wants to smooth away the worry with my thumb. It’s a silly notion that I shake off as I down the glass of water.
“Do you want me to go?” he questions.
“And leave me without dinner? You’re not getting out of your promise that easily.”
“But if you don’t feel good—”
I hold up a hand to halt his excuses.
“You promised me dinner, city boy. Now get to work. I’m hungry.”
He smirks and adds some butter to the skillet. “Suit yourself.”
“What are you making?” I ask, peering over his shoulder.
He stiffens briefly at my proximity, and I revel in his momentary discomfort. My chest is pressed against his arm, and the warmth of his body radiates through me, stirring up dormant desires.
He spins toward me and his gaze lingers on my mouth briefly before he pokes me in the rib with his index finger, making me yelp. He chuckles, snapping the towel he had hanging over his shoulder at my thigh. “Go sit down. I don’t need you breathing down my neck. I’m trying to get this recipe right.”
“It’s my house. I can do what I want. Besides, how will I know if you’re poisoning me if I don’t watch you every step of the way?”
I peek around him and see a weathered-looking paper spread out on my countertop, but he steps in front of me, blocking my view. “Sit, Red.”
“I’m not a dog.”
“Quit acting so bitchy then.”
My ears burn and I can feel color flooding my face in indignation. I’m about to start yelling when I see his eyes crinkle at the corners.
“I’m kidding. Calm down.”
“You motherfucker.”
He snorts a laugh and shakes his head at me. “Your shirt’s right. You’re truly a treat to be around,” he says caustically.
I shoot him a glare.
He exhales a noisy sigh and looks at the ceiling like he’s praying to God for patience. “Will you just do as you're told for once and sit that fine ass down?”
His shoulders go rigid as he realizes what he said and the red that was fading from his cheeks floods them once more.
I bite back a smile and sit. “I’m not sitting because you told me to. My legs are just tired,” I clarify.
He studies the recipe, avoiding my stare. “Mm-hmm,” he mumbles noncommittally.
“So, is what you’re making me a surprise?”
He shrugs. “I’m not sure it’ll turn out right. I don’t want to get your hopes up if it doesn’t live up to your expectations.”
His statement only serves to confuse me, but I let him have this one and don’t ask again.
I watch him work quietly, the smell of the food permeating my kitchen.
Having him here, cooking for me, is a stark contrast to how I spend most evenings.
I’m always cooking for Tripp and Pops, and Allie comes over sometimes to eat with us too.
Allie cooks for me at her house from time to time, but I’ve never had a man cook for me.
Even as a child.
Even when I was married to my ex.
Landon never cooked. Never did much of anything for me, if I’m being honest with myself. Just tore me down and made me question everything. The reminder of who I became when I was married to him pulls a drawn-out sigh from me.
Wes glances back at me, potato masher in hand. “It’s almost ready, you impatient thing.”
I roll my eyes but give him a soft smile. “The sigh of exasperation had nothing to do with you. But good, ‘cause I’m hungrier than a tick on a teddy bear.”
He cocks his head to the side and looks me in the eye. “What was the sigh for then, if not for how I’m slowly starving you to death?”
It must be the intense look he has in those hazel eyes of his, like he’s trying to see straight into my soul, but instead of brushing off the question, I answer it honestly. “I was thinking about how you're the first man to cook for me.”
“That ex of yours never cooked you anything?”
I shrug and get up to set the table. My hands need something to do. I’ve started this conversation with Wes. I might as well finish it. “He always said that it was my job, since he was at work all day.”
“Weren’t you working too?”
“I was doing clerical work. I hated it, but his mom got me the job. I didn’t feel like I had a choice.” Another exasperated sigh slips past my lips.
“Was that one for me?” he asks, peering at me with soft eyes that make me believe he actually wants to know what's going through my head.
The earnestness in his gaze has me being more honest than I intended, spilling secrets that aren't meant for someone like Wes Dawson. I shake my head. “No. That one was for me. I lost myself when I married him. Little by little. He picked away at all the best parts of me.”
All the things I’d thought he had loved about me, my wildness, my independence, my drive, he hadn’t loved at all. He picked me apart like a vulture picks apart a carcass. And by the end, that’s all that was left of me, a mangled, bloodied corpse.
“That’s a damn shame.”
“I didn’t stay, though,” I say, trying to remind myself that I got out of that marriage. “Leaving him felt like finally breathing again.” I had found myself, a version of myself I loved. And I would never lose her again. The horses saved me.
“You’re strong as hell, Sawyer. I know it must have been hard.
” He rests a hand on my shoulder as he reaches around me for my plate.
His closeness has heat creeping up my neck and settling in my cheeks.
The contact is brief, but it makes me feel like I'm on fire.
And then it's gone, and he's loading my plate with the food that has my kitchen smelling divine.
I clear my throat, trying to dislodge the lump forming there.
It’s been nearly a decade since the divorce, but thinking back to what I became when I was with him still makes me devastatingly sad.
“He had this way of making me feel so small. I’d never felt that way before him. I never want to feel that way again.”
It’s why I never ended up letting relationships get too serious. I never wanted to put myself in the position I’d been in at nineteen when I’d married Landon and watched him strip me down, piece by piece, until there was barely anything left.
“The things you’re saying make me want to find him and kick his ass.”
"He's not worth the trouble," I mutter.
It makes my lips tilt up briefly to think of Wes stepping up for me like that.
As much as I hated his attitude when he arrived, I can’t stop thinking about how everyone keeps telling me how good Wes is at his heart and how considerate he's being now. It feels like these last few weeks at the ranch have shed him of some of that city bullshit he’d come in here spewing.
I stare down at the plate he sets in front of me. "You made me pork chops?"
"Pops said they were your favorite when Grams used to make them, but I'm sure they're not as good as hers," he says with an easy smile.
I swallow past the burn in my throat. "Yeah, they were my favorite."
This Wes, right here, feels more like the boy I used to know. And this is the Wes I want to get to know better.