Chapter 23
ANNALISE
Brody is going to give me whiplash.
At this point, I’m considering buying him a thermometer for Christmas so I’ll be able to tell in advance whether he’s planning on being hot or cold.
One moment, I’m hoping my breath doesn’t stink because I’m sure he’s going to kiss me, and the next, he’s putting so much distance between us that it’s a wonder I can hear him speak over it. It makes it worse that I’m pretty sure I know what’s creating these sudden changes in him.
Either he’s constantly reminding himself that we’re doomed if we wind up falling for one another, or he’s just genuinely a misleading tool. I’d say it’s option number one, but with my history with men, maybe he’ll wind up disappointing me in the worst way.
If I’m right, though, I need to do something about it. I refuse to be the woman I was with Stewart. I’m not going to let opportunities pass me by because I’m scared of getting hurt or hiding behind the glamour of safety.
Because that’s what it was with Stewart. Safe. We became something comfortable. A relationship I thought was sturdy enough to carry me forever and not one that made my heart jolt or my stomach fill with butterflies. I don’t ever want to go back to that life.
I want banter and new adventures and thoughtful gestures that have my cheeks burning from smiling. Even if it’s temporary, Brody gives me those things. I’d like to think that I give him those things too.
There’s no timeline for someone to get over a heartbreak, but I’d like to think I’ve done pretty alright so far, even if it’s only been a couple of months.
My healing has been slow and steady, and I’ve learned more about myself than I have in the last decade.
I don’t think that growth is going to stop here either.
My future is too bright for that. Wanting to see where this connection with Brody takes me doesn’t seem like such a bad idea.
The heat from the palm pressed to my back as we step into the house has me even more confident that I’m right where I want to be.
The interior of the farmhouse is almost exactly how I pictured it from the outside.
Warm wood floors, bookshelves galore with clutter on every shelf, and mismatched rugs spread throughout the spacious entryway.
I’ve never seen so many shoe racks. They’re pushed against every wall, and while they’re fairly bare now, I can only expect that will change come lunchtime.
The warm yellow lighting even makes the space feel cozier instead of outdated like it usually would.
Brody shuts the door behind us, hangs his brown hat on a hook on the wall, and then steps up to linger at my back. His body heat slams into me. I ache to lean into it and dare him to pull away again, but on the off chance he doesn’t, I don’t trust what I’d do.
Footsteps carry into the entry from further in the house before a familiar face appears around the corner. Mrs. Steele takes one look at me and beams. It’s a welcome that I wasn’t expecting but greedily accept.
“Annalise!” she sings, arms already open.
I laugh and step into the embrace. Just like the first time we met, I notice her strength first and then her comforting cinnamon scent. It’s easy to tell that she’s a woman who doesn’t turn up her nose at hard work. To be married to a man like Mr. Steele, that seems about right.
“It’s nice to see you again. I hope I’m not intruding,” I say.
She pulls back but holds me at arm’s length, taking me in from head to toe. “Never! I saw you speaking to my husband from the front window and was just twiddling my thumbs impatiently, waiting to greet you properly.”
“By saw us, you mean that you were spying,” Brody pipes up.
His grandmother releases me just long enough to wave him off. “Let me get you in a proper pair of boots and a new jacket. We can’t risk you ruining your perfectly nice things out there. What size are your feet?”
“I was already planning on getting her those things, Grams,” Brody says.
“What you should have done was taken her out this morning and bought her her own pair of boots,” she sasses.
I swallow a laugh at the ease with which she scolds him. “I don’t think I’d get enough use out of a pair of my own.”
She gapes at me, offended. “Nonsense.” Flitting her eyes to her grandson, she adds, “Tell me she’ll be here often. Don’t you tease me, boy.”
“Don’t look at me. It’s Anna you should be threatening.” Brody’s fingers slip beneath the bottom hem of my jacket, tracing the waistband of my leggings. The shiver that racks through me is immediate, and one sneaking glance up at him exposes his smirk.
I try to shove the touch to the back of my mind and focus on Mrs. Steele. Watching the space between Brody and me like a hawk, that woman nearly splits her cheeks with a smile.
“Something tells me I shouldn’t worry. You’ll be back, my sweet. But let’s worry about right now. Boots!” she exclaims before dashing toward the double doors belonging to the entryway closet.
The next few minutes are spent with me sitting on a long bench and Mrs. Steele shoving old cowboy boots into Brody’s arms as he kneels in front of me and slips them on one by one.
My cheeks grow hotter with each brush of his fingers against the arch of my foot—which I happen to think he’s doing intentionally now—until I’m positive they might very well catch on fire.
His stupidly handsome smirk has never been more prominent as of right now. I’m close to giving him a mouthful of old leather.
“How do those feel?” he asks, sounding far too arrogant for my liking.
I wiggle my toes inside the boots and nearly moan at the comfort. As opposed to the boots Poppy lent me and the first few pairs Mrs. Steele had me try, these ones don’t clinch at the widest part of my foot. They fit snug, yet not too snug.
“They’re perfect,” I tell them both.
Brody cups my calf just above the top of the boot in his large hand, his eyes transfixed on my feet. My skin begins to itch with nerves, but I stay quiet, hoping that he’ll break through whatever he’s thinking right now.
Does he hate them? Do I look ridiculous?
He squeezes my calf before finally dragging his eyes up to meet mine. They’re dilated, the blue deeper and darker than usual. A shudder works through me at what that could possibly mean.
“Do they look okay?” I ask softly, not hiding the tremor of doubt in my tone.
He huffs a laugh, shaking his head slightly. “I’ve never seen anyone pull off a pair of boots so well.”
I roll my eyes to hide the effect that compliment has on me. “Maybe I’ll wear them every day, then.”
Slowly, he slides his hand up behind my knee, curling and digging his fingers into the sensitive muscle. A whimper gets stuck in my throat, and I ache to press my thighs together when I begin to throb between them.
“Please.” It’s a guttural word, hardly more than a groan.
I go to pull his hand from my leg, unable to take any more of this before I jump his goddamn bones, when a horrible screeching sound breaks through the thick tension between us.
Flinching, he removes his hand himself and pushes to his feet.
After running his fingers through his hair, he plucks his hat from the hook and drops it back on his head.
Mrs. Steele comes rushing back from wherever she slipped off to during the past few moments. “You’d better get out there and see what that was.”
I push to my feet at the same time Brody says, “Sounds like someone braked too hard and slid. Shouldn’t be anythin’ serious. Call me if you need anythin’, okay?”
The old woman kisses her grandson’s cheek in answer. After tucking a piece of paper into his jacket pocket, she flashes me a soft smile and disappears again, leaving the two of us alone.
Once Brody’s handed me a thicker jacket and we’ve stepped outside, I say, “I expect the best Steele Ranch tour that was ever given while you tell me all of your deepest and darkest secrets.”
“You don’t hold punches,” he replies.
“Nope. The old Anna did, but not this one. I think I’ve about had it with holding my punches.”
“Are you a lot different now than you were before you got here?”
I think about my answer for a minute, wanting to make sure I’ve collected my thoughts.
“In some ways, yes. I’m still me, but depending on who you ask, I might be a better or worse version.
I’ve always tried to speak my mind, but I was engaged to a man who tried to stifle that quirk of mine.
It’s quite frustrating to think back on all the negatives in my past relationship and the fact I didn’t leave sooner. ”
Brody keeps his expression deceptively blank as he takes my hand and helps me down the porch steps. I didn’t need the help, but I don’t think that matters to him.
“I think love makes people do crazy things,” he says, that damn steadying hand returning to my back as we start down a flattened snow path. “Careful, it’s a bit slick this mornin’.”
I heed his warning and watch my step. “Have you ever been in love?”
“In high school.”
“Ooh, high school sweethearts, huh?”
“I suppose so, yeah,” he hums.
“What happened?”
He exhales heavily. “Young love hardly ever works out. She never understood why I’d want to leave this place, and I didn’t understand why she would want to stay forever. I was a stubborn kid who thought he deserved better than to stick it out here forever.”
“Does that stubborn kid think differently now?”
“If you’re askin’ if I’d go back in time and stay instead of leave, the answer would be no. Not for her, not for anyone. I’ve always loved music, and gettin’ the chance to make a career out of it changed my life. For better and for worse.”
“It takes courage to stand by your decisions. Especially when you know the repercussions of them,” I say.
“Hurtin’ those you love with those decisions still hurts like a mother, though.”
“Is that woman still in Cherry Peak, then? The high school sweetheart?”
“Last I heard, she moved out East with a husband and a van full’a kids. People change as life goes on, even those so sure they won’t.”
I nod, reading his expression for any sign of disappointment that she’s gone, but find none. My relief is instant.
“I never did learn how your career started,” I say, switching gears.
He looks at me, an eyebrow lifted. “Are you telling me that you didn’t Google search me the night we met?”
“As a matter of fact, I was far too pissed at you to spend my night researching you.”
His laugh is rich and warm. “Fair enough. I actually met Reggie, the head producer at the record label, when I was performin’ in a small pub in Edmonton one night.
There was sort of a weird talent show thing happenin’, and we had no idea that this major producer was going to be there.
But he was, and he loved my voice. Told me I had what it takes to succeed in the music industry, and the rest is history.
I’ve really liked workin’ with him so far. ”
“Maybe it’s Reggie who I have to blame for your ego, then,” I tease, bumping our shoulders. “He was right, though.”
“Yeah? I like to think so.”
“Clearly enough people think that, or you wouldn’t be where you are now.”
“You mean back at home livin’ with my grandparents while I heal from a workplace injury?”
I frown at the ground. “No. I mean that you’re incredibly successful and doing what you love. How many people get to say that?”
His jaw tenses, but not in anger. More like frustration or grief, maybe. “Do you do what you love, Anna?”
The question takes me aback. “I don’t know if there’s anything that I love doing as much as you love music, but I’m happy.”
“Good. I’m glad.”
The further we walk down the path, the more of the ranch I can see.
The towering stable on our right-hand side is in pristine condition, not a chipped plank of dark wood in sight.
The sliding door in front is shut while the one along the side is open, allowing the handfuls of horses to roam freely into the metal pen.
My heart leaps to my throat when I spot two babies playing chase while the older horses linger at the other end, watching.
“Oh, my god,” I breathe. I swivel off the path and turn to face Brody as I walk backward toward the barn. “Can we start the tour here, please? I haven’t seen a horse up close since middle school, and even that was from behind a fence.”
A hard-to-read emotion flickers across his face before he takes a tentative step toward me. He glances at the barn and swallows so hard his throat bobs.
“You sure you don’t want to see anythin’ else first?”
“Are you allergic to horses or something?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.
“No. God help a rancher who’s allergic to horses.”
“Soooo?”
“Fine,” he says on an exhale. Waving toward the barn, he nods for me to go ahead. “The horses inside the stable are either still foals weaning off their mothers or the ones we use on a consistent basis.”
“Does that mean your horse is inside? You do have one, right?”
“Yes.” It’s a stiff word.
My curiosity has me looking at him over my shoulder as I stop at the door. I itch to pull it open, but despite my excitement, I wait for him to do it.
He stands right behind me and reaches beside my head to grip the steel handle. With a white-knuckled hold on it, he pulls it open with little effort, the bicep at my ear flexing in the most delicious way.
I push down the burst of arousal and spin, turning into his chest. My palms meet his chest as I create the slightest bit of distance and tip my head back to stare into his eyes. They’re already on me, the weight of them like a soft blanket, warm and reassuring.
“If you don’t want me in here, please just say so,” I tell him, wetting my dry lips. “I don’t want to overstep.”
The brim of his hat falls to cover his brows, and I don’t think twice before reaching up and pushing it out of the way, admiring the velvet feel of it between my fingertips.
His breath catches, and a breath later, he grabs my waist, simply holding me there.
I stay still, not wanting to spook him again.
His fingers flex a second before I’m tugged a bit closer, our bodies nearly flush. “Meetin’ the horses will make you happy, right?”
“Yes,” I whisper, the moment too delicate for anything louder.
“Then that’s what we’ll do.”
Appreciation fills me. It’s like this man wants nothing more than to see me smile. How was I ever supposed to keep him at a distance? It almost feels like a trick question.
“Lead the way, Cowboy.”