3 | Lookin around
CLEMENTINE
Apparently, corn whiskey hangovers hit harder than any other kind.
My head pounds like I’ve been used for drum practice all night. I crack one eye open and immediately regret it—the light slicing through the curtains feels like a personal attack from the sun herself.
I groan, rolling onto my side, hugging the pillow like it’s a life vest.
If I don’t get up now, I’ll never get up at all. So I grit my teeth and peel myself out of bed.
My aunt’s farmhouse is adorable in that very Southern gothic way. Old creaking floors, floral wallpaper that’s somehow both charming and hideous. Hand-stitched curtains faded from decades of sun.
It’s part of why I get to stay here—to oversee renovations as she turns this place into an Airbnb.
I used to love that idea—women making passive income and all that—but now that I’m actually staying here, the thought of modernizing this place feels like sacrilege.
She’s convinced city people will love this place if she puts in floor-to-ceiling windows and slathers it in Millennial Gray.
I should talk to her about that.
Showering takes thirty excruciating minutes. Just standing there with scalding water pouring over me, willing it to wash away the regret, the mud still caked under my nails, the ghost of Colton McGraw’s voice in my head drawling ’Tiny’.
Making myself look human again takes another forty.
By the time I’m done, my stomach is eating itself alive, screaming for something greasy enough to cut through the poison in my veins.
I call Grady first. He’s busy.
Savannah’s off on her honeymoon, probably getting it on with Jackson in wedded bliss somewhere picturesque.
Jace’s phone goes straight to voicemail.
Traitors, the lot of them. Guess I’m having breakfast alone.
I get in my aunt’s car and drive, fighting for my life the whole way. The roads are mostly empty. Just me, the cicadas screaming in the ditches, and the occasional truck that takes up both lanes before veering back onto its own.
The only diner I know hasn’t changed in the seven years I’ve been gone. It’s a beat-down, ugly building with a flickering neon OPEN sign that looks like it’s been about to die since the 80s.
But it’s still there. Like everything else in this town.
I park crooked—no one’s here anyway—and haul myself out. My sneakers squeak on the checkered tile as I step inside.
The place smells like burnt coffee, bacon grease, and nostalgia.
I take it all in for one second, that wave of memory hitting hard. Sitting in these booths in high school. Staring at that cracked menu. Laughing with Savannah until milkshakes came out of our noses.
I pick an empty booth, sliding in with a relieved sigh. The vinyl seat is cracked and duct-taped in places, and the table’s sticky.
Perfect.
A waitress in pink polyester and white sneakers doesn’t even try to look friendly when she shuffles over, chewing gum like her life depends on it.
“Coffee?”
I rub my eyes and grunt. “Please. And water. Like… a lot of water.”
She scribbles, pivots on one sneaker, and leaves me to my misery.
I sink into the squeaky booth, arms crossed on the table, forehead pressed to them. I’m this close to crying. My head feels like it’s cracking in two, and my stomach’s churning.
The waitress plunks the mug down in front of me hard enough to send coffee sloshing over the side. “Careful, sugar. Don’t fall asleep and drown in it.”
“Thanks,” I mumble.
She snorts and walks off.
I’m too busy forcing the coffee down to realize someone’s standing at the edge of my booth until he clears his throat.
“Well damn, Clemmie. Rough night?”
My head jerks up so fast I almost puke.
“Wells.”
He’s grinning like an idiot, cowboy hat tipped back, hair a little messy like he’d just shoved it on.
He eyes me critically. “You gonna puke on my boots or can I sit?”
I rub my temples. “Risk it, if you want.”
He slides in opposite me. “Heard you made quite the scene last night.”
“Yeah? Which part? The drinking, the swearing, the stomping off barefoot?”
“All of it,” he says cheerfully. “Town hasn’t stopped talkin’ yet.”
I drop my head back into my hands with a groan.
Wells waits a beat before sliding my water closer. “Drink.”
“You always this bossy?”
“Yeah. That’s what they pay me for on the ranch. Drink up, princess.”
I glare, but sip my water anyway. Wells watches, apparently satisfied.
The waitress returns, looking bored. “You eatin’ today?”
Wells orders for me before I can protest. “She’ll have eggs, toast, and hashbrowns. And keep the coffee comin’.”
“I can order my own damn—”
“You’re welcome,” he cuts me off, flashing the waitress a grin that has her actually giggling.
The food helps a little. I don’t feel like I’m about to collapse anymore, and the nausea has lost its edge.
Wells waits until I’m done picking at my plate before leaning back.
“You feelin’ human yet?”
“Define human.”
He chuckles. “You know, if you’re that hungover, maybe drivin’ to a diner isn’t the smartest thing to do.”
“Yeah, well, the only other option was dying in bed.”
“Dramatic.” He eyes me. “You got plans today?”
I squint at him suspiciously. “Why?”
He spreads his hands. “Just thought you might wanna see the ranch.”
My stomach twists. “Wells—”
“Colton didn’t put me up to this, don’t go bitin’ my head off. I just figured… you haven’t seen the new barn. We have a bunch of newborn calves.”
My heart skips a beat. I used to love hanging out with the calves—especially newborn ones.
He grins—already knows he’s got me.
“Come on, Clem. They’re real cute. I’ll let you name ’em.”
I try to hide my excitement. “Fine. I guess it beats sitting here trying not to puke.”
We take his truck. It’s old, battered, smells like hay and cinnamon gum.
“You always chew that crap?” I ask, cracking the window.
He snorts. “Better than smokin’.”
I hum in agreement.
----
The ranch looks the same and different all at once. Fences replaced, new asphalt shingles on the roof. Some of the paddocks have been expanded. Wells does the full tour-guide act.
He walks me past the horses. Past the barn. Along the fields full of Black Angus.
I keep pretending to look bored but he’s too damn good at noticing.
“Miss it?”
“Nope.”
He snorts. “Liar.”
Finally he leads me to the new barn. It’s big, clean, and well-lit. The calves are in individual little pens. They’re bellowing and snuffling and generally being too adorable for words.
I melt instantly. “Oh my god, look at these babies.”
Wells is smug as shit. “Yeah. Knew that’d do it.”
I crouch, running my hand along the tiny white blaze on one calf’s nose. He licks my fingers with his rough, warm tongue. I coo at him, stroking his cheek.
Wells actually laughs. “You’re pathetic.”
“Shut up. He loves me.”
“Hard not to. Hey, I’m gonna leave you to it, Clemmie. Gotta check the irrigation. Don’t let ’em eat your shoes.”
I absently murmur something at him, and I hear him chuckle as he leaves the barn.
For a while, it’s quiet. The calves snuffle, chewing on hay, and a tiny flicker of homesickness sparks inside my chest. It’s like I’m a stranger looking in on my old life.
My hangover starts to feel less like impending death.
I’m bent over the little fence, scratching behind a calf’s ear, when I hear boots on concrete.
I glance up, and freeze.
Colton’s standing in the doorway. His hat is tipped low, shirt sleeves rolled up, broad shoulders stretching his faded flannel. He’s holding two giant milk bottles in one hand like it’s nothing.
For a second he just stands there, staring at me, gaze unreadable.
Then he huffs and steps inside. “Didn’t expect to find you here, Tiny.”
I straighten too fast, dusting off my jeans. “Wells brought me here, and then abandoned me.”
Colt nods. “Ah. Smart man.”
I scowl. “Funny.”
He saunters past me, movements unhurried, easy. He sets the bottles down on the rail. “You gonna help or just stand there lookin’ pretty?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer, just picks up a bottle and hands it to me. His fingers brush mine and heat zings up my arm.
“Here.” Colt shows me how to hold the bottle, how to angle it.
His voice is low, patient. “Steady now. Don’t jerk it back. Let ’em find a rhythm.”
“You McGraws are all so bossy,” I mutter.
He leans closer, that deep Southern drawl sliding right down my spine. “Darlin’, you ain’t seen me bossy yet.”
Heat rushes up my spine and I nearly drop my bottle. Colton smirks. He adjusts my grip with big, calloused hands. “Like that. Atta girl.”
I freeze, breath hitching in my throat. The calf bumps me impatiently and I jerk back, shoving the bottle at Colton. “Here. You do it.”
He takes it, a lazy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Suit yourself, Tiny.”
I spin on my heel and stomp out of the barn, cursing under my breath.
I don’t look back, but I can feel his eyes on me the whole way out.
----
Who wants to see Colton go bossy? ?????♀?