The Trouble with Forever (The Trouble with Cowboys #2)

Chapter 1

Everleigh

“You can do hard things, Everleigh Anne James.”

The determination in my tone, full of that fake it until you make it bullshit, does little to settle my fraying nerves.

I glance at my lounging cat, certain he’s already speared me with a superior eye.

But the gray pile of fur, casually perched on the back of my couch, is less concerned about my life choices and more absorbed with soaking in as much sun as possible.

“Appreciate the support, Smoky.”

The tip of his tail flicks in a lazy arc, a solitary gesture of encouragement.

I steel my nerves and reach for my weapon of choice.

A tablespoon, because I’m not messing around.

I can do hard things. I hold it at the ready, as though I’m about to perform surgery, grip firm on the handle.

It reminds me of the game my best friend Macy and I used to play as kids.

The one where the whole board buzzes if your tweezers touch the edges while trying to extract a specified body part.

There’s a reason she grew up to be the veterinarian while I became the meteorologist.

The half-unwrapped tube of cinnamon rolls mocks me from the counter. The damn thing might as well be a landmine.

“I hate these fucking things,” I mumble under my breath, wishing I’d gone to Grandma Jean’s diner for breakfast instead. Her cinnamon roll pancakes are to die for. But leaving the house would require a bra, a pair of pants, and a level of headspace I’m just not prepared for yet.

I refocus on the tube.

I nearly peed myself unwrapping the outer cardboard layer minutes ago, waiting for the inevitable pop with each hesitant tug of the wrapper. I was braced for the mini heart attack it’d give me when it exploded open. I was ready. But the stupid cinnamon roll tube had the audacity to stay intact.

“Press a spoon to the seam,” I mockingly mutter at the can. “Might as well be instructing me to cut the red wire and hope the bomb doesn’t go off.”

If I wasn’t afraid of the can exploding on impact, I’d just drop the damn thing in the trash can and forgo my tradition of binging freshly baked cinnamon rolls after a move. If I’m being honest, this ritual intended to make my new place smell like heaven is really just a stalling tactic anyway.

Piles of boxes, suitcases, and furniture crowd the two-bedroom bungalow, leaving me with narrow walking paths and a questionable amount of sitting room.

Even my couch is covered in hanging clothes.

I can’t for the life of me figure out how I slept out here last night, other than I likely burrowed underneath it all.

But by the time the last box was carried inside, I was dead on my feet.

The moment my friends left, I collapsed.

I woke to Smoky—finally brave enough to come out of hiding—smacking me on the nose with his paw.

As seems to be my pattern, I told myself I’d unpack some boxes while my breakfast was in the oven.

But if I’m being honest, it’s a bold-faced lie.

If history is any indication, I’ll likely end up in a cinnamon roll coma, passed out on the couch for half the day.

When I finally come out of it, I’ll be groggy and antsy to do anything but unpack.

Settling in somewhere new is one of my greatest weaknesses.

The permanence makes me itchy, which only makes it all the more baffling that I bought a house in my hometown.

I do love Emerald Creek—mostly because it has Grandma Jean and her diner, The Cow’s Moo.

But even before my best friend announced she was moving back permanently, I never intended to settle down here.

It was a pit stop while my life recalibrated.

I’m supposed to be on the road, chasing storms. Or at least I was.

Dark thoughts press against the surface of my memory, battling against the very firmly locked door I’ve shoved them behind. Nope. Not going there.

Not today.

I shake them away, wriggling my shoulders as if that’ll force them into the rear view, and narrow my eyes at the tube. Today is not the day that Everleigh James is bested by a stupid can of pastries.

With shaky hands, I clamp two fingers around one end, gingerly turning the tube for a better angle. Sucking in a breath, I hover the spoon just above the faint line and whisper, “I can do hard things.” Squeezing my eyes shut, I press the spoon against the rounded cardboard and brace for…nothing.

“Son of a bitch,” I grumble.

I steel myself for a second attempt, ignoring the way Smoky opens one eye wide enough to glare at me—probably for disturbing his peace—and press the tip of the spoon a little harder against the kryptonite seam.

Nope.

“Oh, come the fuck on!”

I press harder.

BANG!

I scream, jumping a foot in the air as the spoon flies out of my hand.

It bounces off the ceiling with an obscenely loud clatter, startling Smoky from the back of the couch She gives me a full body hiss before streaking off down the hall to hide.

Hand to heart, I step back and take a breath, only to slip on the rug and stumble backward, landing square on my ass.

Pride utterly shaken—and a bit pissed off—I glance down at the tube still beside me on the floor, discovering it’s still intact. “What the fuck was—”

A second loud thump snaps my attention to the door tucked off the kitchen.

Is someone in my garage? Shit, did I leave the door open last night? Is someone trying to steal my things? The one car garage is full of boxes, totes, and furniture I pulled out of storage and haven’t decided whether or not I’m keeping. But that doesn’t mean I’m giving any of it away for free.

I stumble to my feet, gingerly setting the cinnamon roll tube back on the counter before reaching for the phone.

I search for Wyatt’s number saved in my favorites.

Is it extreme to call the sheriff for backup because I heard a couple of thumps in my garage?

Maybe. But I can already hear his voice in my head. Better safe than sorry, Ev.

My finger hovers over the call button, hesitating. My pulse quickens.

“Stop it, Everleigh,” I scold myself.

This is stupid.

Wyatt Knight—sheriff of Emerald Creek—is my best friend’s oldest brother. He’s my friend. He’s been my first call for everything from loose cabinet doors, to dead car batteries, to emergency ice cream runs since I came back to town a year ago.

We’re friends.

Just friends.

If I could only convince my stupid brain that whatever happened the night he carried my drunk ass into my apartment meant nothing, maybe I wouldn’t be acting so squirrely around him.

Gah! Why did I decide that getting my bestie rip roaring drunk a few weeks ago at The Rusty Nail was a good idea?

And why the hell did I decide to join her?

I wasn’t trying to seduce her now boyfriend, Ryder Stone.

It was her mission to convince him to turn his family’s failing ranch into an animal sanctuary. Not mine.

If I’d just stayed the sober observer, Wyatt never would’ve had a reason to carry me into my apartment.

He wouldn’t have kissed my forehead after putting me to bed.

Friends can give each other forehead kisses, right?

Although, it is entirely possible I imagined that last part.

There are moments it feels real and moments I’m convinced I made it up.

It’s been an internal battle for weeks now.

One that’ll continue on because I refuse to question the source.

The one detail I can’t deny? Waking up in Wyatt’s blue, green, and white button-up shirt because I’d thrown up all over mine.

Another thump reminds me there’s an intruder in my garage, and I fire off a quick text to Wyatt. There. No need to overthink things.

Focus, Everleigh.

Scanning the counter, I realize I’ve yet to unpack the knives. Hell, I’m lucky I was able to find a spoon amidst the chaos. Unfortunately, that particular utensil seems to be the only one I have at my disposal. Maybe I can whap the intruder in the eyeball with it?

I tiptoe to the door, trying like hell to remember if I left my garage door open last night.

It’s possible some bluebird or robin is flying around, bumping into things.

This is Montana, after all. There’s really no telling if it’s man or beast behind the door.

Oh shit, what if it’s a bear? Did I leave a box of pantry items out there?

Impossible to know for sure. By the end of the move, all the miscellaneous boxes were dumped in the garage just so everyone could go home.

Another thump rattles the wall followed by some weird tapping sounds.

I stiffen.

It could also be a thief who spotted an easy haul. Just because Emerald Creek is a small town doesn’t mean there aren’t dishonest people—just ask Wyatt. Someone’s always passing through. Shit, what if it’s a murderer coming to chop me into pieces he’ll later scatter across the countryside?

“I really need to stop listening to true crime podcasts before bed,” I mumble under my breath.

I consider propping a chair against the door, wedging the top of it under the doorknob so said intruder can’t break all the way into my house—a tip I recently picked up from one such podcast. But as I scan the overcrowded space for an appropriate chair, a realization sinks in my stomach.

My prized Nikon is in the garage.

“Well that was stupid of me,” I whisper grumble.

I knew better than to leave my most cherished possession out there.

In my defense, it was only meant to be stored in the garage temporarily, along with the several boxes of photos from my time in Tornado Alley.

Just until I could find a safe space to stash it all.

I thought my camera would be safe in its protective case, out of my sight for a couple of days.

But a thief might spot the custom rose gold camera case and see a possible pay day.