Chapter 3
WOLFE
I’d never been a lover of exercising, but my dad was right. Sometimes the best way to empty your head of all thoughts was to sweat them out.
The sound of the treadmill in the lodge gym was drowned out by the blaring music in my headphones. “IDGAF” by Dua Lipa wasn’t fast enough, but the words were too good to skip to the next song.
I wanted to scrape out my memories with a fucking melon spoon.
Find the little part of my brain that held the image of the way that big man had held Trace’s face like he was precious, the way he’d put his mouth on Trace’s lips and kissed him like he had the right to, and cut that entire section right out.
My jaw ached from clenching my teeth.
This is a good thing.
As many times as I tried to tell myself it was for the best, I still felt like I had a jagged pile of bricks in my gut. How could something good feel this horrifically bad?
Trace was never meant for you.
Of course he wasn’t. He simply wasn’t.
It didn’t matter that we’d spent a million hours together over the years, and every single minute had written Trace Bishop into my heart.
Didn’t matter that he’d taught me to trust my instincts or that I’d never felt more safe and valued and myself than I did when we were together.
Didn’t even matter that the happiest memories in my very easy life were of him.
He was born too soon. Or I was born too late. Or both.
Trace had made that clear.
But though the man who’d kissed Trace on the porch had been hard to see in the shadows, he’d seemed younger. My age.
Trace turned forty-seven later this year. While he definitely didn’t look it—with his lean muscles and sun-honeyed skin—he was technically old enough to be my father.
And even if I hadn’t known that my entire fucking life, I would have learned it that night over six years ago when I’d finally gotten up the nerve to ask him if he’d ever date someone much younger than he was.
His eyes had slid over to me from where he’d been standing on the shallows of Rock Creek, throwing his fly line in the summer sun.
“How young, Wolfe?”
The question had been a warning shot. I hadn’t heeded it. I’d been twenty-four and desperate, unable to wait a minute longer for him to notice me.
I’d shrugged, all electrified nonchalance. “Seventeen years?” My voice had cracked, betraying both my age and my nerves. I hadn’t been brave enough to repeat it in a regular voice. A man’s voice.
He’d turned back to face the river and his sharp hook skimming dangerously over the water.
His biceps had bunched with each flick of his wrist as he cast longer and longer.
It had looked effortless. Even back then, Trace had been to our family’s place in Montana often enough to have gotten good at fly fishing.
Dad had taught both of us at the same time, me in my little boy waders and bucket hat and Trace in his much cooler men’s waders and backward ball cap.
But that day on the river, in addition to the backward cap, his face had also been hidden by dark sunglasses and devastating beard stubble.
The stubble had moved as his jaw flexed. “Never.”
It had been definitive, a word shot from a cannon with full knowledge of the damage it would do when it landed.
I’d turned back to my own hook, which had gotten stuck on a dead branch in the water. Though my throat was thick, I’d managed to swallow and breathe. To nod and let out a huff of fake laughter like it had been a joke.
And then I’d simply… kept on living. Pretended it had never happened. That I’d never asked the question or put that horrible idea out into the world.
Because what the fuck else could I do?
Within months, the project to fund the SERA program had popped up on my radar at the foundation out of the blue.
“What’s this?” I’d asked Papa. “What’s SERA?”
His face had lit up. “Slingshot Emergency Rescue Academy. Trace is finally going to follow his dream. And the Bluebell Foundation is going to help him.”
So I’d helped Trace leave. Helped him run away.
I didn’t believe he thought of it that way.
He probably didn’t think about me much at all, or even understand what I did for my family’s charitable foundation.
But I was the one who’d approved every fucking payment to the vendors involved in his project.
I’d spearheaded the legal process to cut out the land grant from my family’s large parcel.
I’d run background checks on the architect, the builder, and the outfitters.
I’d researched the best liability insurance and made sure his—and our—investment was secure.
Then I’d sat back and watched as he’d built his new exciting life over a thousand miles away from me.
There’d been many times in the past six years I’d thought about relocating to Montana, if only to have him back in my life in a casual way, but I’d known better.
An addict can’t stay free if the damned drug is within arm’s reach.
And it had been fine. I’d been fine. Sure, I’d had my weak moments, but they’d led me to my songwriting career.
The career I should throw myself into now, and fuck everything else.
I yanked the safety tether from the treadmill and hopped onto the side rails. Sweat poured down my face, and my chest heaved.
After walking a few circuits around the room, I settled on the mat to do some stretching. The light from the room reflected an eerie blue on the snow drifts outside the giant floor-to-ceiling windows.
My phone buzzed with a text from my sister.
Rosie
Why aren’t you staying at the ranch with us?
I thumb-typed back a response.
Wanted to get in a good workout and the gym is better here. Heading to Majestic early in the morning for a meeting. I’ll see you tomorrow night when I’m back.
This wasn’t the real reason, of course. The real reason I hadn’t planned to stay at my brother Lennon’s ranch was that I’d wanted to see Trace.
Something about the improbable Grammy win, or maybe how devastatingly lonely I’d felt, had infected me like a virus. I kept remembering how I’d solemnly promised myself that if the song took off, that would be my sign to do… something.
I wasn’t going to tell Trace about Fletcher—that was several bridges too far, solemn promises or not—but I’d thought maybe I could go to his place, casual-like. Find out how he was.
And not have my nosy-as-fuck sister on my case about it.
Rosie
Did you eat? I could bring leftover brisket?
Not hungry but thanks. Think I’m going to head to bed early since I have to get up at dawn.
Rosie
You okay?
Yeah.
My fingers hovered over the screen. Don’t do it. She already suspects. Don’t fucking do it.
Who’s Trace dating?
My back teeth hurt.
It took a minute for her to type the response.
Rosie
Patrick Cushnie, but I think they broke up? Avery heard it from Helen Kimball. Helen’s friends with Patrick’s mom.
Fucking small towns.
My fingers flew over the tiny screen until I found Patrick Cushnie’s Instagram account.
He was a good-looking guy. Huge. Fit. Young.
Outdoorsy in a Montana—hunting and fishing—way rather than a Trace—hiking and rock climbing—way.
After scrolling his stupid pics for a minute and ignoring another incoming text from Rosie, I found what I was looking for.
A photo from his ten-year high school reunion last year.
The fucker was younger than I was.
Rage began to build inside of me. Clean and stark. Hot and all-consuming.
How. Fucking. Dare. He.
It was one thing to tell me he wasn’t interested in me. It was another to say it was because of my age. I was thirty fucking years old. No longer a child. Not like this fresh-faced… electrical line worker or whatever.
I was back in the Rover before I spared another thought, anger spurring me with only the slimmest of reason and consideration keeping me from spinning out on the snowy roads.
Instead of chickening out and parking in the general SERA lot like before, I pulled directly in front of his cabin, blocking his own truck in. I slammed out of the vehicle and raced up to the front door before banging on it with my fist.
“Open up!” I barked.
Part of me knew this was stupid. Knew my actions were drawing a line in the sand between us we’d never be able to cross over again. But what had being careful gotten me?
My feelings for Trace had suffocated me for half my life. Had stolen years from me by kneecapping my ability to have a decent, meaningful relationship with anyone else—and I’d fucking tried, over and over.
Until it became obvious I was broken. Broken into Trace-shaped pieces that didn’t even fucking fit together since the most important one was missing.
And would always be missing, as long as he was unwilling to even give me a chance.
I turned thirty weeks ago and had never kissed Trace Bishop.
What was the fucking point?
“Open the door, asshole!” I called again. The side of my fist was hot from banging it over and over.
When he finally opened the door, Trace was shirtless and bleary-eyed.
Soft flannel pajama bottoms hung dangerously low on his hips, revealing acres of skin and muscle.
Chest hair and dark hair below his navel.
A thin, silvery scar on his flank. A hint of sharp bone at his hips and the soft curve of his ass just behind it.
Fuck me.
He steeled his expression into one of polite indifference threaded with familial, paternal concern. “Wolfe? Why are you banging on my door? Are you okay?”
“No. I’m not fucking okay.”
His skin prickled in the cold, hardening his nipples and making his stomach muscles bunch. “Why are you here?”
I pressed my fingers into the center of his chest to push him back so we could both go inside, into the warmth of his cabin, where he wouldn’t freeze to death. I didn’t dare let my entire hand touch him for fear of what it would unleash inside of me.
Trace’s eyes widened at the touch, but he let me push him back. “What are you doing?”
“You’ll get cold.”
“You shouldn’t be here. You should go.”
I continued to push him gently until he was backed against the console table in his small entryway. “Oh yeah? Why’s that?”