Chapter 9
DAISY
June calls shotgun before I’m even off the porch.
My Honda’s been grounded on Wyatt’s orders. Apparently “check engine” means something very different to ranchers than it does to me.
“Sorry, honey.” She doesn’t look sorry at all as she slides into the passenger seat of Wyatt’s truck. “Bad hip. Need the legroom.”
June doesn’t have a bad hip. June did a full yoga routine on the living room floor this morning while I ate my oatmeal. But before I can point this out, she’s already buckling her seatbelt with a serene smile that dares me to argue.
Which is how I end up wedged in the middle of the bench seat, thighs pressed tight together in a space that was definitely not designed for three adults. The leather is warm and cracked beneath me, smelling faintly of dust and old hay.
Every time Wyatt shifts gears, his knuckles graze my knee and his thigh tightens against mine.
Heat seeps through denim and cotton as if the fabric is non-existent.
I can smell his soap—clean, simple, unmistakably him—mixed with coffee and the outdoors, and it’s doing things to me it absolutely shouldn’t.
The radio crackles with static before settling into a country song, and June hums along while I focus on the mountains through the windshield, desperately pretending I’m not counting every point where his body touches mine.
“Comfortable?” June asks, all sweetness.
“Peachy.”
Wyatt says nothing. His teeth grind while his eyes remain fixed on the road as he grips the steering wheel like he’s trying to strangle it.
Every time we hit a curve and momentum pushes me closer to him, he somehow manages to take up less space, pressing himself toward the door like proximity to me is something to survive.
The road into town winds through the valley, past pastures dotted with cattle and the occasional farmhouse perched on a hillside. The mountains rise up on either side of us, still snow-capped despite the spring warmth in the valley below.
God, I’ve missed this.
“So.” June twists to look at me. “Big day of interviews.”
“Marcus Donnelly and then Wyatt tomorrow.” I keep my voice light. “Assuming he doesn’t find another fence to check.”
“Fence is fixed,” he mutters, eyes on the road.
“He’ll be there.” June smiles, reaching across my lap to pat his bicep. “Won’t you, Wy?”
“Said I would.”
“See? A man of his word.” June winks at me. “Even if getting that word out of him is like pulling teeth.”
We drive in silence for a few miles, the radio playing low. June hums along to a song about trucks and heartbreak while I try very hard not to think about the warmth radiating from Wyatt’s leg into mine, and how his tanned and rough rancher’s hands grip the wheel.
Eyes forward, Monroe.
Except they won’t stay there. That’s the whole problem. My ex texts me every day and the only thing I feel is exhaustion. This man hasn’t spoken three words to me all morning, and I’m cataloging the veins in his forearms.
Something is deeply wrong with me.
Or maybe something is finally right.
“The Blackstone Inn is right on Main Street.” June blessedly yanks me from my silent spiral with her declaration as we approach town. “Marcus said he’d meet you in the bar around two, after his meeting with Wyatt. That gives you about an hour to kill.”
“I brought my laptop. Figured I’d do some research.”
“Research for the article?”
“Something like that.”
I’ve been digging into the Hendersons’ situation whenever I can find a spare moment because their story doesn’t sit right with me. The timeline, the mysterious holding company that swooped in, the way nobody seems to know exactly what happened.
It feels familiar. Too familiar.
Wyatt pulls the truck into a parking spot outside the feed store.
He doesn’t move to get out.
Neither do I.
June’s already yanked the door handle and stepped out onto the sidewalk, but Wyatt’s got both hands on the wheel, staring straight ahead. I’m hyperaware of the heat of his thigh still pressed against mine, the way his arm brushes my shoulder every time he breathes.
Too close and not close enough.
“You know where I’ll be if you need anything.” The words are quiet, and his gaze is fixed straight ahead, out the windshield.
“It’s Blackstone Creek, not Gotham City.” I roll my eyes, but I can’t help the smile tugging at my lips.
The corner of his mouth twitches. Well… almost. “Still.”
Then he’s out of the truck, the sudden absence of his warmth leaving me colder than it should.
I watch him walk away, like that’s not a mistake, and remind myself, firmly, that I’m here to work.
That staring at the way Wyatt Hartley fills out a pair of jeans is not on the agenda.
Neither is memorizing the way the denim clings to his thighs, or admiring an ass that should honestly come with a warning label, or wondering if Wrangler would consider putting him on a billboard—
Jesus, Monroe. Get it together.
I climb out and focus on something—anything—else.
Blackstone Creek is postcard-perfect—brick storefronts with striped awnings, flower baskets hanging from lampposts, a diner on the corner advertising homemade pie.
An older couple sits on a bench outside the barbershop, and a group of kids run past with ice cream cones already melting in the sun.
Everyone seems to know everyone, nodding and waving as they pass.
A pair of women outside the coffee shop go visibly still as Wyatt heads down the street. One elbows the other. Both stare unashamedly as he walks right past them without so much as a glance.
June snorts beside me. “Every. Single. Time. The man has no idea.”
I watch him disappear into the Blackstone Inn and wonder how that’s possible.
How does someone who looks like that not know the effect he has?
June bumps her shoulder against mine. “You done staring, or do you need another minute? Because I can wait.”
I can feel my cheeks heat, though I double down with a firm “I wasn’t staring.”
“Sure you weren’t.” She loops her arm through mine and tugs me along the sidewalk. “Come on. I’ll walk with you.”
We stroll down Main Street, and I take inventory.
The hardware store that’s still run by the Eriksons, four generations deep.
The florist has expanded, and now has buckets of wildflowers spilling onto the sidewalk.
And on the corner, Sky Country Books, with a fat orange cat called Hemingway in the same patch of window sun he was in the last time I drove through.
“He’s still alive?”
“Yup. Don’t ask me how.” June presses her face to the glass, making kissy noises. The cat doesn’t so much as twitch. “He gets it, honey. Peak relaxation. We should all aspire to Hemingway’s level of not givin’ a crap.”
I laugh, letting her pull me along, and then I see it. The checkered curtains. The flickering neon sign.
Rosie’s Diner.
Grief hits me, and I slow to a stop, and my voice is small when I speak. “Dad used to bring me here for ice cream.”
The same red vinyl stools are visible through the window. The same old jukebox in the corner that only plays seventies country songs.
“Every Sunday after church during our summers. Mom’s rule was always one scoop, but Dad said her rules didn’t apply in Montana.” I smile, even as my throat tightens. “He’d wink at Rosie and order me two. Like we were getting away with something.”
June squeezes my arm. “Rosie’s still makes the best strawberry cheesecake ice cream in three counties. We’ll have to come back before you leave.”
I nod, not trusting my voice. Then I take a breath and start walking again before the memories can pull me under.
We pass a yoga studio that definitely wasn’t here before, and a craft brewery with a chalkboard listing beers named after mountain peaks. New arrivals threaded through the old. The town’s moved on a little, though not enough to feel different.
“And here we are.” June sweeps her arm toward the Blackstone Inn. “Your home for the next couple of hours. Try not to get into too much trouble.”
Inside, the inn is exactly what I expected, all dark wood and leather chairs. The smell of old whiskey and lemon polish. A staircase curves up to the rooms above, and through a wide archway I can see the bar, dim and quiet at this time of day.
“Bar’s through there,” June instructs as she points her index finger. “That’s where you’ll meet Marcus. But you’ve got time to kill, so let’s get you settled.”
She steers me toward a soft leather armchair in the lobby when a beautiful woman appears from behind the front desk with long dark hair and flawless makeup.
“Perfect timing!” She pulls June into a hug. “I just got off the phone with the florist. Centerpieces are sorted.”
“You’re a lifesaver.” June squeezes her arm. “I don’t know how I’d be doing this without you.”
“You’d manage. But it would be a lot less fun.” Shelby grins, then her eyes land on me.
June follows her gaze. “Sorry, Shelby, this is Daisy. She’s staying out at Glacier Ridge for a few weeks. Daisy, Shelby. Her family owns the inn.”
“Nice to meet you.” Shelby’s smile is polished but entirely genuine. Then her gaze drifts toward the bar. “Wait—is Wyatt here? I thought I heard his voice in the bar.”
“He’s meeting with Marcus.” June shrugs. “Business stuff.”
“Oh.” Shelby tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, her smile brightening in a way that feels just a little too intentional. “I’ve been meaning to call him, actually. See how he’s doing. It’s been a while since we caught up, and now that the divorce is final, I’ve got more free time, so…”
She trails off, leaving the implication hanging in the air.
I suddenly become very interested in my fingernails. Because they matter way more than her intentions toward Wyatt Hartley.
June doesn’t miss a beat. “I’ll let him know you said hi. Hey, could you get Daisy a coffee while she waits? I’ve got errands to run, but I’ll be back in an hour.”
“Of course.” Shelby’s smile doesn’t waver. “I’ll take good care of her.”
June squeezes my arm. “See you in a little bit.”
She disappears out the front door before Shelby can say anything else.