Chapter 12 #2
Would he? I’m here under false pretenses, chasing a dead man’s secrets while letting people believe the article is the whole truth.
I’m standing in a dress someone else bought for me, about to climb on a stage so strangers can bid on the privilege of my company, and the man I’ve been half in love with since I was old enough to know better told me this morning that I make his life harder by being here.
Pride might be a stretch.
I take a breath that’s deeper than it needs to be and adjust my hat, like that’s the thing that needed fixing.
We find Shelby near the check-in table, clipboard in hand, dark hair swept over one shoulder. She’s wearing a fitted blue dress that makes her look like she stepped out of a magazine, and she pulls June into a hug before turning that megawatt smile on me.
“Daisy! Look at you.” Her eyes sweep from the hat to the boots before coming to rest on my face. “You look incredible.”
“Thanks.” I mean it, even though the compliment sits funny coming from a woman who looks like that. “This is amazing, Shelby. The lights, the flowers… all of it.”
She waves her hands, but the pride in her expression is hard to miss. “June did the heavy lifting. I just made a couple of phone calls.” She’s good at this—the warmth and easy charm. I want to dislike her and I can’t, which is its own particular brand of torture.
“How’s the turnout?” June asks.
“Over capacity. We had to set up extra chairs—” Shelby’s eyes, which had been scanning the crowd, suddenly light up. “Oh—Wyatt’s here. Save my spot.” She hands June the clipboard and is gone, cutting through the crowd like a woman on a mission.
June watches her go with an expression I can’t quite read. Before I can question it, someone calls her name from the bar and she lightly squeezes my arm. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”
Then I’m alone. Which is how I end up doing the one thing I told myself I wouldn’t do tonight.
I look for Wyatt.
He’s standing near the far edge of the tent with Rhett, a beer in his hand.
Dressed in faded denims and a clean shirt that’s dark blue with the sleeves rolled to the elbows.
His hat sits low, shadowing his face, but I’d know the set of those shoulders in the dark even in a crowd of thousands.
He’s leaning against one of the tent poles with his arms crossed and his weight on one hip, and even in a sea of cowboys, he stands apart, tall and still.
Shelby reaches him and touches his arm. He turns, and his expression shifts, easy and unguarded in a way he never is with me. She leans in to say something, and he ducks his head to listen closely. Her hand stays on his arm, and she laughs at whatever he says, her whole body tilting toward his.
My stomach clenches, which is ridiculous. My ex spent this morning texting me with the calculated warmth of a man who knows I’m secure in the trap he built. That should be the thing keeping me up tonight. That should be what hurts.
But it doesn’t.
What hurts is that Wyatt Hartley is standing twenty feet away, letting Shelby Reynolds touch his arm while giving her the kind of warmth he hasn’t shown me once since I got here. I’ve had this crush for over a decade. It should have died by now. But apparently it didn’t get the memo.
I look away. Count to three. Look back.
Still there. Still close. Her fingers are on his sleeve now, fixing something—a loose thread, maybe, or nothing at all. Maybe it’s just an excuse to touch him. His head is bent toward hers, and from this angle I can’t tell if he’s smiling, but I can see the relaxed way he stands beside her.
This morning, he couldn’t be in the same room with me. Tonight, Shelby Reynolds gets to fix his collar. And I’m just standing here, watching, and feeling like I’ve been hollowed out with a spoon.
I reach for my familiar armor. The dry voice in my head that usually has something clever to say about denial and growth and therapeutic coping mechanisms.
But the voice is quiet tonight. It doesn’t have a punchline for this. It just hurts, plain and simple, in a way that no amount of self-deprecating humor can dress up.
I turn away from them and take a long sip of the drink someone pressed into my hand earlier.
“You okay?” June materializes at my shoulder.
“Great. This punch is great. Is there bourbon in it?” I take another sip that’s closer to a gulp.
“Apple brandy. Local stuff.” She watches me for a beat before gently steering the cup away from my mouth. “Goes down easy, hits hard. Maybe pace yourself before you have to stand on stage.”
“All I have to do is stand there while the entire town evaluates my worth in dollar increments. Very normal Friday night activity.”
June bumps my shoulder. “It’ll be fun. Come on, the bachelor round’s about to start—you should see Colt. He’s already warmin’ up the crowd.”
“Warming up or showing off?”
June snorts. “With Colt, there’s no difference. Give him a microphone and a captive audience and he’ll think he’s at Madison Square Garden.”
“Wonderful,” I mutter, draining what’s left of my drink.
“Hey.” She nudges my shoulder gently. “You’re going to be fine.”
I hum like I believe her.
The auction should be the thing I’m dreading right now. Standing on that stage while the entire town assigns me a dollar value—that should be what’s sitting like a stone in my chest.
Instead I keep coming back to Wyatt Hartley across the clearing, letting Shelby Reynolds touch his arm like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
My grip tightens around the empty cup.
“You ready?” June asks, already scanning the crowd like she’s about to move.
I open my mouth to lie—and then my gaze locks on him.
Wyatt hasn’t moved. He’s still standing there, half in shadow, beer loose in his hand. But his eyes are on me now. Locked and unreadable, the way they always are, except my treacherous heart doesn’t seem to care about unreadable anymore.
My face heats.
I hate that he can still do this. After this morning. After everything he said.
“Daisy.” June’s hand closes around my wrist and I drag my eyes away.
“Yeah?” I mean it to sound light and easy and completely fine, but even to my own ears, it doesn’t. Thankfully, June doesn’t question it.
“Come on then.” She tugs me forward, and I follow her lead.
Because standing still isn’t an option.
Not tonight.