Chapter 17
Asher
The first thing I registered after slowly peeling my eyes open was how obnoxious the early morning sun coming in from my uncovered windows was, making the pounding in my skull a kind of relentless, merciless throb that made me feel like my brain was trying to slowly seep out of my eye sockets.
The second was how tangled up in my sheets I was.
One leg completely trapped while the other dangled off the bed, my torso somehow caught in the middle of it all while I lay with my cheek pressed against the mattress.
Both of my pillows had somehow gotten tossed onto the floor in the middle of the night, too far out of reach for me to grab now to help the crick in my neck.
I let out a small groan as I rolled onto my back, moving way too fast, and immediately regretted it the second the room gave a dangerous spin.
For a brief moment, I prayed to whatever deity I could to keep me from losing whatever was left in my system from the night before onto the floor, a cold sweat breaking out across my forehead.
Jesus, when was the last time I got this drunk?
Had to be my eighteenth birthday.
Happy New Year to me.
The celebration last night had gone way later than planned and well into the early hours of the morning.
The last thing I remembered was Xavier hauling my ass home with Greyson and Dexter, scolding the both of us for being three sheets to the wind by the time he caught on that we were being fed shots behind his back.
Everything after that was a little fuzzy.
Well, except for Greyson dumping me into my bed before leaving me to shuffle to his own room and sleep off the ocean of liquor still coursing through both of our systems.
Now, with the morning sun streaming directly into my eyeballs through the unclosed blinds, I was beginning to deeply, truly, soul-crushingly, regret those damn shots.
Who the hell let me drink that much?
Oh right, Gage’s coworkers.
Groaning again, I sat up slowly, careful not to move my head too much, and patted blindly at my bed in search of my phone.
When I finally found it half-tangled up under my comforter, I squinted at the screen through bleary, half-crossed eyes. A few notifications sat at the top that I held my finger to read—texts from the guys back at the ranch, each of them wishing me a Happy New Year.
Despite the nausea, I smiled, something warm and tight squeezing in my chest.
God, I missed them.
I missed Texas. I missed the ranch. I missed the routine of waking up at the ass crack of dawn working until my body ached in a good way, and ending the day surrounded by people who had, in such a short time, come to feel like family.
Come Friday, I’d be back on that property and back where I wanted to be.
Where I belonged.
Smiling to myself, I swiped up to open my messages, ready to answer everyone, only to have my call log pop up instead as the last app I’d had open.
Not a surprise, considering I loved a good drunk phone call in the middle of the night. With how hard I’d been partying with Grey, it was no wonder I’d somehow snuck off and run through a bunch of my contacts to wish them a Happy New Year.
Scrolling to the top of it, sitting as the last phone call I’d made before being dragged back home was...
Wilder’s name.
I froze.
A horrible, bone-deep feeling of dread curled in my stomach, sending a chill racing through my entire body.
Like a goddamn freight train, memories came crashing back in an instant, slamming into me.
My drunken confession.
Wilder’s sharp, demanding voice pressing me for answers.
Me, desperately trying to avoid embarrassing myself any further by trying to not answer him.
And then, the worst part of all, Wilder telling me we’d talk about it in person once I got back to Texas.
Oh my God.
Oh my God.
I confessed to my boss.
I told Wilder-fucking-Boone—the man I had spent a year hopelessly pining over, my gruff, broody, out-of-my-league boss—that I had a giant, stupid, ridiculous crush on him.
Oh, I could never go back to the ranch. I could never show my face in Texas again. I’d have to quit, find a new job, start a whole new life somewhere far, far away from that part of the States.
Canada, maybe.
Somewhere cold where cowboys were rare and Wilder Boone didn’t exist.
Oh my fucking god.
What the hell was wrong with me?
Groaning loudly, I collapsed back onto my mattress, ignoring another wave of nausea while throwing an arm over my face as the humiliation fully set in.
Alcohol.
Alcohol was what was wrong with me.
I should have known better than to trust my drunk self with a damn phone. This was by far the dumbest thing I had ever done. Completely topping the time I dragged some guy home the day after the start of my senior year and got caught by Gage, who’d mortifyingly walked in on me getting railed.
My entire career at the ranch ruined by my drunk motor mouth. I’d never get to see my friends again or Pelly. I’d have to block them all and find some other job and build my life over. I was only nineteen, I had plenty of youth still left in me to find something else.
Something... fuck, hopefully something that would make me half as happy as I was on the ranch.
Then again, maybe that was asking too much.
A quarter?
A sliver of a thought flitted through my mind. Another small, nagging memory that pushed its way through the haze of my hangover and utter despair.
Wilder’s tone last night. He didn’t sound angry... or disgusted. Or even annoyed for that matter.
He sounded... calm?
Even. Maybe a little curious.
Most importantly, I couldn’t remember him turning me down. He’d wanted answers, sure, but even after I’d refused to elaborate, all he said was that we’d talk about it in person when I got back. He never actually rejected me.
I sucked in a slow, shaky breath, slowly letting my arm fall back down to my side.
That had to be a good sign, right?
I wasn’t crazy for thinking that?
Wilder Boone was the kind of man who didn’t waste words or anyone’s time trying to beat around the bush. If he had wanted to shut it down, he would’ve. Right then and there, no questions asked and no reason to spare my feelings.
He would’ve told me it was inappropriate, that I’d crossed a line and was making him feel uncomfortable. He absolutely would’ve told me no—outright and blunt, like he always did.
But he didn’t, he just said we’d talk. Face to face.
I chewed at the inside of my cheek as I stared up at the ceiling.
Did that mean he was considering it?
I shook my head hard, ignoring the way it made my hangover worse. I needed to calm the fuck down because I could be reading into all of this completely wrong.
Hell, I probably was. But still... I couldn’t help but feel a little hopeful. Even through the thick layer of mortification and panic that had lodged a lump in my throat, that little, dangerous flicker of hope refused to go out.
I could call him and ask but... he had said he wanted to talk face to face.
Friday. I just had to make it till then.
Once I was back in Texas, I’d find out if I’d completely ruined my life or if this was the beginning of something I had never dared to let myself hope for.