Chapter Seven #2
“They fought. Loud enough that even as a kid, I knew it was bad. Not loud enough that I could hear what they were saying. I just remember sitting on my windowsill watching them in the rain. She was crying. Yelling. And Wade...” He shakes his head.
“He just stood there. Stone-faced. Like none of it was getting through.”
He lets out a breathy laugh, no humour in it. “I mean, you’ve probably noticed. Emotions aren’t exactly Wade’s strong suit.” His gaze drops to the bottle in his hands. “Anyway, the next morning she was gone. No goodbye. No explanation. Gramps told me it wasn’t my fault, but…”
He trails off. “She used to say I was her muse. Her little boy. Things felt ok before Wade came back. So, yeah. That’s whose fault it is.”
I blink, caught off guard by Colt’s conclusion. Wade might not be warm and fuzzy, but he doesn’t seem like the kind of man to throw a woman out—especially not the mother of his child. There’s more to this story. There has to be.
But now’s not the time to dig.
“I’m sorry,” I say softly.
He finally pulls his gaze from the fire and meets my eyes. “I still miss her,” he murmurs. “Even after all this time. How pathetic is that?”
My chest tightens. It’s been doing that a lot since I got here, but this time I know why. I know the pain laced in Colt’s voice.
“It’s not pathetic,” I say softly. “It’s human. No matter how much someone hurt us, we still miss the pieces of them that made us feel loved. We miss the memories.”
He tilts his head, studying me. “Speaking from experience?”
“Yeah,” I admit. “My mum didn’t leave. Not exactly. But she chose other things over me. Drugs, men, herself. I stopped being a priority.”
I rub my thumb firmly against my wrist, the pressure doing its best to keep me in the moment. Vulnerability has never been my strong suit. But with him, it feels... ok.
“When I was little, we’d dance in the kitchen while we cooked. We'd stay up too late watching films in bed and eating the best type of dinner—a picky tea.”
“Picky tea?” His forehead creases.
Despite the heaviness of the conversation, I can’t help but laugh. “You poor, uncultured American boy. I’ll educate you later.”
That earns the faintest huff of amusement.
“Everything changed when I hit my teens,” I continue. “She met someone, got into harder stuff. I became invisible. So, I left. Moved in with Iris and her mum for a while. I haven’t seen my mum since.”
The fire pops loudly, but Colt doesn't seem to notice. His thumb has finally stopped tracing circles around the neck of his bottle. He's completely still now, eyes fixed on me, giving me his full attention in a way I'm not entirely used to.
“I guess what I’m trying to say is… sometimes, the people who choose to leave us leave a bigger hole than the ones who die. And we’re allowed to miss them. Even when they don’t deserve it.”
The silence that follows feels softer than it did earlier. Comfortable. Like we both needed to let something out.
Maybe it’s the beer. Or the fire. Or maybe it’s the way Colt let me in with no hesitation. But I find myself leaning in, resting my head gently on his shoulder.
He doesn’t move. Just lets it happen.
“I’m glad you didn’t bail,” he says after a moment.
“Me too.”
And for once, I mean it. No sarcasm. No deflection.
Just me. In goblin-mode clothing and fluffy slippers, under a sky full of Texan stars, sitting next to a boy who understands what it feels like to be left behind.
Maybe that's why talking to him feels easy.
Neither of us has ever felt whole in our entire lives.
Four bottles deep, and I’m officially tipsy. I thank whatever ranch Gods are looking out for me for having tomorrow off. Plenty of time to explore, which, means wandering around the ranch because that’s the extent of my options within walking-distance.
“Another one?”
Colt reappears from the kitchen, arm outstretched, offering me another beer.
I hesitate for a second. I probably shouldn’t, but I don’t want this night to end just yet.
Whether it’s the alcohol or just how easy everything feels with Colt tonight, my body feels like it’s exhaled fully for the first time since I got here. I sink deeper into the chair, beer in hand, letting the fire’s warmth kiss my skin.
Colt and I don’t say much. Just sip and stare at the flames as they burn low. coexisting in comfortable silence.
That is, until we hear the front door slam.
“What the hell?” I jump, eyes landing on Colt, his creased brows mirroring mine.
It’s nearly 11 p.m. Who’s showing up now?
We push ourselves out of our chairs and wander inside.
And there he is.
Wade Carter. In all his muscle-hugging dark-shirt, unreadable-expression glory.
“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he says flatly. “Just needed something from the office.”
His eyes catch mine and stay there for a moment, long enough for something in my stomach to flip and an internal drunken squeal to echo in my head.
I can’t seem to look away. Neither can he.
Beside me, Colt shifts his weight. The movement snaps whatever weird moment was happening.
“Office is yours,” he says.
Wade gives a short nod, then turns, disappearing down the hallway without another word.
Colt turns to me, a little smirk on his face. “We should probably call it a night before I tell you every embarrassing thing I’ve ever done.”
Then, unexpectedly, he leans in and presses a soft kiss to my cheek. It’s not romantic. Not really. But it’s sweet. And it makes my skin tingle.
“Thanks for tonight, Maeve,” he says. “It was good to… talk.”
“Yeah,” I reply. “Thanks for trusting me.”
We walk to the front door together, say a couple of sleepy goodbyes, and then he’s gone.
When I get back to my room, I kick off my slippers, peel off my tracksuit bottoms, and collapse onto the bed in my oversized T-shirt and underwear, not bothering with the covers. I lie there and stare at the ceiling, trying to sink into the quietness of the empty house.
But down the hall, I can hear movement. Papers rustling. A chair scraping against the floor.
Right. Wade’s still here. Just us. Alone in the house.
If my body didn’t feel like a sack of potatoes, I might’ve wandered down there. Dutch courage-fuelled, of course. But before the thought fully forms, I hear the front door closing.
Silence follows. The house is empty again.
Just me and my thoughts.
I should be thinking about Colt. About everything he told me tonight. About his kindness, and that sweet kiss on my cheek.
Instead, it’s Wade that has taken up residence in my mind.
The way he fills every doorway he stands in.
How his tired eyes lingered on mine before he disappeared down that hallway.
It really felt like he was about to say something, which is ridiculous because Wade treats words like they're a limited resource.
Still, I can’t stop thinking about him.
I groan and drag a pillow over my face.
Fuck this shit. I give in.
I slide my thong down my legs, knowing that I either finger-fuck the thoughts out of my head or I won’t sleep tonight. Simple. And yeah, maybe I’m a little drunk. Probably a little touch starved. But I am done caring at this point.
Nothing wrong with fantasising, right?
Not that I need any more convincing.
My fingers find that pulsing ache that’s been taunting me ever since he leant over me in the truck.
I let my eyes fall close and conjure the vivid image of Wade carrying haystacks, shirtless.
Totally random. Totally not mad about it.
His broad chest. Veiny, tattooed arms flexing with every lift. Yeah. That’ll do.
My breathing quickens. My hips shift against the mattress, chasing the rhythm my fingers have started. The heat coils low in my stomach. Tension building with every slow circle.
The room is quiet, except for the shamefully desperate sounds of me falling apart.
Then, I hear something.
A creak.
Downstairs?
Maybe. Or maybe I imagined it.
I really couldn’t care less right now. All I can focus on is this building tension teasing the sweet edge of release. My free hand grips the sheet beside me, twisting it into my fist. My back arches just slightly as the pressure builds, builds, builds—
A low moan escapes before I can stop it.
“Wade…”
The name slips out like a confession. A betrayal of every logical thought I’ve had.
I hear the creak again. This time it’s clearer. Closer.
My eyes snap open, heart hammering —
And he’s there.
Standing in the doorway.
Watching.